by Debra Dunbar
He sucked on his cigar, eyes narrow with thought. “This that boy from the Crew?”
“I don’t think so. He’d just come out and rib me about it to my face.”
“Seeing a lot of his face these days?”
She scowled. “None of your business.”
“So, it’s someone else. Someone knows what you are. And they’re watching you.”
“They’re watching us,” she corrected. “Which means you’re involved. That’s why I brought this to you.”
His body shook. Actually trembled. Hattie reached out for him, but he twisted away.
“We…we gotta find this…whoever this is.”
“I know.”
“Now,” he spat.
She shushed him, trying again to make contact. This time she managed to stroke his arm. “We will.”
Raymond took a few breaths before stuffing the cigar back into his mouth.
Hattie added, “This could be a threat, or it could be a simple hello.”
“This ain’t simple.” He handed the paper back to Hattie. “You need to find out what that Greek bullshit is about. You best find out if it’s a threat.”
Hattie nodded as she pocketed the note. That much was certain, and it was difficult to view anyone with the knowledge of her powers as anything other than a threat.
“Don’t suppose you have any Greek friends on the water?”
He shook his head. “Ask Lizzie. Maybe she does.”
Hattie nodded. The plumes of smoke gathered beneath the oak tree, now illustrating several distinct beams of light as they filtered through the foliage.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she muttered.
“I’m not…I’m not mad at you, baby girl. Just whoever thought this—” he pointed at her pocket “—was cute.” He leaned against the side of his cabin. “Best not use your hoodoo around the city, until we know who’s who and what’s what.”
Hattie nodded again. That was a conclusion she’d already reached. The author of this message had clearly seen her in action. But until this anonymous peeping Tom made his intentions clear, it was best not to give him any more ammunition.
“Raymond?” she whispered.
“Hmm?”
“Next time I come over, let’s have chicken. I’m not sure I can handle any more of Nadine’s mussel stew.”
His face drew stiff. A brow lifted. Then he leaned close to her and said, “Me neither.”
Another chest-pound laugh filled the air along Curtis Creek as Raymond finished his cigar, and Hattie wondered how she would manage this new complication.
Chapter 8
Daytime at the Old Moravia stood in stark contrast to the frenetic jazz-and-gin nights, or even to the subdued Sunday evening cocktails crowd. The lobby bar of the hotel was packed with men in suits grumbling one to another, their cigarettes piping fingers of white smoke toward the ceiling. The mood in the room was anxious. As such, Vincent stepped carefully around the couches and potted palms to find Lefty scowling near the front windows.
“Something happen?” Vincent muttered.
Lefty shrugged. “Vito’s late. No one knows why.”
“He call a meeting?”
Lefty nodded.
“You didn’t give me a heads-up or nothing?” Vincent grumbled. “What if I was sleeping one off?”
Lefty sighed. “It’s Crew business. Doesn’t require your input.”
Vincent shook his head and stood beside Lefty. Precious little required Vincent’s input these days. Never before had it been so clear that he was strictly a tool for the Crew to assert their power in the patchwork of East Coast families. But now he had something of value. Something that wasn’t in his usual kit bag. This was information, and it could prove far more useful toward asserting that power than any time pinching he could pull off.
“Were you?” Lefty asked.
“What?”
“Sleeping one off. You look like something a cat chewed up then coughed back out.”
“Haven’t touched the sauce for a few days, now.”
With the first hint of a grin Vincent had seen on Lefty’s face for over a month, “Girl trouble?” he asked.
“Sure, Lefty. It’s girl trouble.”
“Don’t have to snap my head off.”
Vincent sighed. “No, I’ve got some truck on my mind is all. Don’t sweat it.”
Lefty raised a brow. “I’ll sweat it.”
“What’s the business?” Vincent interjected with a wave to the room.
“Between you, me and the fence post, I think it’s the Russians.”
Vincent nodded thoughtfully. “They keep popping up, don’t they?”
“Like mushrooms.”
Vincent considered the moment. Vito would be arriving eventually to address the Crew, most of which seemed to be gathered in the room. He spotted Tony standing by the bar, his usual gin martini in hand. Cooper was conspicuously absent, Vincent noted. Maybe he was on the outs with the Capo? Maybe he had a whale show up at his poker hall?
But with this moment came an opportunity. The opportunity to give Smith’s info to Vito. The opportunity to cash in this chip, hopefully raising his stock in the eyes of the Crew. And if it all ended up a bust, what was the loss?
When Vito finally entered the room, a tiny retinue of aging gangsters in tow, the risks involved in this deal suddenly became real. Jesus…this was the Capo. If this info was a load of bushwa, and he’d made the Crew look like fools, Smith would be long gone and Vincent would be the one with the stretched-out neck.
Vito Corbi sauntered into the room with the best approximation of a smile on his face. The look sent chills through Vincent’s guts. He never looked that happy about anything—not without some bombshell ready to drop.
The Capo took his usual position near the center of the bar, precipitating a shift in the men already lined up. Tony was forced from his stool, and ended up in the standing room near the far wall.
With a clearing of his throat, and a spread of his hands, Vito announced, “Gentlemen and friends, thank you for coming.”
Hell’s bells…what was with his chipper mood?
He continued, “As most of you know, we dealt with the menace from the Czar’s lands with quick and decisive action last year.”
Vincent sucked in a breath as memories of those skirmishes rang fresh in his brain.
Vito wagged a finger. “This was due to forethought. My sense of things to come. I moved quickly to pull this weed out by its roots.” He pantomimed a weed-pulling motion. “And we have seen little from the Bratva this past year beyond desperate, pathetic grabs at protection rackets. These Russi persist in our memories more like vermin than predators.”
This spawned a weak spattering of applause.
Vito lifted a hand. “However…” The noise immediately muted. “…our associates along the Coast have not fared as well. Perhaps it is a lack of foresight on their part.” He smirked to himself. “Perhaps they suffer from a density of Russi. Regardless, the families in Philadelphia and New York find themselves enveloped in a series of pointless battles due to these upstarts vying for power. Yes. You hear me true. We in Baltimore enjoy the benefit of peace, while our neighbors to the North are beset with conflict. I would thank each and every one of you for this state of affairs.”
The crowd turned one to another half in bafflement, half in hope that this meeting truly meant a boon from the Capo.
Vito allowed the murmuring to subside before continuing. “This is our time to shine, my friends. This is our time to finally break the liquor traffic from Atlantic City that has been our primary competition.”
Vincent peered to Lefty, whose face was stony and transfixed by the proceedings. Atlantic City had been the top dog when it came to liquor trafficking. Their booze had proliferated from Maine to Florida, and as far west as the Mississippi River. The benefit that Vito had enjoyed in Maryland, by way of the governor rejecting the Volstead Act, was limited by the sheer volume that Atlantic City h
ad produced. Their organization behaved like a well-oiled machine, stepping left and right to grease palms, acquire shipping lanes, and secure muscle when necessary. They were what Vito seemed to aspire to.
And they were now distracted by the Russians.
“Are there any issues I need to address?” The Capo asked with an imperial sweep of his hand.
A voice came from the rear near the lobby. “The Southeast neighborhoods are being squeezed by some gang and they’re screaming bloody murder.”
Vito blinked in the direction of the comment, but he simply shook his head. “Who are these gangs? Polish? Irish? Or Jews?”
The faceless voice replied, “No. They’re saying it’s the Bratva. The Russians are back and they’re rolling my neighborhoods.”
Vito nodded. “Easily dispatched. Giuseppe…” He eyed one of his retinue with gravity. “Deal with this. Are there any other concerns?”
This was it. Vincent’s moment. He had only a few seconds to decide—would he roll the dice, or would he remain, as ever, nothing but a tool.
“Capo,” Vincent said as he took a step forward. It wasn’t enough to capture Vito’s attention, so Vincent repeated it with more volume. He spotted Lefty reaching for his arm in his periphery, and so he took another half-step forward.
Eyes moved toward Vincent, including Vito’s. The man’s face drew long and stony. The murmurings in the entire lobby fell silent. Vito’s expression betrayed no sense of approval or disapproval, patience or impatience. It simply stared across the space at Vincent.
“Capo,” Vincent repeated, “I have something for you.”
Vito didn’t respond.
“A man has come forward with information.”
Still, Vito remained silent.
Lefty whispered something, but Vincent resolved to block him out. No turning back.
“Information regarding the Bratva in New York.”
One or two snickers threatened to pierce the silence, but Vito lifted a hand to strangle the murmurings back. He took two steps toward Vincent, wandering toward the center of the gathering.
With a flat tone, he said, “What sort of information?”
All eyes were now on Vincent, alive with the morbid anticipation of watching a man flame out so publicly that the rumor mills would turn for years. What to say? Give him everything now? Surrender Smith’s name, so that anyone else could poach this opportunity out from underneath Vincent?
“There are plans for a hit,” Vincent replied, voice creaking from a dry throat. “A hit on a member of Masseria’s family.”
No amount of gravitas from the Capo could stifle the wave of consternation washing through the room.
Vito snapped his fingers and pointed at Vincent. “With me.” He half-turned and added, “You too, Alonzo.”
Lefty stepped alongside Vincent, who refused to turn to face his handler. He didn’t have to. He could feel Lefty’s glare peeling the skin from the side of his face. Vito led the two men directly back into the midst of the gathering, gangsters fumbling to make a path for the Capo as he wove his way toward the bar. Vincent nodded to Tony, who gathered his drink while avoiding eye contact.
As the three stepped behind the bar and the bartender found a way to vanish without making Vito step aside, those standing nearest the bar shuffled away as many steps as they could. Vito sighed, ran a hand over his face, then turned to face Vincent.
“What is this, now?”
Vincent took a steadying breath. “A man by the name of Alexander Smith approached me the other night.” As Vincent focused on the details, his voice strengthened. “It was after sunset. He came to me discreet-like. Said he was looking to trade with the Crew. Info for cash.”
Vito nodded. “I know the sort, if not this man. Continue.”
“He said that the Bratva were planning a move on New York. They put a hit out on Masseria’s nephew, and were going to make it look like Salvatore was behind it. It’s supposed to go down tomorrow night.”
With a squint, Vito turned to Lefty. “Is this information worthwhile?”
Lefty straightened a bit, clenching his jaw before answering, “I don’t know, Capo. This is the first I’ve heard of this.”
“Do you know this…Smith?” Vito pressed.
“No.”
Vito’s squint sharpened. “Isn’t it your job to keep people such as this away from my stregone? Is that not specifically your job?”
“It is.”
Vito shook his head and turned toward the back wall, eyes narrowed in thought. After a nerve-baring moment of silence, he said, “I received good word from Philadelphia. The stregone, DeBarre, speaks highly of the two of you. It seems you’ve made a favorable impression with the family there.” He turned to Vincent and Lefty with a softer face. “This is good. There may come a time when they prove to be necessary allies. The New York families seem destined for war. We should be ready when the time comes—and we are not yet ready. These Russians must not push New York to the tipping point. Not yet.”
The room was dead silent. Vito’s words, though nearly at a whisper, carried to several dozen ears nearby, eliciting a round of sober nods.
Vito cleared his throat and turned to Lefty. “Alonso. You will contact Giuseppe Masseria on my behalf. Inform him of this rumor.”
Lefty asked, “You want…me?”
Vincent blurted, “Capo, I would be happy to do this for you.”
Vito lifted a hand. “You failed to keep this outsider from my stregone, Alonzo. Therefore, I saddle you with this task. If this information is correct, then we will all benefit. However, if it is false—some prank, or worse—” he pointed at Lefty “—you will shoulder the consequences.”
“Capo,” Vincent urged, “I may be the better choice. The odds that you’ll lose face if this is a lot of bushwa are, well…no one cares if I’m wrong.”
Vito lifted his face to Vincent with a half-smirk. “I understand your words, Vincenzo.”
A shot of energy flew from Vincent’s heels into his skull. Vito called him by name. That wasn’t a common occurrence, and every time the Capo used Vincent’s name it felt like a boon of some kind.
Vito continued, “And perhaps I even understand your ambition. But we must consider both failure and success. Alonzo has contacts in the city. He knows who to call. And from the sound of it, we don’t have a lot of time.”
He rested a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, sending another thrill jolting through Vincent’s chest, before turning to Lefty. “Our fortune appears to be changing. It is my hope that this Smith is part of these favorable winds. He is a businessman, and that I can respect. But he is an outsider.”
Lefty nodded.
Vito clapped his hands, turning to bellow to the rest of the gathering, “Which brings me to our final business.”
The sudden eruption of volume from the Capo made Vincent jump. He eased away from Vito to stand beside Lefty. The rest of the Crew turned from their tortured postures, attempts to appear as if they were not overtly eavesdropping on the private business.
Vincent spied Tony a few paces away from the bar, his martini glass now drained. His face was downcast, eyes on his shoes, misery heaping over his shoulders. The bleakness of his posture was striking, and only as Vito continued with his announcement did Vincent realize something was wrong.
“My friends,” Vito declared, “as you know we have had difficulties in the foothills with our suppliers as of late. This has forced us to focus on these backwoods savages for many months now. And with our neighbors in Richmond dealing with some internal issues, business along the coast has been flush. It has forced us to rely on outsiders for our liquor distribution.”
Vincent’s stomach drew into a tight ball. He peered at Tony, whose forehead now sported a bead of sweat.
Vito continued, “I am happy to announce, however, that our difficulties with the West Virginia suppliers have been dealt with to my satisfaction. Product now flows in its proper direction—toward Baltimore, and out of Baltimo
re.”
A couple weak cheers slipped from the back of the room.
“This brings renewed purpose, and frees up manpower we have lacked these past few months. Beginning immediately, we will no longer make use of outsiders for our waterfront distribution.”
Vincent balled a fist before stuffing it into his pants pocket. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. He pictured Hattie the other day, her red hair sun-streaked, her freckles, the burned tip of her nose, the expression on her face when she said there was nothing she’d rather do than be on the water, running booze from dock to dock.
She’d be devastated by this.
Vito spread his hands in a grand gesture. “No more middlemen. No more outsiders. Our business is now, and forever, entirely in our hands. Our destiny…is in our hands.”
Fresh cheers, heartier than before.
Vito wandered back from behind the bar to address specifics, referring point men to Tony for this new arrangement. Tony remained stiff and passive, his eyes moving wearily from face-to-face. And Vincent now realized the source of the man’s misery.
He would have to tell Lizzie Sadler that she, and her employees, were out of a job. This would be tricky for Tony, as he’d developed an intimate relationship with the Sadler woman. Those days, Vincent mused, were likely over. But Tony would survive. If anything, he had become a more pivotal figure within the Crew. He would be marshalling forces, making arrangements, heeding logistics. His future was robust.
The future for Hattie Malloy, on the other hand, was far more uncertain.
Lefty leaned into Vincent. “Thank you so much.”
“Sorry,” Vincent grumbled. “It happened fast.”
“You’re supposed to tell me these things. Not shout them out in the middle of a meet.”
“I know.”
Lefty turned to face Vincent, his face painted in disdain. “What was this? Some grab? You booting for some position? Trying to make me the fool and climb over my back?”
“The fella came at me at my night job. He had me figured. Knew who I was. Knew what I was.” Vincent added in a whisper, “He’d already hit Cooper up.”
Lefty squinted. “If you’d come to me when this happened, I could have told you that I know every info broker between Charleston and Philly. I ain’t never heard of no Alexander Smith. If Cooper had the good sense to kick this Jake to the curb, then what makes you think we should’ve given him the time of day?” Lefty pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have no idea how lucky you are that Vito was in a good mood.”