King of the Bootleggers

by Eugene Lloyd MacRae

  Tommy watched him and realized what he was intending to do. He looked at the man standing there in the darkness, smoking. "You get ready, Rocco. I'll get his attention."

  "Tommy no–" But it was too late. The kid had already moved away low in the darkness, back towards the dark main road. Rocco shook his head and moved silently to the right in the darkness.

  Tommy crouched over in the rutted road to the barn, making himself as small as possible in the darkness and spoke in a child-like voice, "Excuse me, sir?"

  The man dropped the cigarette immediately and whirled around in the darkness, bringing the Tommy gun up to bear on the small figure in the road, "Who's there? Speak up or I'll–"

  "Please. My mother sent me. We live just down the road and she's sick."

  The man stepped forward, trying to see exactly who was standing there as he growled, "Get lost. I don't care who sent you–"

  Rocco stepped out of the darkness and swung the piece of lumber like a baseball bat, connecting with the back of the man's head. It made a sound like a burst gourd and the man tumbled forward. Rocco grabbed the Tommy gun before it hit the ground.

  Tommy ran quickly to join Rocco and was surprised when he was handed the weapon.

  "Hold that," Rocco whispered as he bent over the prone man and began to pat his pockets. He pulled out the man's matches and then turned the body over, patting the front of his jacket. Reaching inside, he pulled out a Colt 1903 semi-automatic pistol.

  Tommy nervously kept an eye on the side door as well as the front doors of the large barn. Low voices and laughter sounded from inside.

  Rocco stood up, "Do you think you can handle that?"

  Tommy looked at the weapon and shrugged, "My pops taught me how to use a rifle but...."

  "It's not much different." Rocco gave a quick lesson, showing him how to hold the stock against his shoulder, how to hold the trigger and the front grip. "Just hold on tight and brace for the kick when you pull the trigger. Okay?"

  Tommy took a deep breath and nodded, though his face showed far less confidence than he let on.

  Rocco slipped the handgun into his waistband and then bent over, lifting the fallen man's legs and dragging the body to the side doorway. He left it lying sideways to block the door from being opened. Next, he ran to the Elm tree and then came running back a moment later with one of the gas cans. He ran past Tommy towards the large front doors of the barn.

  "What are you doing?" Tommy asked in a scared whisper.

  "Making them all come out the front. Just be ready."

  Tommy licked his lips, shifting back and forth as he gripped the weapon and placed his finger against the trigger.

  Rocco splashed the gasoline over the doors and then dropped the gas can. Stepping back, he lit a match and threw it to the ground, igniting the gasoline. A woosh sounded as a flash of light filled the air. Eager flames erupted on the ground and ran up the doors.

  The voices inside began yelling frantically. The side door thumped but the body kept it closed. The thumping became more frantic. Then someone yelled to push the front doors open and moments later both large, heavy doors were pushed open and ten frantic men came pouring out, illuminated by the back-light and flames

  Rocco calmly lifted his weapon and began picking the men off, one by one.

  Tommy hesitated for a moment and then shouldered his weapon, bracing himself. One more brief hesitation and he pulled the trigger. The light of the flames was joined by the light from the end of the Tommy gun as bullets ripped into the hijackers. The men screamed, yelled and danced as their flesh was ripped open.

  A few moments later the night went quiet, only filled by the constant clicking of the now empty Thompson submachine gun.

  Rocco reached out and put his hand on Tommy's shoulder, "It's done, kid. You can stop firing."

  Tommy realized what he was saying and released the trigger, standing there in a daze, looking at the bleeding, ripped open bodies on the ground.

  Rocco stepped towards the bodies as he looked at the flames leaping up the face of the barn. Through the partially open doors, he could see the back of the one-ton truck, filled with their cases of whiskey. Ahead of it was the cab-less truck. "We better hurry and get these bodies moved. We have to back our trucks out of there before the thing burns down."

  "Hey, Rocco?"

  Rocco looked back at Tommy, "Yeah?"

  "Can I keep this?" The kid looked at the weapon in his hands.

  "Yeah. It's yours."

  "Good. What did you call this thing?"

  "A Thompson submachine gun, a Tommy gun." Rocco wondered where this was going.

  Tommy nodded thoughtfully.

  Rocco headed for the nearest body, "C'mon, we gotta move these bodies."

  "Hey Rocco, you know how they call me Tommy Two Shoes?"

  Rocco stopped and turned again, a little irritated, "Yeah?"

  "From now on...I'm gonna be called Machine Gun Tommy."

  Chapter 10

  ANTONIO GENOVESE STEPPED INTO Rocco's apartment and closed the door behind him. He was out of breath from running up three flights of rickety stairs. He pushed his police cap back on his head as he approached the kitchen table where Rocco, Besha, and Tommy were sitting. Each of them had a glass of whiskey sitting in front of them.

  Tommy jumped up and offered Tony his seat at the table.

  Tony moved around the table towards the chair as he looked at Rocco, "Did your cousin have any idea who attacked you last night?"

  "He just phoned a few minutes ago," Rocco said. "He still swears he never said anything to anyone, but he thinks he knows who did it"

  "Who?" Tony sat down as Tommy set a glass in front of him and poured him a whiskey.

  "He called them the Frenchies."

  "Who? Never heard of them."

  "When he told his boss about the attack, Baby Face Monterosso told him about a visit he had from a group out of Québec City a few days ago."

  "Québec city? You mean from over in Québec?"

  "Yeah," Rocco continued, "apparently these guys have a brewery in Québec city and they're trying to take advantage of the situation in the U.S. like we are. They're running stuff across the border and down the East Coast to whoever will buy. They offered to supply the Buffalo mob but Monterosso turned them down. Told them he already had a closer source."

  "But he didn't tell them from who?" Tony asked.

  Rocco shook his head, "Not according to Little Jack. Monterosso didn't want to jeopardize anything. The Frenchies would've had to move the liquor down the St. Lawrence and across Lake Ontario to supply him. But Little Jack said they got word that these guys have hired muscle along the main border to eliminate their competition. And they're playing for keeps."

  "So how did they find out about us?"

  Rocco shook his head again, "I don't know, but somebody's got to be talking. I trust Little Jack but...."

  Tony swirled his drink for a minute and then said, "It's gotta be somebody closer to home. Cause we got another problem."

  "What's that?"

  "The customs guys have alerted all the constabulary stations that there are cases of liquor floating around that's unaccounted for. Since they don't have records of it going through customs, it still has to be inside the province."

  Besha sat up straight, "Do they know it's us –?"

  "No, no," Tony said, "when we had a meeting on it, I pointed out that Fat Sal has the bootlegging market cornered around here. They all agreed and so the spotlight's going to be on him. But we gotta figure out something, Rocco."

  "He's right, Rocco," Besha agreed. "Customs keeps good records on what goes in and out of the country. If you keep doing it this way...."

  Rocco clenched his jaw in anger, "Everything just starts to go good...."

  Everyone was silent as they watched Rocco thinking.

  Rocco looked at Tony, "Do you think the guy at the distillery talked to customs?"

  Tony gave it some thought, "I don't think so. I doubt h
e'd jeopardize his business."

  "Keep in mind he collects excise taxes on every case you buy, Rocco," Besha explained. "When he pays the government, they know how many cases of product should be going through the border. And if it doesn't...."

  Tony nodded his head in agreement, "She's right."

  Rocco gave it some more thought and then he pulled out a wad of cash and laid it flat on the table, "That's last night's payment. $13,000."

  Tony whistled as he reached across and picked up the cash, "I ain't never seen so much money in one place in my life."

  "We have to figure out how we're going to do this from here on in so we don't get caught," Rocco said.

  Tony set the cash back in the middle of the table.

  Tommy was standing beside Tony, drink in his hand, "We have to go back to that Acme place and pay for that truck sometime."

  Tony glanced up at Tommy and nodded, "Yeah, $785."

  Rocco picked up the cash and flicked it back and forth with his fingers, thinking. "Besha, our paperwork you set up says the stuff is going to Cuba. Does it actually have to go there?"

  Besha gave it some thought, "I don't know. The goods we handle from Cuba comes in through the harbor and it passes through customs–"

  "–but no one knows if it really does come from Cuba. It could come from anywhere, right?"

  "I guess so," Besha agreed. "They have paperwork saying where it comes from...but...why would someone pretend–?"

  "They wouldn't," Rocco interjected. "But the stuff comes from the ocean into the port and through customs. So if we move our liquor through the harbor, no one really knows if it ever gets to Cuba or not. Right?"

  "And why would they care," Tony added, "all they care about is getting their excise tax."

  "Exactly," Rocco stated.

  "So...we're going to use boats out of the harbor here?" Tommy asked. His face showed his confusion, "But that means it would have to go down through the canal. And we didn't want to do that–"

  "We don't," Rocco interjected. "All we have to do is find a harbor with a customs office closer to the Buffalo side and send our liquor through there."

  "That would make more sense," Besha said, "sending it down through the canal would look suspicious. That's the wrong way if it's going to Cuba."

  "Oh right," Tommy said. Then he shrugged, "I don't really know where Cuba is anyway."

  Tony laughed, "You're not the only one kid."

  Rocco pointed up at Tommy, "You said you saw fishing boats when you were on vacation down there. Do you know where they came from?"

  Tommy frowned as he thought about it, "I think... I think I heard... Port Maitland?"

  "Okay, so on this next load, we head to Port Maitland and see what we can find," Rocco said.

  "But like I said before, I can't drive a big boat–"

  "Neither can I. We'll just do our best," Rocco said sternly. He picked up the wad of cash, peeled off bills and held it out to Tommy who took it, "That's a thousand bucks. Use it to pay off the truck. We'll use ten grand and talk the old man into giving us 400 cases."

  Tony whistled, "400 cases. That'll give us...?"

  "$20,000," Besha said.

  Tony smiled sheepishly," That sounds about right."

  "That leaves us two thousand bucks. If we have to, maybe we can bribe someone to get the liquor through customs and over to Little Jack," Tony said. He looked at Tommy, "And maybe we can we pay someone to take us over."

  "Yeah, that might work better than us trying to steal one," Tommy said. "But if we have to...."

  "What about the Frenchies?" Tony asked.

  Tommy put his drink down, picked up his weapon from near the kitchen sink and held it up, "We'll be ready this time."

  Tony's eyes lit up and he got up and reached out for the weapon, "Whoa! What's this? This ain't no rifle."

  "It's called a Tommy gun," Tommy said proudly, "and it belongs to me. Rocco said so."

  Tony glanced over at Rocco, "Yeah? This is what the kid used?" He looked back at Tommy proudly, "Rocco told me how you handled yourself. You did good kid."

  Tommy puffed his chest out, "They call me Machine gun Tommy now."

  Besha scolded him, "Just don't be shooting up my kitchen or you'll be red-britches Tommy."

  Chapter 11

  ROCCO AND TOMMY got on the road by mid-morning the next day. Rocco brought up the rear again, with Tommy in the lead in his truck with a new cab Acme had put on when he paid the bill. The manufacturer had gladly taken an extra $100 to do a fast riveting job. Both trucks had the cases of first-grade whiskey stacked on their cargo beds, well hidden under tarps tied down this time to keep greedy eyes from seeing the lucrative cargo.

  Several hours later it was Rocco in the lead as they drove into the docks area of Port Maitland. The smell of fish was heavy as Rocco slowly cruised past old wooden piers and buildings, not really sure how he was going to find a boat. He turned right and followed along a string of boat slips. They were empty, except for a couple of slips with boats that were in obvious states of repair. Damn, I never thought of that. All the fishermen are going to be out on the lake looking for a catch to pay the bills. Now what? A sailboat? Rocco was about to turn around when he spotted a good-sized fishing tug sitting in a slip. An older man in a black, fisherman's rib-toque was sitting on the tug's railing to the left of the open back end, puffing on a pipe. Rocco brought his truck to a stop and considered the man for a moment before getting out.

  The older man on the boat lifted his head at the sound of the truck door slamming shut.

  Tommy had parked right behind Rocco and got out, joining Rocco as he crossed the dirt road, heading for the tug.

  The older man stood up and took a few steps to the stern as he puffed on his pipe, watching them approach. He took the pipe from between his lips and spat a glob of tobacco juice over the side of the boat. The man's voice was gravelly from years of battling with the elements, "You the fellers what wanted to buy my boat?"

  Rocco shook his head, "No, sorry." Rocco pegged the older man to be in his late seventies.

  The old man grimaced and spit again, "Didn't think you looked like a couple of fishermen. Ah well." The man turned and moved back to sit on the railing of the tug.

  Rocco considered the man and the boat again, "Why are you selling?"

  The old man took a few puffs on his pipe, closed one eye and considered Rocco, "Why? What's it to you?"

  "No offense," Rocco said, "just trying to have a conversation."

  "I'm in no mood for conversation." The old man took several drags on his pipe defiantly, sucking his checks in on each pull.

  Rocco glanced at Tommy and shook his head before looking back at the old man, "What if we wanted to hire your boat–"

  "–why? So you can drop a body in the middle of the lake?" The old man spat over the sides again. "And before you ask, yeah you two look like someone who would do that."

  Tommy and Rocco looked at each other again.

  "This ain't no pleasure boat," the old man growled, "why else would you want to hire a fishing tug?"

  Rocco looked at the man for a moment. The constant squeal of seagulls filled the air. Gasoline and oil mixed with the heavy smell of fish. "Answer me one last question. How much do you make fishing?"

  The old man puffed on his pipe, one eye closed as the other considered Rocco. Finally, the man took the pipe from his lips and wiped the back of his hand across his nose, "Age caught up with me but...use to make a hundred, hundred and twenty a month–"

  "I'll pay you one hundred dollars to take us over near Buffalo and back."

  The old man froze, his jaw dropping. After a moment, he recovered slightly and stuck the pipe back in his mouth. He looked at Rocco as he puffed away. He looked at Tommy, thinking. Then he glanced across at the two trucks, "Just you two or....?"

  "And four hundred cases of whiskey," Rocco said bluntly.

  The old man startled and blinked his eyes.

  "We've got the customs papers
to ship them to Cuba."

  "Cuba? But you said...?"

  Rocco nodded, "Our Cuba is over near Buffalo."

  The old man eyed Rocco for a moment and then grinned a nearly toothless smile. He looked down, puffed on his pipe a few times and then looked up, his eyes filled with a mischievous glint, "Two hundred–"

  "Done."

  The old man blinked and puffed on his pipe, "Why do I think I should have asked for three?"

  "We'll back the trucks up and do the loading," Rocco said, "you just tell us where to put it, to balance the load right on the tug."

  The older man stepped up onto the back rail of the tug, stepped over onto the weathered boards of the dock and extended his hand, "Captain Herb Gamble. Welcome aboard."

  THE PORT MAITLAND CUSTOMS office was a rickety old room inside a rickety old building. Gamble led the way inside.

  An older man sporting a gray sailor's beard, smoking a pipe and wearing a worn uniform and cap sat beside a stove.

  Gamble stepped towards him, "Good day, Sam."

  Sam pulled the pipe from his mouth and spit a gob of juice on the floor, "Good day to you Herb. Watcha doin' here?"

  Herb gestured to Rocco and Tommy, who shut the door behind them, "I'm just helping these two fellas go through customs."

  Sam closed one eye and considered the two men with Herb. He spit on the floor again, "Well, you come to the right place."

  "Of course I did," Herb complained, "I wouldn't-a-brought them to Sarah's Diner now, would I?"

  "No. Cause that would have been the wrong place," pointed out Sam as he used the arms of the chair to rise. He walked slowly over to stand behind an old counter, "I hope you have all the right papers?"

  "I hope so too," Herb said as he waved Rocco forward, "cause I don't want to be in here any longer than I have to."

  "I feel the same way," Sam said as he took the papers from Rocco. He set them on the counter, smoothing them with the back of his hand. Setting the pipe between his teeth and puffing on it, the customs agent looked over the papers.

  Rocco glanced at Tommy, fidgeting and hoping Besha's handiwork would pass muster.