Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel)

by Meredith Allison

  “For what? You’re nearly a young man. There’s work for you in this neighborhood—in this city. Honest work.”

  “Only chumps work for pennies,” he snapped. “And like you’re one to talk. I bet you never worked a day in your life, huh, princess?”

  She’d had enough of his disrespect. She looked at Paolo and lifted her chin. In the span of a breath, he darted behind the boy and had his arm twisted behind his back, his other hand clapped across his mouth to stifle his shrieks of pain.

  Mia went on calmly as though nothing were amiss. “And what does stealing from a little boy make you?”

  Behind Paolo’s hand, the boy refused to meet her eyes.

  “It’s just you and me,” she said. “Your friends have left you. You don’t need to act so tough.” She flicked her chin at Paolo again, and this time he released the boy. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief and tossed it on the boy’s chest.

  He glanced up at her as if confused by the gesture, but warily began mopping the blood from his nose and lip.

  “Why,” she said again, “were you mugging a little boy?”

  “We needed the money,” he muttered. “Fast. I know that kid shops for his mother on Sundays. Usually has at least five bucks.”

  “You and your friends needed it?”

  A bob of his head was her answer.

  “Why?”

  “We owed it to someone.”

  “Who did you owe?”

  “Lady, who are you to be asking me all these questions?” he demanded.

  Paolo answered him with a low snarl.

  Mia gave him a thin smile. “I can be a pal, or your worst nightmare. Why don’t you choose one?” She let the silence linger, her gaze boring into him. He stared back, as though deciding how seriously to take her.

  Finally, the boy swallowed with an audible gulp. “We…owed a fella. A—a businessman. He gave us something to sell, but I got jumped by another gang and we lost the stuff. Now I’m into him for twenty bucks, or he’ll kill me.”

  Mia raised an eyebrow. “Over twenty dollars?”

  “He’s crazy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Some fella, I said. He works for someone else. He said he needed neighborhood boys across the city to sell his product. That we should sell it to other kids our age.”

  Children. He was pushing the shit to children. “And what product is that?”

  “You gotta be crazy if you think I’m telling you anything.” He shook his head rapidly.

  Mia reached into her pocket again. The boy winced, as if expecting the worst. She smirked inwardly—she’d left her blackjack at home today. It was Sunday, after all.

  This time, she withdrew a twenty-dollar bill. The boy’s eyes saucered at the sight of it.

  “It might be worth it to you to tell me what I want to know,” she said. “This money could be the thing that keeps you alive, couldn’t it?”

  The boy licked his lips. “He—he said if I told anyone—”

  “Let me guess. He’d kill you.”

  The boy nodded.

  “No one ever need know you told me anything,” she said. “In fact, I can keep filling your pocket if you keep bringing me information. That’s probably a better deal than you’ll get with whoever it is you’re working for, isn’t it?”

  He bit his lip.

  “What was the product?”

  The boy hesitated still.

  “Kid,” she murmured, “I don’t ask questions I don’t already suspect the answers to. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, all right?”

  “Heroin,” he admitted, and though that was what Mia expected to hear, a pang went through her just the same.

  “Give me a name.”

  He stared at her in confusion. “Who are y—”

  “I’m losing my patience,” she said softly.

  “I…”

  “All right.” Mia pocketed the money. “Well, good luck to you, kid. If you stay alive long enough, that is. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  She stopped and sighed.

  “Gems,” he said quickly. “The guy I work for, works for a guy called Gems.”

  Another answer she expected, and it further ratcheted up her ire. “And how did you come to find employment with him?”

  “Me and the guys, we were just out one night, trying to find some booze at a card hall to buy. His guys snatched us up and brought us inside. Gems asked if we wanted to make some money. We said yes. He said to come back the next night and he’d have something for us.”

  She shook her head. “You got any idea the kind of man you’re working for? He’s dangerous, kid. The business is dangerous. You could get killed.”

  “We needed money,” he said, and his voice broke a little.

  Silence fell over the alley for a long moment as Mia studied him through narrowed eyes.

  The boy watched her with huge eyes, not daring to move.

  Finally, she said, “Get up.”

  He rose on unsteady legs, using the wall as support.

  She stepped toward him until they were almost nose-to-nose. “This is how it’s going to be,” she said coldly. “You’re not going to sell any more of that shit in this neighborhood again. Not you, or your friends.”

  “B-but I have to,” he said. “He told me to. I have to pay him this money back. Then he’s expecting me to show up to his place to get more product.”

  “Pay back the man you contact directly,” Mia said. “And then…you don’t show up for your next pickup. You lay low.”

  “Don’t…don’t show up?”

  “Did I stutter?” She waited for an answer, but the boy wisely shut his mouth. “If you obey me, I’ll make it worth your while. You seem like a kid in the know—I can use a good source of information in the neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, nodding so fast she feared his head would fly off his neck. “Yeah, information. I can do that.”

  “If you lie to me,” she continued as though he hadn’t said anything, “and keep selling here or try to sell me out to your employers, I will find out, and I promise you, what happened in this alley tonight will seem like kisses from your mother compared to what I’ll have my friend here do to you. Tell me you understand.”

  “I-I understand.”

  She held up the twenty. “This goes to your contact, and only to your contact. Don’t get cute and try to pocket some of it. Pay him.”

  With bloody, trembling fingers, he reached up and grasped the bill, staring at it like it was gold. “Thank—thank you.”

  “What’s your name?” she said. “I like to know who I’m doing business with.”

  He hesitated. She waited. She didn’t blame him for his uncertainty—it was impossible to know who to trust. Assuming there was anyone to trust.

  “Nicolo,” he said finally. “But everyone calls me Nicky.”

  It was as though he’d punched her in the chest with those words. All the air rushed out of her body.

  She steeled her spine, willing her face to give nothing away. “Nicky. Nice to meet you. I’m Mia. I wouldn’t let the fellas you work for know about that. If you have any questions about me, ask around the neighborhood.”

  “Where can I find you?” he asked.

  “Ask for me at the d’Abbruzzo grocery,” she replied, “and then I’ll find you.”

  She turned her back on him and walked out of the alley, Paolo at her side.

  “We should hurry,” she said to him. “I’m sure they’re probably worried about us, and Gloria will have a million questions for me later.”

  Paolo nodded, keeping pace with her.

  She could make something up—she’d met an old neighbor and had chatted for a while, or had stepped into a shop to look at something. That wouldn’t prevent Gloria from asking her about it again, later on, and then she’d probably discern Mia had been dishonest. She could hardly fathom the alternative of telling Gloria the truth. Her s
ister-in-law would be horrified to learn Mia had ordered Paolo to brutally assault three boys, then turned one of them into her snitch.

  It almost made her smile.

  Her humor withered away as long-buried grief and the echoes of bone-shaking agony rattled the edges of her mind.

  Nicolo, that boy had said his name was.

  But everyone calls him…Nicky.

  Chapter Eight

  “If you think I’m going to let you go to a man’s home and try on dresses by yourself, you’re out of your goddamn mind,” Gloria said on Wednesday afternoon as Mia was on her way out the door.

  Mia rolled her eyes. “Listen, I know Paolo’s not your favorite person, but he’s with me all the time. I won’t be alone.”

  “This is not about Paolo,” Gloria said firmly. “This is about what’s proper and what’s not.” She took Emilia by the hand. “Our first stop will be the grocery, where I’ll leave Em with my aunt and uncle. And then we’ll go to Mr. Goldberg’s together.”

  “But—”

  “But good.” Gloria walked past her and opened the door. “Come. We don’t want to be late.”

  Defeated, Mia sighed and walked out the door.

  After dropping off Emilia, Paolo drove them to Hyman’s penthouse in the new vehicle he had acquired for Mia. It was a simple black Ford, sturdily built and reliable. She thought of Nick’s bright-yellow Cadillac Phaeton sitting in a storage garage. He had always loved that car, and people recognized it everywhere he went. A chariot fit for a prince. She couldn’t bring herself to drive it.

  “Really,” Gloria griped. “I don’t see why this couldn’t have taken place in a dress shop, for goodness’ sake. What sort of man has a dressmaker come to his place? At the very least, the fitting could have taken place in our suite.”

  “Still his suite,” Mia said. “It’s just geography. He’s a hands-on sort of man, Gloria. You’ll see.”

  “I fully intend to discuss the boundaries of propriety with this Mr. Goldberg.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Mia said. But to take the sting out of her tone, she patted Gloria’s hand. “I’m glad to have you with me, just the same.”

  “When your cousin gets here, there’ll be two of us to nag you,” Gloria said. “Although I’m starting to think it’ll be me against the two of you, as high-spirited as Raquel is. She’s so much like you. You even look alike.”

  Though her tone was light, she sounded slightly worried. Mia wondered if Gloria was afraid she’d be edged out. Raquel was closer to Mia’s age, and they were blood. They’d been more like sisters than cousins.

  “She’s young,” Mia said, looping her arm through Gloria’s. “You and I, we’ll need to guide her.”

  Gloria smiled. “Of course. She’s family.”

  When they arrived, Paolo refused to hand the keys to the valet and parked the car himself. Then he escorted Mia and Gloria up to Hyman’s residence.

  Mia led the way out of the elevators and through the foyer of his penthouse. His usual guards loitered outside his office and glanced over at her as she approached. Their faces turned wary—though if that was due to the introduction of Gloria, or remembering how Paolo had manhandled one of them and pulled a gun on a second, she wasn’t sure.

  The guard closest to the door knocked on it, then opened it, giving Paolo a wide berth. She noted his bruised neck and smiled at him.

  Hyman stood in the middle of the room beside the pool table, engrossed in conversation with a middle-aged, fashionably dressed woman with a tape measure draped around her neck. They both looked up as Mia, Gloria, and Paolo entered the room.

  Hyman’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of Gloria, but his charming smile spread across his face with practiced speed. “Miss Scalisi,” he said with a warmth Mia suspected wasn’t entirely genuine. “And Mr. Scarpa. Good to see you again. And who is this lovely young lady? Your sister-in-law, I presume?”

  Gloria flushed a little as he turned to her. “How do you do. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard…so much about you.”

  The pause was not lost on Mr. Goldberg, who flashed Mia a sardonic look. “I can only imagine, Mrs. Scalisi.” He held her hand delicately and leaned over it. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I trust your accommodations at the Murray Hill Hotel are adequate?”

  “More than that,” Gloria said, bobbing her head. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome. A token of my gratitude to your enchanting sister-in-law, who has all but guaranteed the success of our new nightclub.” He patted Mia on the shoulder. “I assume you’ll be overseeing the dress fittings? A fetching woman such as yourself surely knows much more about what looks good on another woman than I do.”

  All of the rancor Gloria had possessed earlier regarding the dress fittings taking place in his home seemed to vanish under the cultured man’s well-honed charm. Mia fought back a smirk. It was easy for one to let his beautiful manners and polished, friendly demeanor make them forget themselves—if one did not know how to handle Mr. Goldberg, that was.

  Although, at this stage in their relationship, Mia wasn’t sure who handled whom.

  “May I present to you ladies Mrs. Eleanor Astor?” He turned to the elegantly dressed woman waiting silently behind him. “She owns the most popular boutique in the city. She has several lovely options for you to choose from, Mia.”

  “It’s my pleasure to dress a young lady as exquisite as you are,” Mrs. Astor said, bowing her head gracefully.

  Mia shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Astor,” she replied. “Astor… As in…the hotel?”

  Mrs. Astor smiled. “I married into a talented family, one could say. And an indulgent one, to allow me to pursue my dreams of dressmaking.”

  “The Mademoiselle Chanel of the United States, she’s known,” Hyman said with a nod.

  “Oh, how you flatter me, Mr. Goldberg.” Mrs. Astor gestured to a large dressing screen, beautifully printed with an Oriental floral motif across its half-dozen panels. “If you would, please, Miss Scalisi.”

  Mia cast a glance at Hyman as he settled himself into one of his deep, plush brown leather easy chairs with a cup of tea. “You hanging around?”

  He gave her his best bland smile, lifting his cup from its saucer with a pinky extended. “I have the final approval on the gowns, Miss Scalisi. I imagine that’s only fair, considering I’m footing the bill. Wouldn’t you agree?” Without waiting for an answer, he waved a hand toward the dressing screen. “Go on.”

  She glanced at Paolo, who remained standing by the door, his gaze politely averted to the window. He would not leave her alone with Hyman, which simultaneously relieved and embarrassed her further.

  Feeling somewhat indignant, Mia stepped behind the dressing screen with Mrs. Astor and Gloria. In a moment, she was out of her plum, printed crêpe de chine dress and standing rather awkwardly in her white lace step-in as Mrs. Astor unfurled the first dress for her to try on.

  Mia brightened. It was a sleeveless silk-and-chiffon, cream and gold affair with a handkerchief hem and plenty of beading that would catch beautifully under stage lights. The neckline was daringly low, revealing the top of the sheer, sewn-in bandeau underneath.

  The two women slipped the gown over her head, Mrs. Astor hissing as the beading caught in Mia’s hair. “These are handsewn crystals,” she fretted.

  Mia winced as strands of her hair snagged on the beads tugged her scalp. Damn the crystals, she wanted to snap, but held her tongue.

  When the dress was in place, Mrs. Astor handed Gloria a pair of golden T-strap heels to slide on Mia’s feet as she assessed the drape of the dress on Mia’s frame.

  “It fits a little tighter in the bust than it’s meant to,” Mrs. Astor said disapprovingly. “I suppose I’ll have to let the top out a bit. My, and you’ve a pair of hips, haven’t you?”

  “It’s a shame loose silhouettes are in,” Gloria said loyally. “You’ve never a seen a nicer shape than Mia’s.”

>   “Most of my clients are quite slender,” Mrs. Astor said in the same tone.

  “I’m an Italian girl, Mrs. Astor,” Mia said. “Not some pale, English waif.”

  Mrs. Astor, every bit a pale, English waif, pressed her lips together and began jabbing pins into the dress. Mia bit back a smirk, then a yelp when one of those pins pricked her skin.

  Perhaps I ought to wait until she’s not holding pins to insult her…

  From his seat, Hyman called, “Are you having trouble, dear?” His meaning was clear. He was getting impatient.

  Mia rolled her eyes. This had been his brilliant idea, after all.

  Mrs. Astor, several pins still caught between her lips, shrugged and gave Mia a little push. Gloria followed her out from behind the screen.

  Mia lifted her chin as she strode toward Hyman. He stopped her in her tracks with a hand.

  “Perhaps don’t approach the crowd as though you intend to kill them,” he said. “You’re a dancer. Presumably that means you’ve some grace. That you no doubt learned under the tutelage of—what was the name? Madame du la…Boviette?” He flicked his fingers, dismissing her back to the screen to try again.

  She gritted her teeth and walked back to the screen, then pivoted. She pretended she was back on stage at Stems—no. The thought of that had her stomach tightening around a sickening, oily feeling that pooled there. Imagining herself back onstage at the Chicago only intensified that feeling. No, nothing to do with Chicago.

  Her mind drifted back to simpler times when she was hardly a woman, but one of the best chorines at Penny’s Supper Club on the boardwalk of Atlantic City. It had been an exciting time, her first real gig, and so many interesting people came in and out of the club every single night. She’d lied about her age—or rather, Nick had—to get her the gig, and at sixteen she’d danced in her first chorus line. She’d been at the biggest party on the East Coast when Prohibition had gone into effect. Nick had been a young prince in that city, she a princess, and those had been simpler times. Happier times.

  She rarely let herself think of those times these days, but now it was as though she couldn’t stop the tidal wave of memories, the feeling of wistful nostalgia so strong she might have wept.