"We could have...last year," Besha said. "They had a clause in that 1919 referendum that allowed anyone to import liquor into Ontario. That's how people were getting their hootch before, by mail order from Québec."
"Right. That's what I was thinking, with this license we could–"
"No, the Government of Ontario just revoked that clause. It's now illegal to import alcohol as well."
"Crap. I'm gonna have to pay more attention to politics, the elections, and all that stuff."
"It's actually good for us. When something's harder to get, you can charge more. And we have more customers." Besha tapped the paper Maria was holding, "I'm glad you found that and we should find a good safe place to keep it. That gives us the legal basis to export our whiskey at least. It could keep us out of jail." Besha turned and walked back to help Valeria DeBonis and Lucinda Placido.
"Besha?" Maria called out.
Besha kept walking as she turned to look back at her friend.
Maria pointed at her, "If you didn't wear your new shoes and there are shoe marks on my ceiling, you're paying to get it repainted."
Chapter 79
Lake Erie
LISANDRO 'CUBA' SANTORO PUFFED AWAY on a Dutch Masters cigar as he stood on the deck of his 50-foot cruiser, Sea Dragon. The black ship cut smoothly across the night waters of Erie, heading for the shores of Cleveland. Fog curled around Cuba as he put a foot on the railing, leaned forward and flicked a half inch of ash from the cigar. Recommended by the young sales clerk behind the counter at the tobacco shop, he didn't like it as well as a nice hand-made, thick one made by Cifuentes Altezas Reales–
"Cuba?"
Turning his head he saw Colin Sheeden coming from the bow. Sheeden was a veteran fisherman but new to the rum-running trade. In fact, tonight's crew were all first-timers. Which was why Cuba had made the trip with them. He wanted to check each and every man out before giving them free reign on a boat of their own. They had all said they were long-time fishermen but he wanted to be sure. Storms came up fast on the Eastern end of Lake Erie and 40-foot waves were nothing to fool with. He didn't care if he lost the men, but the boat and its cargo were a different matter.
"Clarke says we should be about half a mile out," Sheeden reported.
Cuba looked back over the black water, "Sounds about right. Have the guys watch for the signal from shore. We might have to get in real close because of this soup–"
A wispy, looming form grew just ahead and to the left of the Sea Dragon.
Pausing with the cigar half-way to his lips, Cuba wondered if it was a fishing boat or a Coast Guard cutter.
Sheeden leaned against the railing, looking at where Cuba was staring, "Can't be a fishing tug in this fog."
Cuba slowly moved the cigar towards his lips, listening.
Sheeden spoke low, afraid his voice would carry over the water, "Want me to have Clarke swing back to Canadian water?"
A half-grin creased Cuba's face, "Tell him to get ready for my instructions. And have McQullian man the 1-pounder cannon at the bow. We'll have a little fun as we swing back–"
A heavy rumbling acceleration sound shot across the water and the wispy form increased in size. When the shape finally pierced the fog...it made Cuba drop his cigar.
Sheeden cursed, "That's a US Navy Eagle Boat."
A megaphone sounded from the 200-foot craft that charged out of the night, "This is the USS Pratt. Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded."
Cuba pushed away from the railing and headed for the stern to access the pilot house as he yelled, "Clarke. Get us out of here. Fast!"
The engines on the 50-foot cruiser Sea Dragon rumbled louder as full power was applied.
Cuba and Sheehan both stumbled against the railing as Clarke cut hard to starboard.
A Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun on the deck of the USS Pratt opened up.
Bullets tore across the side of the Sea Dragon. Chunks of wood were ripped from the railing as both Cuba and Sheehan hit the deck.
Sheehan began scrambling towards the stern on his hands and knees, "What the–"
The .50 caliber machine gun opened up a second time. Bullets ripped, chewed and buried themselves in the walls of the wheelhouse.
Cuba put his hands over his head as chunks of wood rained down.
Sheehan panicked, rose to his feet and staggered as dozens of bullets ripped into his body. As the trail of bullets moved back to seek out more targets in the pilot house, the fisherman-turned-rum-runner fell against the railing and his dead body tipped over into the dark water, disappearing.
A second .50 caliber machine gun opened up, joining the first in a song of destruction, ripping away at the hull of the Sea Dragon.
Cuba tried to get to his feet and was thrown against the railing again as the Sea Dragon turned hard to port.
The sounds of the machine guns ceased.
Looking up quickly, Cuba realized the Sea Dragon was turning in a wide circle and the US Eagle Boat was trying to cut across the water to either board them...or give the machine gunners a better angle. Scrambling to his feet, he took off at a run. "McQullian," he yelled, "get to the cannon." Where the hell was he? "Clarke," he yelled, "turn to starboard." Why isn't he responding either? A moment later, Cuba had one of his answers as he stepped over the legs of McQullian. The man was lying face-down on the deck, his back bloody and his heavy work clothes filled with tattered bullet holes.
The megaphone thundered again, "This is the USS Pratt. Everyone aboveboard. Cut your engines...now!"
Cuba used the lull from the machine guns to slip into the wheelhouse.
Clarke was lying on the deck, face up, a bullet hole in the side of his head.
Slipping on blood, Cuba went down heavy on his side. He groaned, holding his right elbow against his side. It felt like he had busted a lower rib.
A boom sounded from the bow of the Sea Dragon. Someone had gotten to the 1-pounder cannon.
Rolling over and getting to his knees, Cuba held his right arm against his side and grabbed the wheel with his left.
A .50 caliber machine gun opened up again and the heavy thud of bullets sounded against the hull.
The 1-pounder cannon sounded again.
Cuba cut the wheel to push the 50-foot cruiser to starboard.
The heavy thud of bullets pounded their way to the bow and the man at 1-pounder cannon screamed in agony as they tore through his flesh.
Accelerating the Sea Dragon, Cuba caught the flash of machine gun fire in the darkness through the broken window on his port side.
The second .50 caliber machine gun sounded again and bullets began ripping through the wheelhouse.
Cuba felt a searing pain in his left shoulder and he dropped to the deck.
Chunks and splinters of wood rained down.
Someone came scrabbling into the wheelhouse.
Cuba rolled over.
It was Ora Sims, a man he had worked with for years on the docks. Cuba opened his mouth to yell something–
.50 caliber bullets penetrated the woodwork and ripped into Ora's legs, creeping their way up his body to his chest. He fell face-down, dead.
Cursing, Cuba looked around for rope. He knew there was a coil in here – There it is.
The sound of the two .50 caliber machine guns was joined by the boom of the 4 inch, 50 caliber, long naval-gun.
Cuba swore and ducked instinctively as the 33-pound shell whistled overhead. He quickly recovered and reached for the coil of rope.
The boom of the naval gun sounded again and another shell whistled overhead. This one sounded lower. Which meant the next one might be right inside the wheelhouse.
Getting on his knees, Cuba desperately tied the end of the rope through the wheel, trying hard to ignore the machine gun bullets that returned to chew at the front of the wheelhouse. Flopping onto the deck, Cuba pulled hard on the rope.
The Sea Dragon cut to port.
Machine gun bullets tore along the side of the wheelhouse and do
wn to the stern.
A moment later, Cuba rolled towards the other side of the ship and pulled hard on the rope again, this time pushing the Sea Dragon to starboard.
The .50 caliber machine guns tore at the starboard side of the stern.
The naval gun boomed again.
A 33-pound shell whistled low across the 50-foot cruiser, just outside the wheelhouse.
Flopping back and forth from time to time, Cuba desperately worked to create a weaving pattern through the water, consciously keeping the turns at random.
The two Browning machine guns continued to rip at the wood of the fleeing cruiser. The boom and whistling of a 33-pound shell sounded every 10 to 15 seconds.
After what seemed like an eternity, the machine gun fire began to disappear in the distance. The boom and whistle of the shells ceased.
Chapter 80
Starkman Imports & Exports
THE NEW TELEPHONE installed late in the afternoon rang repeatedly. Lucinda Placido looked to Besha, who was working with Maria to clean out another filing cabinet. "Do you want me to get that?" Lucinda asked.
Besha looked at the wall clock, "It's late. It's probably one of our husbands."
"Or one of the many boyfriends Lucinda and Valeria have," Maria said.
"Or maybe it's one of your husbands looking for me or Valeria," Lucinda said with a cheeky grin as she headed for the phone.
"If it is," Besha said, "make sure they come and bang you bent over a desk here so you can keep working."
The auburn-haired Lucinda looked back at Valeria with a surprised smile on her face, "Can you believe she said that?"
Valeria giggled.
Lucinda picked up the phone and put on her best business manner, "Starkman Imports & Exports. How may I help you–" Her face took on a look of surprise. She held the phone against her breast and turned her head, "It's for you, Besha. The man says his name is Cuba and–" She lowered her voice, "He really sounds mad."
Besha headed for the phone, exchanging glances with Maria who began following her. Besha took the phone, "Hello? This is Besha–"
"It's Cuba."
Besha could hear the anger in his voice immediately, "What's wrong–"
"We were intercepted by a damn naval ship. A damn naval ship on the Great Lakes! Half of my crew is dead."
Maria saw the look of shock on Besha's face and she mouthed 'what is it'?
They opened up on us with .50 caliber machine gun fire and fired 33-pound cannon shells."
"My god," Besha said in a whisper. She put her hand over the phone and turned to Maria, "It's Cuba. Half his crew was killed–"
Maria and Lucinda both gasped. Valeria put her hands over her mouth and cried out.
"They knew we were coming, Besha. They knew we were coming. You call that bastard Todaro, or whatever his name is, and you tell him he's got a rat. I tried to get a hold of Rocco–"
"He went to visit Tony in the hospital," Besha said. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
Maria and Lucinda crowded closer, desperate to hear the details.
"I took one in the shoulder. And maybe I busted a rib. We ended up in Port Dover. Got a doctor looking at the guys now. But he's plenty old and not moving too fast and I have no idea when he'll get around to me."
Besha turned and called across to Valeria, "Bring me a pen and paper."
When Valeria remained frozen in place in shock, Lucinda hustled over to a desk and brought the items back to Besha.
"Give me the phone number where you're at," Besha said, "and I'll have the boys go down and get you–"
"I don't think they'll be back from the whiskey runs yet," Maria said as she looked across at the clock.
Besha swore, realizing she was right. "Then we'll go down and get them–"
"Besha?"
"Yes, Cuba?"
"You wouldn't have some cigars you can bring with you, would you...?"
Chapter 81
Two Weeks Later
Giachetti's Café
ROCCO AND TONY SAT in the corner booth against the window in Giachetti's Café, waving goodbye to Besha and Maria outside. Piling into a car driven by Tommy Giachetti, they waved back again as the car pulled out, heading for the dock distillery. The four trucks pulled out right after them, loaded with men and heading back to work at either distillery after the small gathering to celebrate Tony's release from the hospital. Several people from the neighborhood were still here, sitting at the other tables.
Tommaso Giachetti came hustling from the behind the counter, a fresh coffee in each hand. He set them on the table, "Make a fresh pot just for you."
His wife Rosa pushed her way back out of the kitchen door, holding two plates piled high with cannoli. She grinned as she brought them over and set them down on the table, "I'm sorry it took so long."
"Hard to get good help," Tommaso said as he made a what-can-I-do gesture.
Rosa slapped him on the shoulder, "Even harder to get a good husband."
The two broke out in grins for each other.
Rocco tapped the table, "And remember, we pay for this and all the stuff my guys just ate in here. Same with all those people from the neighborhood."
Tommaso shrugged, "I already told you, I charge you double."
Rosa put her hands on her hips, "Maybe it's better if I take it out in trade with these two young men."
"What are you trying to do," Tommaso asked, "scare customers away?"
Rosa slapped him again and the two left for the kitchen, joking with each other.
"Those two are having a good time with this place," Tony said as he watched the two play-bicker before they disappeared through the kitchen door.
Rocco nodded as he took a sip of coffee.
The two friends sat quietly for a moment, waiting.
The bell over the door sounded and Rocco glanced over. A police constable stepped into the Café, shutting the door as he scanned the faces at the tables.
Tommaso Giachetti came from the back and showed a look of concern when he realized a copper had come in.
Rocco looked at Tony and Tony turned.
The constable spotted Tony and headed for their table.
Tommaso Giachetti looked concerned and headed for the table as well.
Tony lifted a hand in greeting, "Hey, Hamilton."
"Hey, Tony." The constable slid a chair over from the next table and sat down beside him, "Glad to see you're out of the hospital. The boys were worried, we heard it was touch and go there for a while."
"Yeah, it was." Tony looked up as Mr. Giachetti approached the table, "Could you bring my friend here a coffee?"
Giachetti's face took on a happier look to know the copper and Tony were friends. He nodded and headed over to the counter.
"Sorry to hear you're off the force, too," Hamilton said. "And without any kind of a disability pension, the bastards."
"No problem," Tony said, "I'll do okay."
Hamilton nodded as he glanced across at Rocco.
Tony introduced them, "Rocco DeLuca, meet Jimmy Hamilton, the worst card player on the Hamilton constabulary."
The two men simply nodded at each other. Hamilton looked at Tony, "Not so much a bad card player, more like you're a good cheat."
Tony nodded, "Guilty as charged."
The two men laughed at each other. Then Hamilton grew serious, "You said you wanted to see me...?"
Tony nodded and then waited as Mr. Giachetti set a coffee in front of Hamilton and left. "I'll get right to it, no beating around the bush, Jimmy. You're a good copper. You walk your beat and do your job for $137.50 a month, just like I did. You made one mistake in not recognizing that bank robber a while back and you got heat all the way down from that prick Wherley himself, threatening to toss you off the job."
Hamilton nodded his head slowly but didn't reply. He just picked up his coffee and took a drink. Then he glanced across at Rocco before looking back at Tony, "So what's your point?"
"The point is this...my friend Rocco here s
tarted something that's made me a lot of money." Tony reached into his pocket, pulled out a small envelope and slipped it underneath Hamilton's coffee. "There's 200 bucks in there. You come in here and have a coffee the first of every month...and an envelope just like that will be under your cup."
Hamilton put his hands on the edge of the table and sat back, looking seriously down at the envelope underneath the coffee cup.
Tony moved his head closer to Hamilton and spoke in a low voice, "Two of the largest bootleggers in Hamilton are on your beat."
Hamilton nodded his head slightly, "Gil Bouchard and Lorrimer Urwin."
"Me and Rocco...we supply the whiskey," Tony said firmly. "I'm a bootlegger. Now you have something on me. All we're asking you to do...is not bust their balls, leave them alone...and tell us if any raid is coming down."
Hamilton glanced across at Rocco, "That's it?"
"That's it," Tony confirmed.
"For $200...every month...."
"Rocco only wanted to pay you $100 bucks but I told him you got two kids."
A little smile creased Hamilton's face, "You're a card cheat and a con man, Genovese."
"True."
Hamilton retrieved the envelope from under the coffee cup and slipped it into his pocket, "Well...I'm the one conning you now...'cause I never believed in those temperance people anyway. I just need one other thing from you, Tony."
Tony looked across at Rocco with a serious look on his face before looking back at Jimmy, "What's that?"
"Can you arrange to get me a bottle of whiskey every so often?"
Chapter 82
Little Italy, Cleveland, Ohio
BLACK SAM TODARO stood with his brother Big Joe outside the Noicattarese Club smoking a cigarette in the sunshine. They had just finished a luncheon with a number of local business owners and several of the local politicians, everyone discussing an expansion of St. Anthony's church and the nearby playground.
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