King of the Bootleggers

by Eugene Lloyd MacRae

  "Your hands are shaking."

  Paoletti threw the match out his open side window and took a deep drag on the cigarette. His hands were trembling but he didn't say anything for a moment. "I fought at Ypres. April 24 in '15...the Germans hit us with gas."

  Tommy simply nodded as his eyes went back to the road.

  After a deep drag on his cigarette, Paoletti looked out the side window, "It makes you violently sick. You can't breathe, even with a wet handkerchief over your mouth and nose. They hit us with machine gun fire...shelling....the shrapnel flying everywhere... our Ross rifles jammed. 2,000 of us were killed. But we held against the bastards."

  Tommy nodded, "I heard some of the other guys talk about it."

  Paoletti lifted his cigarette hand and watched it shake, "Docs told me over 6,000 of us were affected by the gas. Me...they said the shaking was the result was some kind of nerve damage...." He looked over at Tommy, "You know the best thing about it?"

  Tommy glanced over at him and shook his head, "No, what?"

  "It helps you to jack-off...you don't have to do as much work with the shaking."

  Tommy blinked and then had to laugh – and then his laugh stopped abruptly as he looked dead ahead.

  Paoletti saw Tommy's reaction and looked at the road ahead as well. He moved his head forward, peering into the darkness ahead of the truck lights, "What the–?"

  A dark object appeared dead ahead in the road, the top illuminated by the moonlight. Tommy jammed the brakes on hard as the lights illuminated the side of the object. The truck slid to a stop just two feet away from a loaded hay wagon.

  The trucks following had kept enough of the distance, anticipating a blockade like this, and they each slid to a stop without banging into the front truck.

  Gunfire opened up from the trees on both sides. Small arms fire and the cracks of rifles were joined by shotgun blasts.

  "Sons of bitches," Paoletti yelled as bullets pinged into and off the metal parts of the truck.

  The gunfire from both sides continued as the men in the truck reacted. The drivers and men riding shotgun in each truck quickly clambered down and into the road. In the back of each truck, two more men sat in the single padded seats Caden had built at Tommy's request. They immediately jumped from the backs of the trucks and moved to their respective sides of the road. Every single man Tommy had assigned to the trucks was a veteran of World War I. Each man was equipped with a Lee Enfield SMLE Mk. III rifle and a shoulder bag containing ammunition. They knew exactly what to do and they joined the drivers and guards and everyone went prone in the hollows at the sides of the road. Within seconds, they began to lay down a lethal return of fire into the trees. Gunfire flashes from the trees, joined with gunfire flashes from the road, as both sides set to kill the other in a deadly gun battle over whiskey.

  Tommy reached for the Thompson submachine gun propped next to his right shoulder. Checking to make sure the magazine was loaded, Tommy then jumped out onto the running board and stepped into the road. Paoletti ran around the front of the truck, carrying a bag of extra clips for the Thompson. Tommy set the weapon at his hip and pulled the trigger. He yelled at the top of his lungs as he started his field of fire in the trees from just in front of the truck and moved left, only stopping to accept another clip from Paoletti. Bark flew, branches were chopped to pieces and leaves were shredded. Reaching the far left in his field of fire, Tommy lowered the weapon and walked around the front of his truck to the other side of the road. Fully loaded again, he began to set down another devastating field of fire through the trees, yelling in delight at the top of his lungs. Reaching the far right of the trees with his fire, Tommy lowered the weapon and listened. Everyone else in his crew ceased fire and listened as well. The only sounds left were the moaning of a few men from the trees back on the other side of the road. Tommy held his hand out to receive another clip and reloaded. Stepping back around the front of the truck, he kept the Thompson up and ready as he walked down a slight depression at the side of the road and across the short grass area to the tree line.

  The other men gathered on this side of the road as well, weapons at the ready. Four of the men walked towards the trees, covering Paoletti and Tommy to the right.

  Tommy pushed his way through and over severed branches to find two men lying wounded in a small clearing. One of them was leaning up against a tree. Tommy could see other bodies down through the tree line along the road, slumped over facing the road. Others looked they had tried to run for it and were cut down running for the deeper woods away from the road.

  The four other men checked on a few of the bodies. All dead.

  The man against the tree coughed and held one hand up as Tommy step towards him. The other hand stayed holding his bloody stomach.

  Laying the Thompson back over his shoulder, Tommy stopped and looked down at the man, "Who do you work for?"

  The man shook his head weakly, "No one. Big Zeke h-heard you guys were running whiskey. He...he said–" the man coughed up blood "–he said we could make lots of money bootlegging what we stole–"

  "How's that working for you right now?"

  The man coughed and gave Tommy a weak smile, "Not too well."

  The man on the ground groaned and coughed.

  Tommy lowered the submachine gun and pulled the trigger. The body of the man lying on the ground jumped, twitched and exploded in a hail of blood.

  When Tommy stopped firing, the only sound was the man against the tree screaming at the top of his lungs. His eyes were wild as he looked down at the mangled, bullet-ridden body of his compatriot.

  Tommy waited for the man's hysteria to turn into sobs, the Thompson laying back against his shoulder again. "My name is Machine Gun Tommy. Are you going to forget it?"

  The man sobbed and shook his head vigorously from side to side, "No, no, no...."

  "Make sure your friends don't...at least the alive ones."

  WHEN TOMMY AND THE men came back to the road, the others had moved the hay wagon off to the side. Everyone climbed back into their spots on the convoy. Tommy put the Thompson submachine gun propped up next to his right shoulder again and the convoy continued their run to Port Maitland to deliver 2,100 cases of whiskey.

  Paolo Paoletti pulled out his cigarettes, "You know what I miss the most?"

  Tommy glanced over at him.

  "Black Cat cigarettes. Tried them when our Battalion was in England. These Lucky Strikes are okay but...."

  "My pops had some Pall Mall one time," Tommy said. "He liked them but said they were too expensive."

  Paoletti passed a cigarette over to Tommy, "When we get back home from this trip, I'll go buy some Pall Malls for me, you and your pops." He lit his cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke, "Still like Black Cats though."

  Chapter 71

  ROCCO AND TONY SAT in the manager's office at the Royal Imperial Bank, unsure of why they had been asked to come in. The door behind them was open and they could hear the hushed sounds of the main bank floor, punctuated with the clacking of a typewriter somewhere. The scent of furniture polish lingered just below the tobacco smell of their cigarettes.

  The bank manager came hustling back in, "Sorry gentlemen. I told my assistant to have everything ready. You just can't hire good help these days." He sat down, laid some papers on his desk and then opened a drawer on the right, rifling for something inside.

  Rocco looked at the man's nameplate on his desk, "Mister....Gilmore, is it?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm not really sure why–"

  "Here we go," Gilmore said triumphantly as he held up a pen. "Can't understand why we don't have more of these." He began to look through the papers that were stapled together and murmured, "Actually, we do. But someone must be stealing them."

  Rocco and Tony exchanged glances, still unsure why they were sitting in a bank with the bank manager. Tony leaned forward in his chair, "Mr. Gilmore, can you explain–"

  "Here we go," Gilmore said as he folded the top pages ba
ck, set the stapled papers down on the desk, turned them and slid it across towards Rocco and Tony. He held the pen out, "We had your names filled in at the bottom. All you have to do is sign the papers–"

  Tony slid the papers closer on the desk as he examined them, ignoring the pen.

  The bank manager watched Tony looking at the papers, still holding the pen out, wondering why Tony wasn't taking the pen in hand.

  Tony lifted his eyes from the papers, looking to the bank manager for more of an explanation, "What is this?"

  Gilmore sat back, "Why...the transfer of ownership for the Barton Street arena, of course...from the Pure Ice Company to..." The bank manager leaned forward to look at the names upside down and pointed at them, "...to Rocco DeLuca and Antonio Genovese. That's you two gentlemen, right?"

  Rocco and Tony were both confused and surprised. "Right," Tony said, "that's us. But...?"

  "Pops...Mr. William McMillan...instructed me to have all the papers filled out, including the paperwork with the registry office, and to have you come in to complete the transaction. We hold the loan on the property. I hope that's all right? He said you gentlemen were very busy and he didn't want to inconvenience you in any way. Mr. McMillan already signed and the way he talked, we would just transfer–"

  "That's fine," Tony said as he quickly grabbed a pen from Gilmore's hand. "Where do I sign?"

  Gilmore indicated the dotted line.

  Tony passed the pen over to Rocco, lifting his eyebrows.

  Rocco took this pen and slowly signed his name on the dotted line Gilmore indicated.

  "You'll notice that you have 100% ownership," said Gilmore. "I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but Mr. McMillan's two partners died suddenly and he assumed full ownership in the Pure Ice Company."

  Rocco and Tony stayed silent.

  "Terrible business that," Gilmore said as he took the now-signed document and set it to the side. "Murders like that taking place in our modern city are hard to fathom," Gilmore added as picked up another document from his desk and flipped through the pages. "I imagine that's why Mr. McMillan decided to move out west."

  "He did?" Tony asked as he glanced at Rocco.

  "Yes. Said he thought it would be a safer environment," Gilmore remarked as he set the document down on the desk and held out the pen again, "And this is to transfer the loan agreement left on the facility. If you gentlemen could just sign that, we'll be finished."

  Rocco took a look at the figure still owed as he signed. It was less than $15,000.

  OUTSIDE ON THE SIDEWALK, Tony laughed, "I'm guessing I know what kept big Bruno busy on those days off."

  Rocco shook his head, an amused smile creasing his face, "I think you're right."

  Tony shook his head, still finding it hard to believe, "Bruno wanted a seat for the hockey games. I'm gonna have to give him the best seat in the house."

  "So...now we have a hockey team and an arena," Rocco said.

  "I think I'm gonna call them the Tigers," Tony announced.

  "Tigers? There's no Tigers around here."

  Tony held his hands apart, "So what? I just like the name. Besides, why do I have to call them after something from around here? That's baloney. We got lots of rats. Do I call them the Rats? I can see it now, the Hamilton Rats win Championship Cup."

  Rocco laughed and pushed Tony playfully, "Okay, okay. Calm down, mister manager."

  Tony had to smile at his own outburst.

  "How about the players? Everything set there?"

  The smile left Tony's face and he shook his head no, "I talked to Johnny Malone, but he doesn't want to make the move to Hamilton."

  "Why not?"

  Tony adjusted his cap, "I never realized Malone was born in Quebec City, Rocco. Apparently, he's played almost all his hockey down there with the Voyageurs and the Montreal Huskies. Remember when they had that Ontario Professional Hockey League for a couple of years before the war?"

  "Yeah, vaguely."

  "He played a year with the Waterloo Colts. That's the only time he's played outside of Québec. I guess he didn't like it too much. He doesn't want to leave behind his family and friends and he told me he's hooked onto a good off-season job in Quebec City. Says it offers a better future than hockey."

  Rocco shook his head as he turned and headed for the car, "We don't even have a coach for the team either."

  Tony shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets as he walked beside Rocco. He was still more concerned with his favorite player, "Johnny Malone led the league in scoring with 39 goals last year, Rocco. We need him."

  Rocco was getting a kick out of his friend's concerns, "You need him. You're the team manager."

  Tony moved his hand back and forth between them in emphasis, "But it's our team. Don't you want a winning team–?"

  "If we don't win, I'll just fire you," Rocco said.

  Tony swore at Rocco and then laughed.

  Rocco grew serious for a moment, "If Malone's worried about the future and money...why don't you have him play and coach the team? That way he gets two salaries."

  "That's a great idea," Tony said after a moment. "I'll call him and see what he says."

  "And if Malone does decide to sign with someone else," Rocco said, "we'll just send Bruno down to kill that team owner."

  Tony laughed, "If we start losing games, he's liable to kill every owner in the league."

  Chapter 72

  A WEEK LATER, Rocco found Tony sitting at the top of the seats in the Barton Street arena. Half a dozen players were on the ice below, practicing. The sounds of pucks banging off the boards mingled with the shouts of players looking for a pass or shouting triumph when putting the puck past the goaltender. A blue cloud of smoke hung over Tony's head and the heavy smell of cigars told him his friend was worried about something and he had gone through a number of stogies. Sure enough, Rocco spotted a number of stubby, brown butts on the floor at Tony's feet as he plopped into the wooden seat beside him, "How's the team looking?"

  Tony made a so-so sign with his hand.

  Rocco scanned the men on the ice, "Where's Johnny Malone? I don't see him."

  "That's cause he's still not here. And I'm not sure if he ever will be. I offered him both player and manager's salary like you suggested but...."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  Tony shrugged, "Not much else I can do. Either he accepts it or he doesn't." Tony blew out a hard stream of smoke that curled overhead, "And because the season starts in five weeks the League President is very concerned. He called me and told me our team was bad enough last year. Without our best player, it's going to be a league disaster and he doesn't want that to happen. He's ordered the Montreal Huskies to make a trade with us to help out."

  That surprised Rocco, "He ordered them to make a trade? I thought each team manager made the trades."

  "Yeah, they do. But Fox says he's concerned with competitive balance. I'm sending Jack McDonald, Harry Mummery, and Dave Ritchie to the Montreal Huskies for Jack Coughlin, Joe Matte, and Goldie Prodgers. And they're loaning us Billy Coutu. From what I hear, Coutu is a good, rough and tough defenseman. Which is why they resisted an out and out trade for the guy. I think the other guys in the trade are a wash. Toronto's also supposed to loan us forward Babe Dye."

  "I read about him last year," Rocco said. "A slow skater but a hard, accurate shot. Scored a lot for them."

  "Yeah. Which is why I said Toronto is supposed to loan him. They're resisting that as well. They're looking at him as part of their future."

  A player zipping around the ice and stick handling around the other players caught Rocco's attention. "Who's that? Looks pretty young."

  Tony shifted in his seat, his excitement showing, "Paulie Thompson. His pop works here. He's only seventeen. Jack McDonald played with Newsy Lalonde in Montreal in '18. Says the kid's shifty moves and skating reminds him of Lalonde."

  "Really? Newsy Lalonde is one hell of a player."

  "It's still only practice, but if the
kid does sign–"

  Loud talking caught their attention down below. Marty, one of the arena workers stumbled forward out of the lower tunnel between the seats, stopping his momentum with his hands against the rank boards. He looked back with fear and then scooted over to the aisle stairs leading up to where Rocco and Tony were sitting, "I'm sorry Mr. Genovese but these men–"

  "Genovese. Genovese," echoed out of the tunnel below. The voice was guttural and mocking in tone. Six men came strutting out of the tunnel. They all wore working-class clothes; a brown flat cap, dark wool shirt, worn dungarees and work boots.

  The hockey players on the ice came to a stop.

  The six men sauntered across to where Marty was standing and the lead man looked up, "Genovese. Is that a guinea name?"

  Marty looked up again, "I'm sorry–"

  "Yeah. You're sorry," the lead man said as he pushed Marty, "we heard you the first time."

  Tony spoke in a loud voice, "It's okay, Marty. Just go back to work."

  One of the other men took a run at Marty and stopped short, "Yeah Marty, go back to work." They all laughed when Marty stumbled and ran down the aisle along the boards and disappeared into another tunnel.

  Tony glanced briefly at Rocco and then asked in a loud voice, "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

  The men stood with their feet wide apart, trying to look as tough as possible. The leader put his hands on his hips, "Old pops paid us every week. You know, to keep the customers safe when they come here. Hockey game, boxing match, wrestling...it's all the same to us." He turned around and gestured to the players on the ice who were watching, "We keep everybody safe."

  "I see."

  "Nobody told us there was a change. Which I'm sure is just a mistake...."

  Tony nodded and gestured for them to come up, "Why don't you come up and we can go talk in my office? It's just up there behind me."

  "Yeah, we know where it is." The men began climbing the stairs, grim and serious looks on their face.