Clip Joint

by Debra Dunbar

  Olevski’s proctor raised a hand. “Point of order.”

  The school marm nodded. “Sustained. Sebastian, please refrain from commentary.”

  He bowed at the waist. “Apologies.”

  The exchange clicked in Vincent’s head. He’d mulled Sebastian’s character over the past couple days. His sudden inattentiveness after Vincent’s failed assessment. His outspoken criticism of Dominguez and the general sense of anxiety that had awoken inside the man who had been so thoroughly dominant. The last-minute chicanery in putting Betty on the block alongside Vincent, when he’d assumed that only the stand-out cell mate would move forward.

  It was all about the money.

  Ithaca was nothing more than a money-making machine, and its internal cogs were laid bare right here, right now. Sebastian needed a sale. From the annoyed tone from Olevski’s proctor, it seemed apparent that these men worked on commission. Ever since Vincent’s assessment, Sebastian’s interest in his training had waned. He must have pulled some serious strings to put both of his competing cell mates on the block at the same auction.

  Sebastian turned to the side hallways and nodded. A young man in a white catering smock entered with something curled in his arms. He held it out for Sebastian, who instead of taking the bundle of fur, had the young man show the entire room the black-furred kitten in his hands. The tiny creature mewed repeatedly as it was carried before the noses of those gathered. DeBarre seemed particularly jarred by the appearance of the little ball of fur.

  With another nod from Sebastian, the caterer set the kitten down on the floor. It struggled to sit upright, finally gathering itself in an awkward ball as it cried out to everyone around it for some comfort.

  As Sebastian eased the young man away from the animal, Vincent realized what had made DeBarre so uneasy.

  Sebastian held the marble sphere in the air directly over the kitten.

  The crowd gasped and grumbled as Sebastian’s intentions dawned on them. With an even sharper gasp from the crowd, he released the heavy ball of stone.

  The old familiar turbidity of time-frozen air engulfed Vincent’s arms and legs. He hopped off the box, pulling himself across the auction floor and toward the marble sphere suspended midair just inches beneath Sebastian’s hands.

  Vincent scooped up the kitten, cradling its frozen form in the crook of his elbow. As he stood up, he peered directly into Sebastian’s eyes. Here he was, finally. Vulnerable. Unaware. There were so many options for Vincent. So much he could do to exact revenge on Sebastian for all the pain, all the anguish, all the humiliation.

  But there were more lives on the line than this simple animal in Vincent’s arms. If “making the auction” meant foregoing his vengeance and even his own escape when it presented itself—even if that was precisely what these lucre-mad goblins expected—he would give Hattie and her plan the benefit of the doubt.

  Vincent returned to his auction block and released the flow of time.

  Faces turned away sharply as the marble orb smacked against the floor boards with a heavy thump. The only one who didn’t flinch was DeBarre.

  The kitten writhed in Vincent’s arms, still mewing. The sounds caught the attention of the onlookers, whose faces lit up like fireworks, some in relief and others in astonishment.

  Applause broke out, healthier and heartier than even Betty had managed to garner. As the white-clad caterer approached to take the cat, Vincent shot him a withering glance. The young man turned one-eighty and withdrew to the service quarters as the kitten hunkered down into Vincent’s elbow and began to purr.

  The New York agents conferred in a flurry of whispered conversations, while Floresta and DeBarre sat side-by-side on the long sofa. The two seemed to understand their situation, though Floresta held considerably less tension than DeBarre. The down pincher had to be involved with Hattie’s plan. That much was certain. The pincher moot had confirmed that no assets would be dispersed to any family outside of New York. Yet here was one from Philadelphia, invited and preparing to bid.

  There was a ring of the bell and the woman declared, “The bidding will begin with Asset Six-Two, Olevski. Opening bid is one thousand dollars.”

  Vincent’s eyes bugged. It was an involuntary reaction. He had no idea what Vito had spent on him when he’d been purchased. Hearing the current market numbers humbled Vincent. And yet, as the bidding began, and the two major New York families began to throw out numbers, Vincent realized just how undervalued he was in Baltimore. So many years treated like a burden. Tossed aside and blamed for every tiny misstep and turn of ill fortune. If enduring these long weeks of torture had served any purpose, perhaps it was to finally show him what his worth was to others.

  And yet, as the school marm’s bell rang to announce the final bid price for Olevski at four thousand and six hundred dollars to the Genovese famiglia, a strange twist of doubt circled inside Vincent’s stomach. It was a peculiar dread, a fear that once the bidding began, no one would bother.

  It was rubbish, and he instantly hated himself for it. He didn’t want to be sold. No man’s life was worth a price paid in cash dollars. But the bidding for Betty Sharp began at three thousand, and he knew her quality. She absolutely posed on the block, turning and winking to each of the bidders with full abandon. Her brain had been well and truly addled before she arrived at Ithaca, but she was no fool. And she knew how to manipulate men.

  The two New York families continued their bidding battle, if nothing more than an extension of their real-world war. But the Genovese had scored a serious hitter in Olevski, as long as he could be coaxed into killing. Betty was ferociously willing and able to kill but keeping her bound into a rational scheme would be the true fight. Maranzano’s representatives ended up spending more money than was necessary for Betty Sharp, owing to their having already lost an asset to their rivals.

  Leaving only Vincent.

  His chest pounded with panicked heartbeats. Don’t bid. Please bid. Don’t let it be less than Betty. What was the total she’d rung from Maranzano? Five thousand and five hundred dollars?

  Vincent stood stiff, stroking the kitten’s belly for comfort, as the school marm pronounced the opening bid for him of four thousand dollars.

  Vincent held a breath as no one answered the bid.

  The old woman turned to the crowd with a lifted brow. “Opening bid is four thousand. Do we have a bidder?” Her tone was scolding and curt, as if all of the buyers’ agents were children in her tutelage, and none had done their homework.

  A hand lifted into the air, sending waves of unwelcome relief through Vincent’s chest.

  That hand belonged to Floresta.

  “Four thousand dollars is the bid.”

  DeBarre nodded to Vincent, then lifted a hand. “Four thousand and fifty.”

  Floresta stood, turning to address the marm. “I object to the inclusion of the Philadelphia…whatever you people call yourselves.”

  DeBarre lifted a brow. “What’s crawled up your ass now, Floresta?”

  “I’ll tell you what, you lily-faced blaggard. The pincher moot we held not even a month ago in your very basement established certain restrictions to asset disbursement.” He turned to the rest of the crowd, smacking his hand with his fist as tiny sparks flew from the impacts. “No families outside of New York. That was the agreement.”

  DeBarre shrugged. “If that’s so, then why do I have an invitation to this auction?”

  Floresta squinted at DeBarre. “What?”

  DeBarre reached into his vest to produce an envelope. He offered it to the school marm for review.

  She slipped open the envelope and pulled free the document within. Her eyes moved with sharp intensity. Once done, she replaced the letter into the envelope and handed it back to DeBarre.

  “The invitation is valid.”

  Floresta swung his hands into the air. “How is that possible? No families outside New York!”

  The marm shook her head. “I’m not involved with policy, Mister Fl
oresta. Only logistics.”

  He scowled. “I therefore insist we remove this Philadelphian…as a matter of logistics.”

  She shook her head. “Denied. The invitation is embossed and stamped. Bidding remains open to the representative of Philadelphia.”

  Floresta marched forward toward the auction floor, but the entire building shook in a minor tremor. The school marm lowered a hand, calming the minor earthquake she’d invoked.

  “Sit…down…Mister Floresta,” she intoned.

  Floresta caught his balance, then nodded. He returned to the sofa and took a seat. “Fine. My benefactor is motivated. I’m sure Philadelphia’s coffers will run short soon enough. Four thousand seventy-five.”

  DeBarre smirked. “Five thousand.”

  The crowd rippled in consternation. That was a hefty amount to toss into anyone’s lap, much less from a small family whose profit was mostly from illegal beer brewing.

  Floresta scowled. “Five-five.”

  After a pause, DeBarre offered, “Five thousand seventy-five.”

  The marm eyed Floresta.

  He squirmed in his seat just a little. “Five eighty-five.”

  DeBarre snickered, drawing a sneer from Floresta. “Six even.”

  Floresta muttered something, and needing to be prodded spoke up, “Six thousand twenty-five.”

  DeBarre countered, “Six thousand fifty.”

  Floresta pulled at his handkerchief to wipe his brow free of perspiration. “Six thousand fifty-five.”

  One or two chuckled in the gallery at his display of poor resolve. Either it was an intentional feint to draw a lower bid from DeBarre, or he was reaching his ceiling.

  DeBarre cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Seven.”

  More gasps.

  Floresta wiped his forehead and his upper lip. “Seven five.”

  The marm turned back to DeBarre. “Sir? The bid is seven thousand five hundred dollars for the time pincher.”

  DeBarre grinned. “Oh, wait. He’s a time pincher? I thought he was kitten conjurer.” One or two snickered behind him. “In that case, Philadelphia would like to bid ten thousand.”

  The room went silent for a second, then erupted in disbelieving exclamations.

  Floresta turned in his seat with lifted brow at DeBarre. “What is this? The man’s not worth that. Not even close.”

  “I suppose you’re out, then?” Something about the cool, sharp tone DeBarre had taken when he’d said that cut through to Vincent’s core. Those words, the phrasing…

  Floresta bowed his head, then nodded. “I concede.”

  The school marm called out, “Final bid for Eleven-One, Vincent Calendo, is ten thousand dollars.” She added with a squint, “You realize that we only accept cash. No bills of credit.”

  DeBarre waved her off with an amused smirk.

  “The bid is ten thousand. Do we have any other offers?”

  Vincent caught a glimpse of Sebastian near the far wall. His face was bubbling in delight, nearly intoxicated. His commission would be record-breaking.

  The bell rang.

  “Ten thousand dollars. Today’s auction is concluded. Will the representatives of Guiseppe Masseria please report to the assessor’s office to complete paperwork and finalize their transaction?”

  Handlers led Olevski off his box. He was still clutching the glass flower Betty had made. The poor man didn’t seem to fully understand what was happening to him.

  Betty remained on her box until collected by Sebastian. She turned to Vincent with a haughty glare. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  “You think so?” he replied. “You’re off to fight the war in New York.”

  “You really think they can put a leash on me?”

  Sebastian jerked her off the box with a sneer. “Quiet.”

  Betty laughed as she disappeared into the crowd. Vincent knew deep inside his gut, that she would be a problem as some point in the future. But for today, his problems lay in Philadelphia.

  DeBarre stood to approach, fiddling with a pocket watch.

  Vincent stepped off the box. “Ten thousand, Loren?”

  The down pincher shrugged. “It’s been a good year.”

  Vincent leaned in. “What’s this about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where is she?” Vincent whispered.

  “Where’s who?” DeBarre whispered back.

  “You fucking know who.”

  “Oh,” he replied with a smirk. “She’s around.”

  Vincent shook his head. If Hattie were here, he’d see her. Even if she’d pinched light to concoct an illusion, he’d see her. But it had been almost an hour, now. Was she even here?

  “This part of her plan?” he asked as DeBarre gestured to his valet.

  “Plan? What plan?”

  “Don’t. I’ve had a long couple weeks.”

  “It’s been ten days,” DeBarre said.

  Vincent shook his head. “What?”

  “Ten days. I don’t blame you for losing track of time in that place. I’ve never been to Ithaca, but you and Bradley would have some interesting conversations, I think.”

  Vincent scowled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Despite the positive turn of events, he didn’t feel at ease. This plan seemed to be transpiring outside of Vincent’s control, and he had no idea what was happening. Everything in this place, every word, every deed—they were all lies. Right?

  Floresta lingered apace, and Vincent stepped away from DeBarre who was checking his watch once again.

  Floresta extended a hand. “Congratulations on your score.”

  “Ten gee. That’s a tall order for anyone.”

  Floresta nodded. “I admit, I was wading into deep waters against your Philadelphia friends. I underestimated their means. That’s my fault.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Floresta lifted a brow. “You may. I might not answer.”

  “Why me?”

  “You? Are you joking?”

  Vincent frowned. “You called me out at the pincher moot. It was intentional. I could see it in your eyes. You had me pegged from the start to go nab Betty Sharp. Sent Vito down the river doing it, too. So, I want to know…what’ve I ever done to any of you?”

  Floresta slapped Vincent’s shoulder. “You have done nothing but languish too long at the end of Vito Corbi’s hook. Luciano trusts my judgment, and my judgment is that you could be useful in this war in New York.”

  Vincent blinked at Floresta. “I thought Luciano was neutral in this whole Masseria-Maranzano pitch fight?”

  “He is…for now. But one day, the pitch fight will come to an end. And the survivor will possess two qualities for certain. One, he will be taxed in resources and manpower. Two, he will be beholden to foregone traditions and outdated practices. The future is already here, my friend.” Floresta allowed a tiny arc of electricity to bounce between his fingers. “My boss has a vision for that future. A vision for our kind as well as his.”

  Vincent lifted his chin in thought.

  “So, have fun in Philadelphia. And when the heat turns up, you keep me in mind.”

  DeBarre nudged in. “Okay, I think we’re getting paged.” He turned to Floresta. “I’ll see you soon, huh?”

  Floresta glared at DeBarre. “Sooner than you might like.”

  With that, the spark pincher turned and withdrew into the crowd.

  Vincent whispered, “I think you just invited a fight.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He reached over to tickle the kitten’s chin. “You keeping this thing, or what?”

  “I’m certainly not giving it to the kitchen staff.”

  “How about her?” The down pincher pointed to a woman who’d been hanging onto the elbow of a tuxedoed man near the windows.

  Vincent glared. “No. It’s mine. I saved it. I’m keeping it.”

  DeBarre snickered. “Well then, I’ve guess you’ve got a kitten. Come on. I think these bloody bastards
want their money.”

  They followed an attendant to the back halls. DeBarre’s valet arrived with a heavy case. He took the case and steered Vincent toward the assessor’s office. Sebastian stood outside the door, his hand occupied with a filled martini glass which he lifted in toast.

  “Ah, there he is. The man of the moment.”

  The down pincher pulled Vincent toward the office. “Come on. No time for chit-chat here. We’ve got to wrap this up and get on the road. Long drive ahead, you know.”

  Sebastian toasted Vincent one more time. “Fond memories, my fellow.”

  DeBarre shoved Vincent into the office, dragging a case along with them. Dominguez sat in his chair behind his desk, his enormous ledger book already open. His quill scribbled numbers from the previous auction sales.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Dominguez grumbled. He completed his column of figures, then housed the quill into an antique ink well and lifted his eyes to Vincent. “Well, Calendo. Seems you found someone willing to gamble on your pacifism.”

  DeBarre released a single chuckle.

  Dominguez turned to DeBarre. “And you? An invitation to this auction that no one can remember penning. It’s highly irregular.”

  “I don’t make the rules,” DeBarre countered. “Sabella hands me an invitation and tells me to haul up here and buy a pincher, then that’s what I do. You want to inspect the thing, yourself?”

  “No, I trust our auctioneer. The question isn’t how you got the invitation. The question is whom you bribed to get it.”

  DeBarre offered a bashful shrug.

  Dominguez shook his head in exasperation. “You people make it quite impossible to do business sometimes. Ten thousand, I hear? Are you mad, son?”

  DeBarre nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “If you think this is some manner of joke, I assure you it is not. If you’ve wagered against credit, or otherwise do not possess the full dollar amount on your person, there will be dire consequences. Bodily…consequences.”

  DeBarre waved him off. “I have it.” He shoved the case forward.

  Dominguez leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers together.

  The down pincher cocked a brow. “You want me to open it for you?”