by Debra Dunbar
“Buster Keaton’s got a new one showing at the Palladium,” he offered. “Less war, more yuks.”
She shook her head in amusement, a light finally sparking in her eyes. “You realize the name of the movie is The General, right?”
“It’s about a train called The General.”
“It’s about the War between the States.” She lifted a finger. “And how do you know what the film’s about? You’ve already seen it, haven’t you?”
“So have you,” he replied with his own finger lifted across the table. “Isn’t that right?”
She scowled, then released the pretense to laugh into her hand. “It was awful.”
“Was it?” Vincent groaned. “I love Keaton.”
“I think it may be time for the fellow to retire. These new talkie shorts have us expecting more.”
“If you like shorts.”
She feigned shocked embarrassment and fanned herself. “My dear sir!” she gasped.
“I bet if you…” Vincent’s words rolled to a halt as he peered out the window.
At a figure.
A man, smiling and offering a nod as he proceeded toward the restaurant entrance.
Fern gave him a puzzled look. “What?”
Vincent gathered himself, suddenly aware of the shift in his own demeanor as Alexander Smith entered the dining room to approach their table. Shooting Fern a quick glance, Vincent tried like hell to communicate his apologies to her before the man spoke.
“Mister Calendo,” Smith declared in his impossibly modern accent. “I fear I’ve interrupted your liaison.”
That son of a bitch. Vincent gritted his teeth and thought of more diplomatic responses. “If you were so damned afraid of it, you’d have shoved on down the road.”
Smith’s face cracked into a farce of a smile. “Such quick wit. That’s why I like you so very much, Mister Calendo.”
Vincent checked Fern, who sat as still as a statue.
“What do you want, Smith?” Vincent growled, trying to reclaim his personal time.
“Your undivided attention,” Smith proclaimed.
“It can wait,” Vincent grumbled.
“Time is of the essence, I’m afraid.”
Vincent lifted a hand to stop Smith, but the man was indefatigable.
“Mister Calendo, my investment in this particular endeavor hinges entirely on your success. As such, I must insist we speak now.”
Vincent’s nerve’s crackled with a desire to take action—to stand up with enough force to shove the chair well clear of the violence before Vincent popped Smith a solid right cross against his jaw. Or a jab directly onto the front of his nose, sending it sideways and sullying that smug bastard’s face for the rest of his life.
All of these were simply fantasies. But the truth of the matter was that Vincent needed Smith. And Smith knew it.
Fern reached into her lap to pull her napkin to her lips. She dabbed her mouth twice, then folded the cloth four times to drop it onto her plate. Vincent sucked in a breath to implore her to stay even as she rose from her chair.
She announced in a tired, worn voice, “Business. I understand. Good day, gentlemen.”
Vincent sat stony, even as she gathered her belongings and swept past them toward the front of the café, and out the door. He wanted to flag her down, but any attempt to hold her attention would register as weakness in Smith’s eyes. That would not do.
Damn it all…why was it so hard to have a simple meal in this city?
Once Fern was clear of the restaurant, and the remainder of the patrons had returned to their own business, Vincent gestured for the chair opposite him.
“Have a seat.”
Smith took Fern’s seat, folding his legs and hands into a tidy knot at the center of his mass.
“Vito is aware of last night’s incident,” Smith stated in the emotional fervor of a woman informing her husband that the cat had shit in the kitchen again.
“Yeah, I know,” Vincent grumbled as he tossed his napkin onto the table, shoving his plate of risotto aside for the bus boys to dispose of however they deemed fit. “This long game sounds more and more like a waste of time, if you ask me. And I recognize you didn’t, so I’ll just ask myself. Vincent? Did last night seem like a good use of our time? Why, no Vincent. It did not.”
Smith’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm, and once Vincent had expended his breath, the man replied, “You’re a fool.”
“It’s been said before.”
“What do you think has transpired in the interim?” Smith pressed. “While you’ve elected to take casual meals with women?”
Vincent balled a fist in his lap but kept it beneath the table top.
Smith waved a hand at the window. “Your quarry has had time to calculate your move. If this young woman is half as smart as I’m giving her credit, she’ll realize that she cannot return to her home as long as you’ve drawn real muscle into this task.”
Vincent squinted, his arms tight around his chest.
Smith eased his tone. “Listen, it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that you have some history with this light pincher.”
“That’s none of your business,” Vincent snapped, instantly regretting the show of emotion.
Smith’s grin was feral. “I assure you, Mister Calendo, I have no interest in your private dalliances.”
Vincent choked over the word, even as Smith continued.
“But, your Capo’s patience wears thin, and you’ve given the impression that this Hattie Malloy is your…your friend. That you have her best interests in mind.”
Vincent sneered. “What if I actually do?”
Smith’s face drew into a mask of bafflement. “Do you? Oh, well. I fear I must prevail upon your inner sense of unambivalent rectitude.”
“You gonna speak English anytime soon?”
“It’s all horse apples,” Smith snarled, his face finally betraying a hint of actual humanity. “You and your righteous attempt to keep this woman safe. You had her. But instead of grabbing her and hauling her off, you as good as let her go. A long game is one thing, but you’re stalling.”
Vincent shook his head. “I told you I want her to come willing. That’s smart. It’s got nothing to do with whatever you’re imagining my feelings are for Hattie.”
Smith interrupted, “You’re on a first-name basis with the target, then?”
“Why are you here, Smith?” He snapped, done with this conversation.
“To move us farther down the board. I know where she is.”
“You know where Hattie is?” Vincent repeated.
“That’s why you pay me, Mister Calendo. To know things.”
Vincent shoved his seat away from the table and stood, straightening his suit. “Where is she?”
“I’ll require the retainer,” Smith replied, his face easing into the exact ferret-snipe cartoon that Vincent had anticipated.
“You want your money, huh?”
Smith watched with eagerness. “The retainer, as agreed upon.”
Vincent exhaled. “I’ll have it within the hour. Now…where is Malloy?”
Smith smiled. “Are you familiar with her pilot? A certain Raymond Bowles?”
Lefty flagged Vincent down in front of the Hole, a warehouse in Fell’s Point that the Crew used to store and package incoming booze from the Alleghenies. Vincent adjusted his hat as his driver dropped him off in front of the tiny brick-veneered face of the building. It was easy to miss, by design, tucked between a meat hanger and a packaging plant.
Vincent nodded to Lefty as they turned for the entrance. “Our man inside City Hall bring the map?”
“He did,” Lefty replied hesitantly.
“And Smith’s money?”
“They’re pulling it together.”
Vincent blinked at Lefty as the man lingered a half-step. “What’s in your cheese?”
Lefty cleared his throat. “I just don’t like that all this intelligence is coming from one person.”
&
nbsp; “What, you want us to check it out first? Kinda defeats the point.”
“I know,” Lefty grumbled. “I just don’t trust the man.”
“Every slice of ham he’s given us has panned out, hasn’t it? The only reason we don’t have Hattie right now is…”
After a pause, Lefty finished the statement. “You?”
“Look, I get it. Smith’s a mercenary. He’s not one of us, and you don’t like that. But his motivation is pretty simple. Cash on the barrelhead.”
“Sure there isn’t some other agenda?”
Vincent shrugged. “If he was asking for five dollars, I might wonder. But he’s asking for a thousand times that. It takes big plums to give a man like Vito a price tag that huge.”
Lefty lifted his hand. “I suppose so.”
“What’s the word at the Moravia?” Vincent whispered. “With Vito?”
“He hasn’t said much,” Lefty replied, taking a step closer. “But between you and me and the fence post, I’d watch your step.”
Vincent nodded. “You’re the army man. It should be you heading up this war party not me.”
“Yeah, but it was you who lit the fire. You can’t hand it off just because it’s burning your shorts.”
Vincent nudged him with a smirk, then sighed. “Seriously, though. You got anything for me? Advice? Kicks in the ass?”
Lefty nodded. “I know Smith’s got you sold on this ‘long game’ bushwa. But we both know you don’t have many more free passes left. So if it was me, I’d close the deal. Better to gamble on forgiveness than permission, at this point.”
Vincent reached for the bruise on his cheek, tapping it gingerly. Lefty was right. Hattie had made her feelings on joining the Crew willingly abundantly clear. She was never ambivalent on the subject. What she’d lacked was the understanding that it would be inevitable. Dragging this out would only prove painful for the both of them.
This time there would be no talking. This time, he was dragging her kicking and screaming out of there if he had to.
Vincent clapped Lefty’s shoulder, then nodded to the door to the Hole.
As he pulled the door aside and stepped into the darkness, he saw a line of nearly thirty men scattered between cars that had backed into the space into a tidy phalanx. He stiffened briefly, surprised at the numbers gathered. After the last debacle, he’d assumed Vito would have pulled resources away from this snipe hunt.
All eyes turned to Vincent as he wove around the front car to present himself to his war party.
With a wave of his hand, he asked, “Where’s the map?”
A slight fellow in a black coat and bowler hat stepped forward with a large roll of paper beneath his arm. He presented it to Vincent without a word spoken.
Vincent nodded to the man, then unfurled the map, laying it flat against the hood of the nearest car. The war party slipped around the hood, three deep in places, to observe as Vincent took in the terrain.
“Curtis Creek is where we’re headed. My source places our target here,” Vincent jabbed the map, “where Curtis meet the Back Creek. This is a waterman we’re dealing with, so we’ll need a boat here at the mouth of the creek. Maybe two.” He peered over his shoulder at Lefty. “Can you get on the horn with Tony, see what he can spare?”
Lefty nodded.
Vincent eyed the rest. “Some of you were with me last night. You know what you saw, or think you saw. We’re hunting a light pincher, gentlemen. Which means you can’t trust your eyes or ears. If she catches you coming, you’ll see what she wants you to see. This time, there will be no negotiations.”
Vincent wound around the front of the car to poke several spots on the map.
“There’s only so much she can do before she taps out. That’s her weakness. And she can’t pull the wool over your eyes if she don’t know you’re even there. We’ll break up into small groups, light on our feet. Four men each. Fan out here, here…and here. Two more teams up the road in case they find a way to make a break for it by car. If she hits one group with one of her illusions, we’ll have three more hanging back.” He spied the mouth of the river. “And I definitely want two boats. One upstream, one right at the Bay in case they make a run by boat.”
Heads nodded. Feet shuffled. Mouths drew into tight agreement.
Vincent waved his hand over the map. “But all of this? It’s just our fallback plan. I’m hoping we won’t need any of it.”
A voice called from the group, “What is the plan, then?”
“I go in alone,” he replied. With a lift of his finger to his black eye, he added, “I’ve got some payback coming.”
A spattering of snickers washed over the crowd.
The same voice asked, “We goin’ tonight?”
“Actually, no. The last two times we tried to move on this woman, both times were at night. That was a mistake. It might sound backwards, but we do better in broad daylight. Her magic costs more during the day.”
He didn’t feel like going into specifics, as much because he didn’t want to lay out the particulars of pincher frailty for a group of armed men, but also because he wasn’t sure they’d even understand.
With a heavy nod, he concluded, “We hit the target today. As soon as I get confirmation our boats are in place.”
He turned to Lefty, who shrugged. “Better beat feet, hadn’t I?”
Lefty withdrew to find a phone as Vincent corralled the men away from the map. With a broad wave of his arms, he said, “This isn’t about taking down a hostile. We’re bagging a live target. You read that?”
Heads nodded.
“But she won’t be alone. She’ll be protected, like before. Broken up into packs of four, we’re whittling down the chances she’ll turn our own guns against us. But we have to beat her reaction time. We move fast, we take her unharmed. Anyone else gets the draw on you…” He squinted. “You take them out. There’s no room for failure this time.”
The call to Tony went through, and he assured them he’d have two boats ready at the mouth of Curtis Creek, out of line of sight one from the other, per Vincent’s instructions. Lefty had led the motorcade from the Hole down the county lane toward the patch of reeds and low-hanging boughs filling the plot of land along the river. The summer heat beat down hard onto Vincent’s hat as the first party slipped into the grass alongside the lane, ready to shoot out the tires of any fleeing vehicle.
They proceeded on foot, slicing off groups of four as they went, each spreading in a semi-circle around the line of shacks huddled onto pilings half over the river. Smith had given Vincent specifics—the third shack from the road, the one with a white oak hanging over its back porch. It was easy enough to spot. A thin plume of white smoke rose from the stove pipe jutting from its roof. Someone was cooking.
They were home.
Vincent spied one of his groups poking through the tall grass nearest the first shack. He waved them back until they’d disappeared once again. There could be no warning from neighbors, most of whom had probably taken up arms in their first showdown at Locust Point. He’d given orders to eliminate all obstacles who weren’t Hattie Malloy. If at all possible, he wanted those obstacles to keep their heads down and their children from becoming orphans.
With a quick double and triple-check, Vincent peered at Lefty, who gave him a reassuring nod. He reached into his jacket to pull his pistol.
“Show time,” Vincent whispered, and pinched time.
The sweltering summer breeze pulled to a halt, and the whispering of leaves in the enormous white oak fell into silence. Otherwise, the quality of light and the tableau set before him seemed unchanged. Odd how his time pinches always seemed more dramatic at night.
Vincent wasted no time lingering in this time bubble. He shoved through the murky air toward Raymond Bowles’s shanty, taking an angled approach. The second he pinched time, he’d announced his presence to Hattie. That was as much for her as it was for her companions. This was his final nod of conciliation, the last chance for her to reco
gnize she was under attack, and to keep Raymond and his family from getting caught in the crossfire.
Vincent reached the side of the shack and pricked his ears for any shuffling, muddy noises from Hattie. Sound didn’t carry very well at all inside a time bubble, but the tiniest of noises was all he needed to hear to know she was on the move.
Silence.
He stepped onto the rear porch as the range of the bubble tore at his guts. This was a big pinch for Vincent…he’d pay for it later. But it was worth it.
With his back against the crooked slats of the porch wall, he stole a peek through the single window. The interior was dark. Impossible to tell who was where.
A wave of nausea slipped up his gullet, and he choked it down before he gave away his position. He couldn’t creep around like this, not in the time pinch. The time for her to respond had passed. Time for action.
Vincent swam forward for the door, reaching for the makeshift leather strap door latch, and jerked it open. It hung up on the warped floor boards of the porch, scraping with a faint grind as he kicked it completely free. Gun up, he ventured inside.
His eyes adjusted to the low light.
A long table stretched out before him. Four chairs. Plates. Cups. No people.
The stove sat to his left, the warmth reaching out through the frozen time to greet the side of his cheek. A pot of water sat simmering, its surface a still landscape of undulating bubbles. There was no meat. No vegetables. This wasn’t any sort of soup or stew. No meal, really. Just water.
The tiny space left no room for hiding, save for a single door leading to what had to be the bedroom. If Hattie had a surprise waiting for him, it would be there.
The pressure of the time pinch ground his insides. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He was tempted to drop the time pinch and call out to her. But that would only endanger the Bowleses. No sense in that. No sense in tarrying at all.
He strode across the room and nudged the door open with his foot, watching for an attack from within. He knew guns wouldn’t work in the time bubble. Only a bludgeon or a blade. The door eased open an inch. Then two. Then a full foot.
No reprisal.