Then she smiled.
My old pal.
“It’s all right,” she said to Paolo. “He’s a friend.”
Paolo eyed her doubtfully, but sat back down in his chair.
Mia walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open with a big smile. “Officer Fred. How nice to see you again.”
Fred McClarty’s bright blue eyes opened wide. “Miss Scalisi! I thought that was you. I haven’t seen you in…gosh.” His brow furrowed as he tried to do the math.
“About a year,” she supplied.
“That’s right. Has it been so long? Where’ve you been, if you don’t mind my asking? Your partners just said you were on a vacation. Not real friendly, them two.”
“I was visiting family overseas,” she said, and the expression on his face told her he understood that was all he was going to get. “And how about you? Did you ever take your wife to Atlantic City?”
Fred flushed slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yes, I did. And my Dolores had a lovely time on the boardwalk last spring—I took great pleasure in spoiling her every which way. And you were right—the lobster thermidor at Penny’s was just swell.”
Mia gave him a sincere smile. “I’m so glad to hear it. How have things been since I’ve been away?”
“Pretty routine,” he said. “Mr. Lazzari and Mr. Schapiro take care of my fee. It’s just been me walkin’ the beat, just like you told me. Don’t get a lot of trouble here.”
“And my partners have been paying you fairly?”
“Well, they ain’t paying me two grand and a bottle of fancy French perfume every time, but sure. I make out all right.”
“Good. I’m expecting a delivery tonight.”
Fred’s mouth turned down slightly. “That one fella gonna be here?”
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific, I’m afraid.” Mia lifted a shoulder. “I’m only just making acquaintances again, myself.”
“The loudmouth,” he said. “Not your two partners, them guys are all right, if a little too serious sometimes. He’s a young guy. Always telling everyone what to do. Think he calls himself Gems. Least that’s how he introduced himself to me first night we met. He nearly strangled me when he saw me. Took the little Jewish fella pointing a gun at him to get him to let me alone.”
Mia shook her head. “I haven’t yet been introduced to the infamous Mr. Gems yet.” A memory of gold rings with glimmering jewels in them flitted through her mind. Or…perhaps she had.
“He’s here all the time now, for the past six months or so,” Fred said. “Real wise guy. Thinks he is, anyway. Always trying to ingratiate himself with Mr. Luciano.”
“Luciano?” Mia raised her eyebrows. “He comes here?”
“When the shipments are for Mr. Masseria, he comes to oversee the storage, or to take inventory. Seems chummy with your two pals. From what I gather, he introduced Gems to your crew to provide the muscle. Knows him from heroin deals, I hear.”
That was a new development, indeed. Before she’d left for Sicily, she hadn’t seen Luciano at the shop once. That he’d been coming here now piqued both her interest and suspicion. None of her partners had mentioned this to her earlier that day. An oversight? An unimportant detail? Or something they’re trying to conceal from me?
She wondered again if there was anyone she could still trust.
“Well,” Mia said. “He must think highly of Mr. Gems.”
Fred shook his head. “He’ll have a field day with you, I’m sure. Just…be careful around him, Miss Scalisi.”
The chill of her polite smile settled over her like a powder-soft snow drift. “Or perhaps he ought to be careful around me.”
Fred’s mouth opened and closed before he could find his voice. “What happened to you?” he said finally. “Meaning no disrespect. You seem very different from the young lady I met here Thanksgiving 1924. When you—when you saved my life. When you changed my life. It’s like there’s…”
“Yes?” When he hesitated, she patted his arm. “It’s all right, Fred. You can say anything to me.”
“Well, miss, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, it’s like there’s a darkness around you I didn’t see before. You were so…kind last time, which was why I was so surprised to see you mixed up in this crowd. You had some…sweetness about you then. You didn’t belong. But now… Well, I suppose now you do.”
“You don’t find me kind and sweet anymore?” she teased.
“Kind, sure. But I think life caught up to you and took that sweetness away, maybe,” he said quietly.
Strangely, that stung.
Because it was true.
The sound of engines in the alley behind the shop drew her attention. She turned to call for Paolo, but found him already walking toward her, looking alert and focused. For a brief moment, she wanted to smile, picturing him as he’d been earlier, sitting in the chair with his head tilted back against the wall, mouth wide open as he snored.
Mia looked at Fred. “Please keep watch.”
He nodded.
She and Paolo strode past him to the back of the shop. There were boxes of supplies and merchandise scattered about—legitimate wares for the shop. The door at the back of the storage area opened to a staircase, which led down to a much larger, underground storage room where the liquor was kept. She propped open the cellar door, glancing at Paolo.
“Suppose I oughtta myself useful, shouldn’t I?”
He smirked.
She went to the back entrance and swung it open. A cluster of men standing next to a half a dozen trucks, smoking, whirled in surprise.
“Gentlemen, good evening,” she said, and glanced at her wristwatch. “My, you’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until midnight.”
“Mia?”
She glanced to the right, catching sight of Charlie walking toward her, a wool fedora slicing over his face at an angle. He frowned.
“Hello, Charlie.”
“What’re you doing here?” he asked in a low voice when he reached her side.
“I said I was going to be here, didn’t I?”
“I thought that was just talk for Morelli,” he replied.
Mia drew herself up. Just talk? He acted as if he didn’t remember her. “I never ‘just talk,’ Charlie. Now where’s the booze?”
“Hey, life of the party showed up like she said she would.”
Another loud voice came from the other side of the alley. A man walked toward her, smoking a cigarette. His face was concealed by a hat set at a dashing angle on his head, but as he swaggered toward her, ribbons of smoke billowing over his shoulders, she knew him right away.
“Jake Morelli,” she said flatly.
“Dollface,” he purred, leaning toward her as though to kiss her.
She leaned out of the way at the last second. “If you try to touch me again without my invitation, Mr. Morelli, I will have you pistol-whipped until you lose consciousness.”
Instead of appearing offended, his dark eyes gleamed at her, and he grinned wider. “I think I’m in love with you, Miss Scalisi. So you are sending out invitations, is that right? I’ll come to any party of yours. I like the private ones best.”
“Will you just unload, already?” she snapped. “Make it fast. This is my place of business, after all.”
“Aw, take it easy, kitten,” he replied, flicking away his cigarette. He waved to his men. “Boys. Let’s go.” Men began pulling crates from the trucks.
Mia stepped back, nodding at the men she knew—Moritz, Bobby, Joey. Charlie remained at her side, barking orders to the others, who eyeballed her with open and frank curiosity. She met their stares, steady and unsmiling, as they passed.
“She acts like she made this shit,” one of the men muttered under their breath.
“Since it tastes like shit, maybe she did,” another man replied, and they both chuckled. “Some of that fancy French perfume might improve the taste.”
Improve the taste? She watched them take a few more steps past her, flipping
the words over in her mind. In a matter of seconds, she decided she wouldn’t allow that remark to go unaddressed.
“Hey, you,” she said to the man who’d made the crack. “Stop. What’s in that crate?”
“Huh?”
In response, she blinked slowly.
“Th-the good stuff,” he replied, clearly baffled by the question.
“What good stuff?”
“The rye,” he said, still looking confused. “From Templeton.” He glanced at Charlie, his brow knitted.
“I’m talking to you, not him,” Mia said sharply, drawing the man’s attention again. “Are you sure it’s not whatever Mr. Masseria keeps here?”
“Lady, I’m positive,” the man said. He jerked his head toward a truck. “Masseria’s load is still on those trucks.”
Will Wyatt’s rye whiskey from Templeton was arguably the finest available on the market. The flavor was distinctive, sharp, and smooth at the same time, and he took enormous pride in it. It was the reason why Nick had worked so hard to set up his operation. It was why Hyman Goldberg had agreed to let her forgo repaying him two million dollars in exchange for selling the product himself and earning his investment back in a matter of a few months. It was why Sal and North Side gang in Chicago had plotted to try to seize control of the operation. It was why Hymie Weiss had whispered promises into the ear of one of Nick’s men, getting him to betray her brother. The rye was a product men would literally kill for, and that was worth millions.
So why on earth would the taste need to be improved?
“Put it down,” she ordered, and the men who’d had so much to say halted in their tracks, staring at her.
“Mia, what is it?” Charlie demanded.
“Open a crate and pull out a bottle. I want to taste it.”
“What for?”
She fixed him with a silent stare.
Charlie studied her for a moment longer, then flicked his head at one of the men. “All right. Do what she says.”
“But this is—”
“I said, fuckin’ do it.”
“Is there a problem, here?” Moritz said, walking back toward them from inside the storage room.
“She wants to taste the rye,” Charlie told him, then glanced at the man with the crate. “Hey, you—you got five seconds to get that crate open. Don’t make me show you what happens when that time ends.”
With a huge sigh, the man set a crate on the ground, then used a knife to pop open the crate lid. He withdrew a plain, dark brown glass bottle, then cracked the sealing and uncorked the neck before handing it to her.
Mia held it up to read the label. It read Templeton Rye, The Good Stuff. She held the bottle up to her nose and sniffed in a deep breath. Immediately, her eyes watered at the sharp stench of alcohol. Anger stirred in her chest like glowing embers from a hearth swept along by the wind as she tilted the bottle opening to her lips.
An unfathomably vile flavor flowed over her tongue, searing a path along the inside of her mouth like gasoline. It was bitter and sharp, sour and putrid, and had a strong chemical undertone that made her eyes water.
All eyes were on her as she coughed, gagged, and spluttered. Her throat closed automatically, as if her body refused to admit the liquid that made her want to retch. And that’s saying, something she thought as she turned away from the door, since I’ve had my share of bathtub gin. Though it was most unladylike, she spat the mouthful out into the alley, not caring that droplets of it landed on Moritz’s pants and shoes.
The men were correct. It tasted like shit.
“What the hell is this?” she demanded, shaking the bottle.
“I fear you may be hard of hearing. It’s the rye whiskey,” Moritz said, his brow dropping. “And you just spat all over my shoes, Mia.”
“To hell with your goddamn shoes,” she said, pointing a finger a few inches from his face. “This disgusting swill is not Templeton rye whiskey. What is it?”
The glance Charlie and Moritz exchanged filled her with cold fury.
Moritz gave her another condescending smile. “Dear, it’s business. That’s what your brother planned to do from the start. We manufacture a batch pure for our preferred customers, and then we manufacture a batch that we cut with water to sell to the general public. That’s how we make a profit. You do like profits, don’t you?”
“I’ve tasted a cut batch before,” Mia said. “And that still tasted pretty damn pure to me. This is not cut with water, and you know it!” She upended the entire bottle, pouring it out in the alleyway. “This is revolting and undrinkable.”
Moritz stiffened. “That’s twelve dollars you’re pouring out there, Mia.”
“That’s not fit for consumption. Why should anyone pay twelve dollars for a bottle of rotgut hooch when they can get it for half that anywhere else in the city?” She shifted her gaze to Charlie. “Did you know about this?”
He looked away.
“How goddamn dare you both,” she said through her teeth. She turned to the men still unloading crates. “Listen up. Only Mr. Masseria’s crates will be unloaded and stored in my shop. You can take the rest of it back to wherever it came from.”
They all stopped, exchanging confused looks.
“Keep unloading, fellas,” Moritz said, raising his voice over hers. “Everything.”
At a glance from Mia and a flick of her head, Paolo stepped directly into the path of one of the men and drew his pistol. He pointed it at the man’s chest. The worker froze.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” he protested. He stared at Moritz with huge eyes. “I didn’t sign up for this!”
“Mia, call off your bodyguard, all right?” Moritz growled.
“I will, when you get this sorry excuse for liquor out of my shop.”
“Hey, listen,” Charlie interjected, his voice calm. “We might have gone a little heavy with the water this time around. We’ll ease up next time, all right?”
“If we were just talking water here, maybe I’d believe that line of bull,” she snapped. “But this tastes like the fermented garbage poor men drink because they can’t afford the good stuff. We’re not selling this. This is not the Templeton rye Nick sold.”
“I believe that’s what it says on the label,” Moritz said. “Though I seem to be without my eyeglasses at the moment.”
Mia ripped the label from the bottle, then threw the bottle down onto the cobbled street of the alleyway, where it shattered into pieces. Then she tore the label into pieces and threw them at Moritz’s chest.
They locked gazes, matching each other glare for glare. If she were a man, she was sure one of them would swing. Her hand itched for the blackjack in her pocket.
“If you speak to me like I’m an idiot again,” she said quietly, “I’m afraid our friendship is going to be affected.”
“Children. Is there a problem here?”
Mia tore her glare from Moritz and glanced behind her. Hyman Goldberg strolled up to her, a tall man trailing him. His face wore a look of mild concern.
“The problem,” she said, “is that the quality liquor my brother manufactured is being reduced to a drop of pure rye, then filled back up with sewage water and chemicals. It’s not fit to clean my hotel room. That was not part of the operation or the agreement.”
“It’s also not your booze, Mia,” Moritz said tightly. “We’ve already been paid for those bottles.”
“By whom?”
“I believe that’s our business.”
“You’re just all kinds of wrong tonight, aren’t you, Morrie?” she snapped. “Anything that concerns this liquor operation my brother and Will Wyatt created is, in fact, my business. Let’s not forget that you wouldn’t even have heard of the product had it not been for Nick. And as I’m your partner, a word you’ve thrown around in the past, and as I am Nick’s sister, I say you won’t sell this garbage.”
“You don’t get the right to make the ultimate decision simply because you have Scalisi blood,” Moritz said. “And let’s b
e clear about something, dear—you wouldn’t even be considered a partner if Nick were still breathing.”
The weight of the blackjack in her pocket again called out to her, begging her to swing its heavy, leather-wrapped steel ball into Morrie’s snide face for that comment. But if she gave into the rage churning through her body, she’d do exactly what he wanted her to do—prove she was unfit to be involved.
Charlie drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he stared at Moritz. At least, he didn’t seem to approve of that comment, either.
Mia clenched every muscle in her body, grasping for every ounce of self-control she had ever possessed. A long moment of silence passed before she trusted herself to speak.
“I own this shop,” she said, her words clipped. “Not you, not Charlie, not even Mr. Goldberg anymore. And as it’s my shop, I won’t have this poison stored here.”
“Now you are infringing on our agreement,” Hyman said gently. “The contract you signed explicitly states you agree to hold inventory here relating to my business arrangements. That includes liquor.”
“You can store Mr. Masseria’s load here,” Mia said, “but not that other crap.”
“Mia, be reasonable.” Hyman put his hand on her shoulder, but it was heavy, and he squeezed. Hard. “You do get a cut, remember that.”
“Shove your cut,” Mia said, and he dropped his hand. “I don’t want any money relating to that load. If you leave it in this store, you’ll find it running in the streets tomorrow morning.”
Hyman’s eyes flashed with anger. “That, my darling, would be most unwise.”
“Try me,” Mia added softly. A small pocket in her stomach churned with fear, but the call of a challenge made her blood simmer and her pride shoot to the roof of her head. One did not speak to Hyman Goldberg this way. And certainly not a woman. But if she didn’t show these sons of bitches she meant business and her word carried weight, they would never respect her. She swallowed her fear and lifted her chin, refusing to break her stare.
Her godfather—and before him, her brother—had taught her that.
“Hyman,” Moritz said, as though they were squabbling children and he were appealing to the authority.
Mr. Goldberg’s tightly clenched jaw twitched several times before he sighed heavily.
Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel) Page 7