by Debra Dunbar
Vincent swallowed hard against a lump of bile as he stepped into the tiny bedroom. A single bed, neatly made, lay in the corner. A bassinet stood beside it. No blankets. No child.
Vincent turned a quick circle, then holstered his pistol as he released the time pinch. The rushing of leaves returned, joined by the soft bubbling of the water pot on the stove. He peered beneath the bed. Nothing. He returned to the main room and paced a slow circle, mopping his brow and forcing his stomach to calm down.
The shack was empty.
This wasn’t just poor timing. The baby’s clothes and blankets were gone. Someone had lit the stove but only left a pot of water on. The smoke from the stove pipe was an invitation. A decoy.
How had she known? Was Smith’s info finally wrong?
Or did she have an insider among the Crew?
Vincent paused by the table as he spotted a tiny folded piece of card stock. It had a clean edge and a ragged edge, as if torn from a larger sheet. He reached for the paper and snatched it with his thumb and forefinger, unfolding it with a lift of his thumb.
A tiny, messy scribble greeted his eyes.
Too Slow, Boy-o.
Vincent sucked in a breath, then smiled.
Conflicting emotions flooded his chest, washing away the sickness of his ambitious time pinch—primarily dread of what Vito would do now that he had, once again, failed to secure Hattie Malloy. He was running short of chances, and soon the Capo would decide Vincent wasn’t up to the task. The men he’d gathered would once again return to the city empty-handed, eyeing him with the old disdain he’d endured all these years. Lefty would be dragged down with Vincent in this whirlpool of failure.
But yet…he also felt a sense of relief that Hattie was still out there.
And that someone clearly was helping her.
Chapter 15
The words of the note flashed behind Hattie’s eyes as she stepped through the revolving brass door to the Old Moravia Hotel.
They are not more powerful than you.
That was one of several lines from the note that had shaken Hattie to the core as she’d read it. This second missive was as verbose as its predecessor was terse. Raw emotion poured off the page as Hattie had read it in Raymond’s home. Whoever this secret benefactor was, they had pulled out the stops on this attempt to reach out. The entire page was scribbled in jagged slashes of ink, instructing Hattie on several points.
First, stop thinking of Vincent Calendo as a superior. The message went on to envelope the entirety of the Baltimore Crew. The sooner Hattie accepted that she was equal to, perhaps stronger than, those goons, the sooner she’d realize she didn’t have to play the role of victim.
Second, the benefactor urged Hattie to stop reacting, and take the fight to the Crew. This meant going on the offensive. Sucking up her fear and plunging close to their heart, where they’d least expect to find her. Use her powers. Don’t fear her own strength.
Know herself.
Hattie’d read the note in a moment of desperation, which was probably the best timing possible. As she’d sat in Raymond’s house, shivering from her night in the tempest after hammering Vincent across the brow with his own gun, she’d been ready to surrender. Then…this. It was a rifle shot of clarity for Hattie, slicing through decades of bias and dread served to her by her parents. The establishment wants to use you. They are to be feared. You will never be as strong as they.
But what if she was stronger?
That was the thought that had propelled Hattie through a few hours of fever and coughing as she gathered the Bowleses to relocate with a relative. She’d instructed Raymond to put his family first. It seemed raggedly obvious to Hattie, but Raymond’s dogged sense of loyalty often clouded his judgment. He always did best when she gave him marching orders, rather than improvise as they went. As such, Raymond remained at arm’s length with his family, and Hattie prepared to go on the offense.
Once the cough had cleared, Hattie put herself out on the water in Raymond’s boat. Where else could she feel so distinctly herself? The note sat in her hands for hours as she drifted on the Chesapeake, sun beating down onto her pale skin, warming the depths of her that had been chilled simple hours prior. That time served her well. Whoever had sent her the note understood.
They understood what it was to be a free pincher.
And that made all the difference.
As such, Hattie did the unthinkable. She approached Lizzie Sadler for help. The woman was the last person Hattie would’ve imagined approaching for a handout, especially since Hattie was singly responsible for ending her entire business—her dead husband’s business.
But instinct was at play, here. Hattie had buried it too long, and she felt for some time now that Lizzie was on Hattie’s side more than just as an element toward profit. And that instinct paid off.
There was a solid half-hour of top-volume screaming. Another of soulful remorse and recrimination. And then Lizzie Sadler emerged from the funk and reached for Hattie’s hand. She gripped it tight, assured her that Hattie was not the real villain here, and offered her a hundred dollars to take the fight to the Crew.
And now, as the sun set over the western suburbs and the city lights began flickering into life, Hattie Malloy stood inside the marble-paved lobby of the Old Moravia Hotel, the seat of the Crew’s power, decked in a brand-new evening gown with a beaded bandeau around her head.
Into the lion’s den.
Never before had she played at such high stakes. Hattie had bought the gown with the offered money. She’d even laid out for the face makeup, seeking some direction from the helpful ladies at Stewart’s Department Store downtown. They’d assured her that, despite whatever urgings toward modesty her father had saddled her with, the tune of the day was a short hem, bobbed hair and makeup.
Hattie already had the short hair. The women at Stewart’s supplied the rest.
The gown was a silver-and-gold sleeveless sheath, perfectly molded to Hattie’s slim figure. Fringe dangled barely to her knees as she stepped into the lobby, a glossy curl of her light red hair plastered in exact geometry against her cheek…just like a movie star.
Since she’d gone to all the trouble to gussy up in proper clothes and presentation, all she’d have to do would be to pinch light enough to keep from being recognized. It was a persistent, annoying use of her power, but in this swell of a crowd milling about, engrossed in serious conversation, very few bothered to take notice. It was the paradox of the city—so many eyes, so little attention. Thus, the cost of her magic was surprisingly cheap.
Hattie took careful steps on her new heels, wobbling on the balls of her feet as she attempted to perfect the casual stride the rest of the women in this building seemed able to execute in these ridiculous shoes. She’d taken several practice laps around the Locust Point warehouse under Liz’s tutelage. They’d only achieved minor success, and daylight came at a premium. By the time Hattie made it to the lobby bar, she was already exhausted physically. She couldn’t afford to exhaust herself mentally. That was the trap that would get her killed.
A young buck in a suit approached as she reached the bar. He was barely twenty if that, his straight ebony hair slicked back with a handful of pomade. His face was bizarrely smooth and free of blemish, and his brown eyes wide and full of admiration. He was a youth in every sense, and Hattie had found her first test of the evening.
“Heya, toots,” he barked as he sidled up alongside her at the bar. “You, uh…you here with a Mister, or what?”
Hattie focused on her face, allowing the light pinch to evolve into something more forgettable. Time to test out her accent.
“Oh, my brother just told me to meet him here. You know him? His name’s Carmine.” She affected a faint nasal twang, ignoring most of the R’s and keeping her syllables choppy.
The youth scowled, then shook his head. “Oh, uh…hey. Yeah, sorry. Don’t know him. But, I’m sure he’s around. Keep your eyes open. He’ll probably show up once he’s, uh…d
one with…” The young man didn’t even bother to finish the sentence before sweeping away to find another young woman with a curvy frame to set upon. Implying that she was a gangster’s sister was a sure bet to dismiss all interest, assuming the goon in question wanted to keep his chest free of bullet holes.
Bolstered by her first face-to-face encounter with the Crew, Hattie decided to order a gin and tonic from the barkeep. He poured her drink into a tidy highball, and when she tried to pay for it, he gave her a condescending wave of the hand, encouraging her to “forget about it.”
And so, she did.
Now, drink in hand, Hattie began the real work of the evening.
“You heard how it went down?” one of the young lions groused into the ear of his compatriot as Hattie passed by. “Calendo had about thirty boys ranged up military-style. Broken up into groups. Borrowed two boats from poor old Tony.”
His friend laughed. “Yeah, and made a big deal about it all like he was Alexander the fuckin’ Great, or somethin’. So, what’s he find? And empty shack. Took them about an hour just to get to the shack. And that’s all there was.”
His friend asked, “Didn’t he get clobbered on his face just the night before?”
“Yeah!” A spate of stifled laughter choked the two men for a moment. “Yeah…oh, sweet mother Mary. That freak’s on a short leash, now.”
“That idiot has been face-to-face with her what, two or three times? Why can’t he just whack her on the head and bring her in. She’s just some dame. Not like he can’t grab her and stick her in a sack or something.”
Hattie swallowed her gin hard, then kept walking as if she hadn’t heard a thing. As she moved about the room, more voices colluded one with another, all spelling out the same story.
“The pincher’s burned his last grace with the Capo.”
“He’s probably gonna get sold to the New York boys.”
“Good riddance, if you ask me. Him and that one-arm cripple oughta take a dirt nap.”
Hattie’s heart grew heavy as she reached the front windows, her highball still mostly full. It wasn’t personal. She was trying to survive. To stay free. If Vincent found himself in an intolerable position because she’d found a way to do just that, wasn’t that simply making her case?
But then again, he’d never laid a hand on her, or tried to use force, and clearly that’s what the rest of his mob would have done. It made her feel guilty and even more conflicted that Vincent was risking ridicule and scorn all because he wouldn’t resort to violence to bring her in. Hearing these things said about him stung. Why would a group like this be so quick to turn on their own?
The answer was frustratingly clear. He was a pincher. He wasn’t to be trusted. Just a weapon to point at the problem. Not a person with feelings. She’d seen it the past spring, as they dealt with this very same quest. Only then, they were hunting a fictional pincher on the Bay. Now, the pincher was very much real.
And she was winning.
Her thoughts occupied her as she turned from the windows, full of memories of Deltaville, when she and Vincent had stood together in some bizarre triumvirate of power with the demon that had set up shop on that muddy slip of land piercing the Bay when she stepped directly into Lefty Mancuso.
Her drink slipped its brim, sending several drops of gin onto Lefty’s suit.
He sucked in a breath and stepped clear of her with remarkable grace.
Hattie clenched down on her light pinch, feeling the increased weight of the illusion as a man who would ordinarily recognize her face now stood directly before her, peering into her twist of magic.
“Oh,” she declared in her faux Carolinian drawl. “Gracious me! I do apologize.”
Lefty stood stiff for a moment, his eyes orbs of stone staring a hole through her soul, until he reached for his lapel and offered a handkerchief.
“My fault entirely,” he grumbled, offering her the cloth over the back of his hand in a baroque gesture of manners.
She took the kerchief and dabbed a perfectly dry spot on her collarbone before offering it back to Lefty, per the delicacy of the moment.
“You’ll pardon me,” she cooed as she attempted to sidestep the man.
He lifted a hand, not to grab her, but to capture her attention before she fled. “Excuse me…have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so, sir.” She offered him a semi-flirtatious glance that put extra load on her light pinch but would hopefully send the man who was oddly averse to such dalliances into retreat. “I think I’d remember a polished man such as yourself?”
The predictable flood of discomfort and courtesy fluttered over his face, and he tried his best to smile. “I’m sure a man like me would rather be forgotten. Good evening, madam.”
She nodded, then turned to curtsy as she passed. “Mademoiselle.”
He offered an ameliorative grin as he withdrew on his way toward the bar, and she was clear of the greatest danger in the room.
That was assuming Vincent didn’t show up. Now that Lefty was here, she had to wonder. The man was Vincent’s handler, after all. Vincent seldom went anywhere without Lefty. But, could the converse be said to be true?
Considering the ill winds blowing against Vincent in the room as it was, Hattie prayed he would stay home and keep his head low—for his sake, and for hers.
Another half-hour of wandering and adjusting the light load on her facial illusion offered more of the same. Voices throughout the room questioned Vincent’s ability to lead. His right to lead. Whether or not this woman was a pincher at all, or just a member of a rival gang intended to keep them off balance. There was even one conversation questioning Vito Corbi’s blind dedication to catching her. Simply by refusing to be captured, Hattie had accomplished what groups like the Bratva or the Upright Citizens had failed for so long—she’d driven a dagger into the heart of this gang’s fortitude.
She smiled to herself as she drained her glass and set the highball onto a rail just shy of the main lobby. She’d read the lay of the land. All she lacked was a sense of their next move, which was the entire purpose of her being here.
With a sigh, Hattie turned back for the main bar area, looking for the best faces to shadow as she attempted to glean their forthcoming play on her freedom. She chose Tony, Liz’s contact and the man responsible for robbing them of their business. He was a book-smart man, if anything could be said of him. Educated, head filled with facts, figures and theories, but when it came to the commonsense side of the equation, his slide rule never quite lined up. But he was on the inside, close to the decision makers. Aside from Lefty, who was too dangerous to linger around, Tony would be the best shot.
Hattie wove her way around the islands of four-top tables, leather-upholstered wingbacks, and potted palms until she spotted the original lad who’d propositioned her at the bar. He waved her down with three men in tow.
Uh oh.
“Hey, uh…you?” he blurted with a flailing of his hands. “Come here, will ya?”
She offered a courteous grin and steeled her illusion, now wearing heavy after Lefty had forced a greater cost onto her magic. She nearly launched into her Southern drawl before remembering. Brooklyn, not Carolina.
“Yeah?” she called. “What is it?”
He ushered her to join his fellows, which she did while keeping an eye on both Tony and Lefty.
“I’m looking for him,” the boy explained with a wave to his friends. “But I couldn’t tell. Was it Abruzzo or Battaglia?”
She lifted a brow. “Huh?”
“Carmine,” he sighed. “Your brother. Is it Carmine Abruzzo, or—”
“Tanzi,” she blurted.
“Carmine Tanzi?” he repeated, his eyes drawn into a question. “I don’t know no Carmine Tanzi.” He turned to the others. “You know any Carmine Tanzi?”
The first shook his head dismissively. The second, however, gave it some thought before snapping his fingers.
“Hey…yeah. I think I met him up by Dundalk ways
.”
“Really? What’s he into?”
“I think it was him. Up by the seaport. He’s got the harbormaster in his pocket, runs cash to him every other week so he keeps his trap shut.”
The original lad nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, yeah. Tanzi. I think you’re right.”
Hattie stifled a smirk as the two led themselves down the primrose path.
“So,” she asked in all her nasal glory, “you boys gonna buy a girl a drink, or what?”
They stood stiff for a second. “You, uh…” The lad asked in a whisper, “Sure Carmine won’t get the red-ass?”
She shoved her hands onto her hips. “Well, maybe you should worry I might knock your block off. Like that Calendo fella what got his clock cleaned by that Irish girl.”
The men erupted into earnest guffaws, and she soon found herself with three different drinks lined up at the bar, all purchased by different men ready to roll the dice against the temper of the fictional Carmine Tanzi.
It was enough to bring her closer to Tony, sitting at the bar, nursing his drink the way he had in weeks past. The sauce had hit him hard, and he nodded dumbly as a man grilled him on the nature of the Bay trade. This man stood out from the crowd, as Hattie gave him extra scrutiny. His fashions were far more conservative than the zoot suits surrounding her. His face was sharp, nose aquiline and fierce. His eyes were piercing. His hair a fine medium brown rather than the uniform coal-black Italian stock surrounding them.
Who was this man?
Hattie took a drink and backed up to Tony, nodding and pretending to engage the gang who’d decided Carmine’s sister was “alright.”
The well-polished man said, “Rest assured, my good man. This is simply a temporary setback.”
Tony blathered in full gin-soused fury, “It’s over! He’s gonna get a call to the vineyard, and then that’ll be the last we hear from him.”
The man lifted a flat hand. “Your Capo has entrusted this task to Vincent specifically because it would not be easy.”
Your…Capo? So, this man wasn’t a member of the Crew. Who was he, then?