by Debra Dunbar
Hattie,
Sorry to mail this letter instead of meeting with you, but the repercussion of events with the Russians is that I am being watched with increased scrutiny. Eyes are everywhere and if someone were to see us together, I fear they may either label you a pincher once more, or decide you might be useful as leverage against me.
I can’t risk meeting with you again for the foreseeable future. Vito is half-convinced the chase for you was one big snipe hunt. It’s that other half that I’m worried about. Until things change, it’s best if you and I—”
She set the note down on the seat beside her. Upon receiving the letter, she’d been disappointed, but had understood his rationale. Then weeks turned into months, and there had been no further communication from him. Nothing. For over three months, nothing.
Was he dead? Had his defiance of Vito gotten him shipped upstate for punishment? Sold or traded to another family halfway up the coast? He was a gangster, and with that job came enormous risks. Being an owned pincher came with even more risks. Maybe it was still too dangerous for him to contact her. Maybe he’d been assigned a task somewhere remote.
Or maybe whatever had been smoldering between them three months ago had sputtered and died out on his part? She wasn’t worth the risk. There were prettier women out there that didn’t have her sharp tongue, that didn’t spend their days hauling around illicit liquor dressed in homespun pants and a farmer’s shirt. She was just that Irish woman he’d felt a brief spark of attraction toward. He’d moved on. And she should as well.
She couldn’t. And there was this mixture of fear and pride that kept her from reaching out to him and getting at least some sort of closure.
Why bother? Contacting him would only reopen a wound that was barely closed. He’d made the decision on his own to not see her again, and sent a letter to avoid discussing it. And the more she dwelled on that the angrier she got.
Idiot. She needed to forget him just as he’d clearly forgotten about her. Hattie slid the letter into the envelope, carefully placing it back in her pocket before kicking on the engine to drive back into Baltimore.
The sun had been set for two solid hours before she rolled up to the Locust Point warehouse. The lights were off and the giant sliding door had been shut and padlocked. A single Ford sat in front of the warehouse, and as Hattie parked beside it she found Lizzie Sadler staring at her from the driver’s seat.
Hattie stepped out of the Runabout and circled around to Lizzie’s window. “How long’ve you been waiting for me, then?”
Lizzie shrugged. “Not too long, I ain’t frozen solid. You finished your business?”
Hattie nodded.
“And?” Lizzie pushed.
Hattie fished some money from her coat, folding the bills neatly in half to slide into Lizzie’s hand.
The woman nodded once then cranked the engine.
Hattie asked, “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“No,” Lizzie replied with a smirk. “Not in the least. And don’t get any ideas of filling in the colors for me. I know you, girl. I know how you love to grab trouble by the tail. So let’s keep this simple. I get my cut, and you can fill your hours as you see fit.”
Hattie muttered, “Even if it’s a threat to your business?”
Lizzie’s eyebrows rose. “Is it?”
“Well, there I am filling in the colors for you.”
“If it has to do with running booze, then I don’t want to know about it. If it has to do with Vito Corbi, then I sure as shootin’ don’t want to know about it.” Lizzie put the car into gear, then added with a lift of her brow. “If it has to do with a tall, handsome man in a tailored suit, I could stand to hear more.”
Hattie grinned. Then the smile fell. Lizzie drove off, leaving Hattie alone in front of the warehouse.
A tall, handsome man in a tailored suit had just invited her to spend the night in a luxury hotel. Instead, Hattie found herself here, shivering against the winter wind blowing off the inlet, thinking about a man who probably hadn’t thought about her in months.
Lizzie’s car stopped abruptly at the end of the lane, then she swung around in a wide circle to return to Hattie.
“Oh,” Lizzie called from the window, “this came for you. Damn near drove off with it.”
She held an envelope from the car. Hattie took it with a dubious glance, her heart pounding with hope.
Lizzie added, “If he’s over six foot, you owe me a story.”
“Wait,” Hattie blurted out, shoving her pride to the side. “Have you…has Tony…”
“What?” Lizzie barked. “I’m freezing my ass off here. Spit it out.”
“Have you heard anything about Vincent?” There. She was spitting it out. “Is he…is he okay?”
Lizzie’s expression softened. “I know he’s been in the hot seat ever since that business between the two of you. Doubt he’s had a spare second to step out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Hattie felt her face heat up. “No, I mean, I just wondered if he was okay. Because he’s a friend, you know?”
Lizzie snorted. “Yeah. Right. Want me to ask Tony straight up next time I see him? Which might not be for a while because he seems to be busy as well.”
Hattie winced, wondering if Lizzie was in the same position she was. “No. It’s fine. Don’t bother.”
Lizzie threw the Ford into gear. “Well, I’ve got a bottle of whisky if you ever need to sit down and talk.” With that, she drove off.
Hattie eyed the letter, then stepped back into the Runabout to open it. Sliding her thumb beneath the seal, she popped it open, setting the envelope on the passenger seat as she held a length of white card stock to the light of the city.
It wasn’t from Vincent. That faint hope flickered and died. With a sigh she read the card. Large, looping calligraphy declared, Time we met. See you this week.
Hattie’s heart raced. The anonymous watcher. Her angel in secret who’d guided her clear of Vito’s clutches this past summer. This was the first letter she’d received from this mystery man ever since the affair with the Bratva.
Hattie nodded to herself as she steered for home. Yes, they were right. It was time they met.
Chapter 2
A cluster of red-garbed people belted out a full-throated round of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” as the December wind tore through their cloaks. Vincent watched them through the window of Shakes’s Bistro, a curl of steam from his coffee rising past his nose. In his mind, whatever good these singers felt they were accomplishing with their carols would never outweigh the sheer discomfort the horrible weather was inflicting upon them. What was the point? Salvation? Righteousness? Holiday cheer and good will to men?
He sipped the bitter liquid and looked away. Pointless. He hated this time of year. The cheerful song contrasted with the cold bleak winter, giving only an illusion of relief, a momentarily flickering light that would soon extinguish and leave the world to endure the darkness.
Bah, this year it was worse than it ever had been before. He felt so hollow. So alone. So damned empty.
What was Hattie doing right now? Hauling booze across the waters in this frigid wind? Shopping for holiday gifts? He closed his eyes and her face sprang from his memories, her eyes sparkling as she harassed him about something he’d done or said, her wide mouth curling up with that hint of a dimple at the corner.
Her wearing that improper men’s suit in the alleyway.
Stop. He forcibly banished the memories and tried to fix his attention on the task that had brought him out in such horrible weather.
The lunchtime crowd at Shakes’s was less than half its usual numbers, thanks to the blast of arctic air that had graced Baltimore with its icy bite. Vincent was half-glad for that. Lefty hated the cold, and thus would more likely be home huddled up beside his radiator than wandering into that restaurant at that particular moment.
Which would be a disaster.
Vincent set his cup onto the table and turn
ed toward the lobby just in time to see a blob of a man step into the room. Vincent pursed his lips and straightened a little as Cooper took a seat opposite him.
“You look pissed,” Cooper grumbled as he dropped his heft into the chair. “What’s your beef?”
“I dislike you,” Vincent replied in a measured tone. “That’s quite enough reason to look pissed.”
“Eh.” Cooper peeled off his coat. “You’re a freak anyways. What do you know?”
Vincent leaned into the table. “Best keep your tongue nice and civil, you mook. You know what happens if I lose my patience with your sorry hide.”
The other man stiffened a little, then slung his coat over the back of the chair. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve been over this.”
“Not well enough, so it seems.” Vincent sighed. “You want Vito to carry on believing you had nothing to do with the Bratva marching into his hotel? You make good on your end. That solid and shiny for you?”
Cooper sneered. “Well, Merry Christmas to ya, because I got some info.”
The man reached into his coat pocket to produce a leather-bound journal of sorts, thumbing it to an appropriate page. Vincent scowled as Cooper licked his fingers to turn the pages. That had always turned Vincent’s stomach—licking fingers and slobbering over books.
“Ah, yeah. Here.” Cooper set the book onto the table and slid it over to Vincent.
Vincent eyed it from a distance. “You got a pincher for me?”
“Yeah. Up in Lancaster County.”
“Pennsylvania?”
Cooper rolled his eyes. “No, Finland. Yeah, Pennsylvania!”
“Smart ass. Who is it? What type of pincher?”
Cooper’s bluster deflated in an instant, and he muttered, “Uh…the scary type.”
Vincent motioned for him to explain.
“I’ve been nosing around, you know? Like you said. Small towns. Church groups. Anything what’ll raise a fuss if one of yous was getting witchy.”
“And you found one around Lancaster?”
“Word’s making the rounds about a traveler who’s holed up in the Amish country. They say he’s in league with the Devil, whatever that means. Got the locals in a lather, I’ll tell you that much.” Cooper pointed to one of the pages. “There’s a Reverend up by York who fingered the community of Beardies who’s supposed to be putting him up.”
Vincent leaned closer to the book, spotting the address of an Episcopal church, and a German word scribbled in dark neat writing that clearly wasn’t Cooper’s.
“And you’re sure this is a free pincher, and not some specter you’re chasing?”
“Hey, you asked me to stick my nose in the shit. So, I did. This is what I got.” Cooper sneered.
Vincent shook his head. “It’s not enough.”
“The hell, you say.”
Vincent slapped his palm onto the table. “The last time I reeled in a free pincher for the Capo, I ended up with egg on my face. So, if I come to Vito with some half-baked yarn about an Amish warlock, I’m gonna need something stronger than a preacher’s word.”
The other man scowled. “Well, look. I ain’t nosing around no freak like you. Don’t like getting too close to this black magic mumbo jumbo.”
“It’s only black magic if you don’t know what you’re dealing with.” Vincent sighed. “I’m not asking you to bring this palooka in yourself. I need confirmation. You give me that—assurances this is a bona fide pincher—and I’ll do the deed myself.”
Cooper’s face blanched. “That…that’s asking a lot.”
“I don’t care,” Vincent snapped. “Half the Crew was tossing lead with the Russians, and you were at the back door, letting their general march right into the Old Moravia. You think for a hot second I’m about to feel sorry for you, then you can forget it.”
Vincent spotted eyes on them, and he lowered his voice while Cooper reached for a glass of water and sipped it quietly.
In a low volume, Cooper asked, “Heard from Fern lately?”
Vincent clenched his fist under the table. “No.”
He’d had a conversation with Fern right after the mess with the Russians. It hadn’t gone well, and she’d ended up in near hysterics saying that if Vincent didn’t want her, she might as well go back to Cooper. Vincent had left feeling half-guilty about bowing out of their not even fledgling relationship and half like he’d dodged a very big bullet.
If Cooper was asking about her, then clearly she’d not followed through on that threat, thankfully.
“She lit out?” the other man pressed.
Vincent shrugged. “I guess so.”
“That blonde girl at the boarding house was always on her to go visit Chicago. Maybe they both headed there.”
Maybe. Either way he wished Fern the very best, and hoped that whatever was in her future, it didn’t involve an abusive bag of shit like Cooper.
Vincent pushed away from the table and stood up. “I want you to head back to Lancaster tonight.” He reached into his jacket to produce a wallet, fishing out a few fives to drop onto the table. “Take one of the cars. Get up-county. Find out whether this Devil man is, in fact, like me. And don’t engage.” He lifted a finger to punctuate that last bit. “Just observe and report.”
Cooper nodded, scooping the money into his palm.
Vincent concluded, “I’ll meet you here in three days. You get the skinny by then, and I cut you loose. You don’t show up, or you come back with some mealy-mouthed bushwa? I sail you out for Vito and everyone. Got it?”
Cooper nodded in misery, and left.
Vincent took the long way home, avoiding the center of the city and anyone else in the Crew he might run into—specifically Lefty. When he headed toward the steps of his brownstone, he halted and shook his head. A tall gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and his right sleeve tailor-sewn shut at the shoulder glared at him from the stoop.
“Busy day, Lefty?” Vincent called as he made his way toward the other man.
“Where were you?” Lefty snapped.
“Having lunch.”
“With whom?” Lefty shoved off the stoop to meet him on the sidewalk.
“Is it your business?”
“Yes.”
“Guess again.”
Lefty barred Vincent’s path as he tried to step around. “My job is to keep you safe from the people of this city, and vice versa. I can’t do that if you keep brooming me off like this. It’s what? Twice this week?”
“In two weeks.” Vincent glared at him. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
Lefty glared back. “Yes, you mook there’s a reason I’m here. Now, you gonna invite me up, or are we gonna stand out here all day? I’m freezing my cannoli off in this weather.”
Vincent waved for him to follow and climbed to the stoop, heading inside and up the stairs to Vincent’s floor, where he opened up his apartment. He and Lefty hung both their hats on the rack. Vincent dropped his coat and scarf onto the back of a chair, encouraging the other man to do the same.
Lefty cleared his throat. “If it’s a woman, just tell me. I’ll sleep better at night.”
“I’m not off meeting no dame.”
“Well, why the hell not?” Lefty groused.
“I’m busy, that’s why not.”
“If it’s that Malloy girl, you really should invite her to dinner, not be doing some back alley bushwa.”
Vincent paused as he reached for a bottle of whisky squirrelled away in his oven, everything inside him twisting at the name.
Hattie.
He’d purposely avoided her so as to not risk her safety. If Corbi realized she really was a pincher, there’d be no out for her this time. Plus, Vincent was in bad standing with his family and their leader right now. Anyone close to him might be used to teach him a lesson. He couldn’t let that be Hattie.
And there was another reason. Everything inside him came alive when he was with her. Seeing her, letting whatever was between them bloom and grow, would mean a thousand
times more pain when he was sold or traded away to another family. That was the sentence hanging over his head right now. Someone in a car could come at any moment to drive him to Chicago, or New York, or Pittsburgh and he’d never see Hattie again, never even have a chance to say goodbye. Better to let his feelings for her fade, not let them increase to the point where his inevitable relocation would rip every living bit of his soul out.
Except those feelings weren’t fading. No, far from it.
It had been over three months since he’d seen her. This should have gotten easier. It hadn’t. If anything, that horrible empty feeling inside him had grown.
“What do you mean?” Vincent asked, trying to wrestle his emotions back into check as he pulled the bottle from the stove.
“You know. Malloy. The Irish girl. The one you nearly got yourself killed over.” Lefty’s sarcastic tone made it clear he’d seen right through Vincent’s casual tone.
“I know who you’re talking about, you mook. What makes you think I have any interest in inviting her to dinner?”
Lefty reached for two glasses, setting them up for Vincent to pour. “Because I’m not a blind idiot. Besides, you’ve been on your own for too long. Time you found someone to open up a little with.”
Vincent shook his head. “I don’t need no opening up, Lefty. That’s a fact.”
“Says you. Ever since that mess with the Russians, you’ve been clammed up and locked tight. Barely talk to me anymore. Or anyone else. Vito’s noticed, too. Thinks you’re shirking your duties.”
Vincent flinched, sliding a glass of whisky over to Lefty. “My duties, huh? He hasn’t given me squat to do since that stuff with the Russians. How’m I supposed to shirk duties I never got in the first place?”
“By being here moping around. By vanishing every time I’m looking for you,” Lefty said, his tone softening, his arm reaching for Vincent’s shoulder. “Things aren’t looking good, Vincent, but you need to try to get back in the Capo’s good graces.”
“I am trying.” He was. That’s what all this stuff with Cooper was about. If he could bring in a pincher for Vito, maybe, just maybe, the Capo would forget about trading him away and bring him back into the fold.