The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  “Sounds to me like Mr. Carducci was right,” Josie pointed out when he had finished.

  “About?”

  “That he wasn’t robbed. He was warned.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You have heard of shops paying a special tax, right? For protection.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” A kid couldn’t grow up in Brooklyn without hearing tales about “protection” from the likes of Black Handers. Extortion notes threatening business owners were sometimes marked with a black hand as a signature. Word had it their methods could be pretty persuasive.

  Given a chance to think, Shan did see how a robbery, for example, could demonstrate the necessity of proper security. A downright crummy scheme.

  “It’s not right,” he said.

  “No. But it’s the way things are.” She stirred her tea with a tiny spoon and took a sip.

  “What about me, though? Why did those thugs let me off like that?”

  “Who do you think protects this area?” She waited, forcing him to guess. Which didn’t take long. There was only one connection to Shan with that kind of authority, a person he’d shared a friendly exchange with only days ago.

  “Mr. Trevino.”

  Josie confirmed this with a long blink.

  “Swell,” Shan muttered. It was no secret Nick Capello had worked at the club for years, but like the rest of the family, Shan had been treated as a separate entity until now.

  “I didn’t ask for any special treatment.”

  “Who says you gotta ask?” She raised her cup to take another sip, but instead shook her head. “Good gracious. It’s hard to believe you and Nicky are even related.” Coupled with a slow smirk, something in her tone caused the words to hang there, as if they’d been chosen with purpose.

  Unsure how to respond, Shan retreated to his tea, drinking it down. He’d never had reason to question it before, but now he wondered if Nick had ever spilled the secret of Shan’s identity . . .

  No. He wouldn’t have. Despite the differences in their lifestyles, even their bloodlines, they were still brothers.

  Shan recalled the book on Josie’s side of the table, a fresh topic. “You like to read, huh?” He angled the worn green hardback to view the title, expecting a romantic novel popular among women. What he found was The Man in the Iron Mask. “This is yours?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I just—didn’t know you read these kinds of stories.”

  “You mean the ones without pictures?”

  He opened his mouth, struggling to answer, when she broke into a giggle. “Relax. I’m razzin’ ya.”

  Shan let out a small laugh. But still aware of an odd vibration, he kept the focus on the book. “Have you read it yet?”

  “About a hundred times.”

  The tattered binding and bent corners told him she wasn’t exaggerating. It had been a decade since Shan had read that novel, one of the many Uncle Will had forced him to sell.

  “It’s a good story,” she said, pouring them both more tea. “There’s an evil French king. He’s got a twin brother who’s been locked up and kept a secret. Well, some fellas betray the king and switch him with his brother, and that brother gets to live in the palace with a whole new fancy life. Except . . . well, I don’t want to ruin it. You should just read it yourself.”

  Shan searched her eyes for a message, a sign of knowing. “Yeah, I have.”

  “Oh. Then you know what happens. Of course, it’s not the happiest ending. But it’s realistic, don’t you think?”

  “Meaning . . . it couldn’t actually work out better than that?” He didn’t clarify whether he was referring to the entire tale or just the character’s change of identity. But she shook her head and replied as if she’d fully considered it before.

  “In real life, second chances and happy endings—they only come from fairy tales.”

  26

  Three days had passed since Shan had run in to Josie, yet her words continued to haunt him, reinforced by every stop in his normal routine. The bakery for a snack, the newsstand for a paper, the deli for his lunch, the barber for a trim. From the stares aimed his way, it was painfully clear that the second life he had built, shiny and golden for so long, was being tarnished by rumors.

  The vendors weren’t unkind but offered nothing past courtesies. Shan had been a customer to many of them since he was twelve, but a distance suddenly divided them. A chasm formed of fear, suspicion, or disappointment.

  In this moment, on the winemaker’s front porch in Flatbush, Shan detected a similar feeling. Then again, perhaps it was normal for the man to act aloof when distributing alcohol, particularly to an unfamiliar customer.

  Shan had volunteered to deliver the painting of Genoa, completing Mr. Capello’s latest trade, not wanting the man bothered with lugging wine. And that was even before Shan knew the deal was for three boxes, not one.

  He had barely said “grazie” when the winemaker closed the door, followed by a turn of the lock, a precaution residents rarely took unless they had something to hide.

  A partial moon cast a glow on patchy day-old snow and cars retired for the night. The faint yips of a dog drifted from a neighbor’s house, where an elderly man was ushering his pet inside. The street was otherwise vacant of people. Shan balanced the three boxes and descended the porch steps, careful not to slip in the slush.

  He packed the wine in the flatbed of Mr. Capello’s truck. As he finished concealing the boxes with a canvas tarp, a siren started to wail. His stomach cinched, twisting like a rag. On a side street in the distance, a police motorcar zoomed past and the noise waned.

  Shan hurried to resume his place behind the steering wheel. Though anxious to return home, he drove with care to prevent unwanted attention. In a handful of minutes that felt much longer, he parked before the house, its windows aglow. At the rush of relief, he couldn’t help but laugh. Most Italian folks transported wine on a regular basis. Likely the same went for the Irish and their bottles of whiskey. Yet here he was, feeling like a major smuggler working for Capone.

  He reached for the door handle, but a noise jolted him. A tap on his window. The silhouette of a man stood just outside his door. Through the shadows, Shan made out the beady eyes and bulbous nose that comprised a face he knew. He willed his nerves to steady while rolling down the window. Just Officer Barsetti. No one to get riled up about. Plus, he looked to be off duty tonight in a civilian hat and overcoat.

  “Tommy Capello. Thought that might be you.”

  “Officer. What a surprise.”

  “You know it’s actually Agent now.”

  “Is that right?”

  Barsetti shrugged. “With all the mess of Prohibition, figured the Bureau could use another hand. Made the switch last spring.”

  Shan felt pores open on his scalp. He resisted the urge to remove his hat. “I hadn’t heard. I’m sure you’ll be a great help.”

  “I appreciate that.” Barsetti smiled. “Say, I was actually hoping you might have a minute. You mind?” He gestured to the passenger side, and the muscles in Shan’s neck tightened.

  “No. Of course not.”

  Barsetti circled around and climbed right in. When he shut the door, the bottles rattled ever so slightly.

  As an officer—an Italian American living in Brooklyn—Barsetti was known, in general, as a friend to the neighborhood. But as a federal agent? Even if he remained one of the lenient ones, his opinion of sipping a glassful over supper might very well differ from his view of transporting three full boxes. A volume suggesting the wrong intent.

  “Boy, it’s cold as an iceberg out there, isn’t it?” Barsetti blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “They say it’ll be a long, brutal winter. I’m guessing they’d be right.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You know what’s funny? I was just thinking of you recently.” Barsetti’s lips slid into a smile, exhibiting a small gap between his lower front teeth.

  “Oh?”
>
  “Yeah. I was picturing the day I first found you in that breadline. You were in a scrap with some Irish kids. Remember that?”

  Shan nodded through his discomfort, trying to grasp the point of the story. The point of this visit.

  “Thought for sure you’d end up a no-good jail rat, like half those vagrants still running the streets. But look at you. Got your diploma now, working with your father. Earning a good, honest living. Your mother, she’s got every right to be pleased as punch.”

  Headlights suddenly illuminated the agent’s face. The beam swept through the truck like the hand of a ghost. Barsetti’s gaze trailed it and settled on an unseen spot in the darkness. “I tell ya,” he sighed. “For a guy in my field, there’s nothing sadder than seeing promising young men throw their lives away. I’m talking about the ones who start thinking everything they’ve got, it just ain’t enough. They see other fellas out there, a brother maybe, making dough the easy way. So they get curious. Can’t blame ’em for that.” He shook his head as if lamenting to himself. “But then they go and start hanging around questionable joints. Schmoozing with men who’ll do anything to keep their rackets going.”

  Shan gripped the lower edge of the steering wheel, bracing, comprehending.

  “See, it’s real easy to get tricked, thinking it’s important to impress these kinds of men. So it might be tempting to do things like, I don’t know, help nab cash from stores that aren’t very . . . cooperative. Or maybe it isn’t about those men at all. Maybe it’s to impress a pretty girl, one you might share long chats with at a café. You know the sort.”

  Dumbfounded that he was being watched, let alone by the implications, Shan struggled to respond. “Officer—Agent—I swear to you. I know how it could look, but I’m not part of any of that.”

  “Tommy, I honestly want to believe you.” After a pause, Barsetti turned to him. “When it all goes down, I’d hate to see you and your brother caught in the middle. Truth of it is, my boss cares a whole lot more about who’s supplying Trevino’s joints than the man himself. But hell, sometimes you gotta take what you can get.”

  Barsetti’s words, while perhaps meant as a warning, felt more like a threat.

  Shan stared out the windshield. In Brooklyn, nothing good came of snitches.

  “Anyhow,” Barsetti said. “You’re probably eager to get inside where it’s warm. But I’m glad we had this chat. You ever feel like having another one, you come on down to the Bureau and see me.”

  At last the agent stepped out of the truck, a small relief until he angled back. “Oh, and Tommy. Be sure not to leave anything valuable in your truck tonight. The low temperatures will be freezing, well . . . just about anything.”

  Then he tipped his hat and shut the door.

  27

  It was an unshakable feeling. For the next several days the sense of being followed loomed over Shan. He became acutely aware of anyone emitting the slightest air of suspicion, whether seated on the streetcar or at a shoeshine, or strolling nearby in the city.

  “Something wrong?” Lina had whispered at Mass yesterday morning, having caught him sneaking glances over his shoulder. He’d noticed a man in dark glasses several pews back, one of the few people not reading a hymnal with the rest of the congregation.

  “Thought I saw an old friend,” Shan told her, and turned back around. He preferred not to worry the family any more than necessary. And he was especially glad he’d divulged nothing when the stranger in glasses rose with a blind man’s cane to navigate the aisle for Communion. Proof Shan was being paranoid. But how could he not be, with so many of his actions being tracked? No doubt the authorities were keeping an even closer watch on Nick.

  Fearing an imminent takedown, Shan had twice attempted to call him, but without success. A good thing, really; it was wiser to speak in person, eliminating the chance of an operator listening in. Yet when he’d knocked at Nick’s apartment, nobody had answered.

  Shan now lowered onto the sofa chair at home and focused on the orchestra music from the RCA radio. Lacking an appetite, he’d eaten very little at supper, claiming to have had a late lunch, and drank extra wine to settle his nerves. Only marginally effective.

  “What is bothering you?” Mrs. Capello lowered her needlepoint. She was seated on the davenport beside her husband, whose mouth was moving while he read the paper as he practiced words in his head.

  “Not a thing, Ma. Why do you ask?”

  “You are up, down, up, down. Always looking out the window.”

  In all honesty, Shan hadn’t realized it. After all, what was the point? Little could be seen in the darkness. Winter made eight o’clock look like ten.

  Mrs. Capello flicked her hand toward him. “Go out, do something fun.”

  She thought he felt cooped up. The problem was far from that simple, though it was a great excuse for his restlessness. He was about to borrow it when he recalled his discussion with Mr. Capello about the need to break away—an impulse that had fallen to the wayside.

  “I’m happy right here. Anyway, it’s freezing outside.”

  Mrs. Capello tsked. “This is New York, not the North Pole. Go to the city with a friend. It is almost Christmas. Even on a Monday there is much to do.”

  From this, a thought tugged at his mind. Nick worked at the club on Mondays. It would be less crowded than on the weekend. At this relatively early hour, odds were high Nick could sneak away for a private talk. A few minutes were all Shan needed.

  Feigning casualness, he said, “I suppose you’re right. I could go see who’s around. Maybe catch a picture show.” He rose to get his coat, and Mrs. Capello smiled. Satisfied by her feat, she returned to her needlepoint.

  Mr. Capello looked up from his paper. “You should see that new film. The one with . . . Norma . . . eh, what is her name?”

  “Shears,” Mrs. Capello said.

  “It’s ‘Shearer,’ ” Lina corrected, coming down the stairs with her schoolbooks.

  “Shearer?” her mother said. “That cannot be right.”

  Shan was buttoning his coat as Lina said, “Mama, no actress in Hollywood would use ‘Shears.’ ”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a word for scissors.”

  “How is ‘Shearer’ better? This is a person who takes wool off sheep.”

  Mr. Capello sighed and returned to his articles, appearing regretful of what he had started. This wasn’t the first time his wife had battled over the logic of a film star’s name: such as why Joan Crawfish might be wrong, but Craw-Ford sounded like an automobile.

  Shan had just put on his hat when Lina shot him a weary look that said, Please, take me with you.

  Before she could voice the plea, he hastened out the door.

  As expected, the Royal had drawn fewer patrons tonight than on a typical Friday or Saturday. Still, more than half the tables on the main floor were filled. The same went for the dance floor, where couples waved, kicked, and winged their arms as the band played the “Black Bottom Stomp.”

  Shan glanced around for suspicious eyes. He hated that his coming here would only affirm Barsetti’s assumptions.

  “Door at the top,” a waiter said after guiding Shan to stairs that led to the club office.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  When the fellow lingered, Shan fished a dime out of his coat pocket and handed it over.

  “Anytime, sir.” A nod, and he sped away.

  Shan proceeded up the narrow staircase to reach the lone office. With Max out for the evening, as per his usual on weeknights, Nick was said to be managing the paperwork. But as Shan neared the door, a woman’s voice rang out over the music. It was Josie.

  “My point,” she was saying, as if through clenched teeth, “is you never put me first. Ever.”

  “God Almighty. I ain’t got time for this shit tonight.” Hearing Nick’s reply, Shan waited to knock, not wanting to intrude.

  “Oh, yeah? Fine, Mr. Big Shot. I’ll get outta your way—for good.” />
  “Damn it, Josie. Just stop.”

  Footsteps came closer, then halted, and her tone changed. “Let go of me.”

  “Josie—”

  “I said, let go!”

  The sound of a slap caused Shan to bristle, but just for an instant. He turned the knob, grateful it wasn’t locked, and opened the door. The couple snapped their faces toward him. Though it was Nick’s cheek that had flushed from a hit, Josie’s eyes were the ones brimming with panic.

  “Everything okay in here?”

  Josie yanked her arm free as if burned by Nick’s grip. An imprint of his fingers reddened her skin.

  “We’re fine,” Nick told him. “Just a little disagreement.”

  “Josie?” Shan wanted to hear the answer from her.

  She straightened in her sleek white dress, fists held stiffly at her sides. Thick black kohl lined her eyes. “Peachy,” she said. Then she exited with her gaze straight ahead. Her heels clacked down the stairwell before the sound melded into a fresh, snappy jazz tune.

  Nick moved toward the mahogany desk. He smoothed his disheveled hair and straightened his tie and vest, an effort to regroup. “She gets like that when she’s had a few,” he said, taking a seat. Before him lay a spread of documents, a stack of folders. Cigar stubs filled a crystal ashtray. The office could pass as a banker’s, if not for the decanters of booze. “What do you need, Tommy?”

  Recalling his purpose, Shan closed the door. It was clear Nick wouldn’t be discussing the trials of his love life. Nor, at the moment, did Shan want to hear them.

  “Well?” Nick pressed.

  Shan removed his hat and held it atop a wingback chair facing the desk. “I need to talk to you. It’s about the club and your involvement downstairs. And about Max, and his business deals.”

  Nick shook his head and sported a humorless smile. “If this is some kind of morality speech, I appreciate the effort but I really don’t need—”

  “It’s not that.” Shan heard the lack of conviction in own voice. When he pictured Mr. Carducci being slugged with a pistol, it was impossible to feel indifferent. But that discussion was for another time. “It’s the police.”