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

by Meredith Allison

  “What I said,” Mia began, “the things I’m involved in… It means the rest of you are in danger, too. And if I make a move, I’m afraid of what it could mean for you. All of you.”

  Gloria put her hands on Mia’s shoulders, her tone lightening. “That’s why we’ve three bodyguards now, isn’t it?”

  “Glo…”

  “I want my daughter to be safe,” Gloria said. “And I want other mothers’ children to be safe. We all want the same thing.” She folded her lips inward for a moment. “I won’t ask any more questions. If you want to talk to me about it, you know you always can.”

  “Thanks,” Mia whispered.

  Gloria cupped her face. “Now, let’s see if they left us anything to eat.”

  They were halfway through breakfast when a fist suddenly pounded on the door.

  “Mia, open up!”

  “Is that Bobby?” Gloria asked.

  Mia was already out of her chair. She hurried to the door, then slid out into the hallway. Bobby’s face was lined with urgency.

  “I just got a call from one of my guys in Midtown,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. “The shop’s burning.”

  For a second, her mind went completely blank. The words he’d said made no literal sense to her whatsoever. All she could manage was, “What?”

  “Someone hit your shop early this morning. It’s burning. My guy said the firefighters are trying to put it out now.”

  “Trudy?” she said with a gasp.

  Bobby shook his head. “Don’t know if she was there or not.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she breathed, holding onto the wall for support.

  I got a bad habit of popping up at the damnedest times, in the damnedest places.

  She looked up at Bobby. “Take me there now.”

  By the time they arrived, the shop was just a charred, smoking pile of rubble.

  Hyman was already there, standing beside a firefighter and speaking earnestly. The police were there as well.

  “Holy Mother,” Gloria said, pressing a hand to her mouth.

  “I’m so sorry, Cousin Mia.” Raquel squeezed her hand.

  It had been a battle not worth fighting when Gloria insisted on coming along, which meant Raquel and Emilia came, too. But none of them followed her when she pushed open the car door and jumped out.

  Trudy, she thought, her leaden feet stumbling a little as she hurried forward. What about—

  “Mia,” Hyman called.

  She turned to see him striding toward her, his face taut with stress.

  “Where’s Trudy?” she demanded, her voice ragged.

  He cupped her elbow to steady her. “Calm yourself. She’s fine.” He pointed over his shoulder where the small Irish woman stood shivering beside the firefighters. “She was walking here when the shop exploded.”

  “Thank God.” Then, the next horrible thought popped into her brain. “The liquor?”

  Hyman sighed. “Fortunately and unfortunately, it’s all gone. It appears that’s what went first. These officers are on my payroll, so no need to worry about the public discovering that their darling Italian songbird moonlights as a bootlegger. There’s no evidence it was ever here. I’ll talk to a couple of reporter friends about putting a spin on things.”

  Mia shook her head, watching smoke curl up into the sky. “All of it. Gone.”

  “That’s what insurance is for,” he said briskly. “I’m far more concerned about who was behind this, and the most important inventory that we’ve lost. We not only had our product destroyed, but also some of Mr. Masseria’s. This could get ugly.”

  She turned to stare at the remains of the store, her pretty little shop that she’d had so briefly. She hadn’t cared so much about it when Hyman had first offered it to her. Indeed, she’d been a little bewildered at the transaction when it had first taken place. But then she’d made it her own. A place of serenity and beauty—at least, at the front of the store. A place where she’d been able to give an Irish immigrant a good job with managerial tasks. A place where she’d been in charge.

  She’d been proud of it, she realized too late. And now it was gone.

  “I’m guessing things didn’t go well with Mr. Morelli?” Hyman asked.

  Mia thought back to their card game and the dark promise he’d made her. “We did not have a productive conversation, no.”

  “Our options for dealing with him are growing more and more narrow.” Hyman glanced at the police officers as they continued their investigation. “He’s made two attempts on your life, hijacked your trucks, and now he’s burned down your shop. He’s infringed on a business arrangement I had with Masseria, and now he’s put me in a bad position.” The muscle in his jaw twitched as he peered down at her. “In this business, Miss Scalisi, there are a limited number of ways unreasonable and unpredictable men like him can be handled, particularly when they take certain action that suggests a supreme lack of respect for a healthy business relationship.”

  She watched the fire’s dark smoke roll up into the sky. “I doubt he’ll be easily found after this. And if he is, he won’t be alone. He does foolish things, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Then we’ll need to draw him out, won’t we?”

  Mia’s chest heaved with quiet fury as she examined what was left of her shop. Yes, as Hyman had unnecessarily reminded her, Mr. Morelli had very likely burned it down. That was a move that called for retaliation. To do nothing would send the message that they were weak—that she was weak. The next move had to be well thought-out. Deliberate. The message had to be clear.

  Mia ran down the list of men in her life and considered what they would do next. Don Catalano and Moritz would have pressed to talk it out, to reason, because both men hated bloodshed and its inevitable expenses. Charlie and certainly Nick would have moved against Jake himself. And, at this point, so would Hyman.

  She had already attempted to talk things out with Jake and come to a reasonable agreement. That had failed.

  The problem, she realized, was that Jake did not think she was a worthy adversary.

  The problem, she realized, was that she did not trust herself to make her own decisions. To listen to her own inner voice of reason. And that voice was very smart—much smarter than she gave it credit for being.

  She turned to look up at Hyman. “I’ll give that some thought.”

  His eyes narrowed at whatever expression he found on her face. “Very well.”

  “What happens now?”

  Hyman nodded toward the police officers sifting through the wreckage of the shop. “They’ve asked to speak with you, as you are the store owner. I recommend telling them as little as possible. You know nothing of arson, nothing of booze. You’re just a—”

  “A simple showgirl, distraught over the loss of her pretty shop,” Mia finished. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Unless you have any pressing objections, allow me to handle the paperwork for the insurance adjustors for you. If you wish, you and I can go over things in the morning.” He studied her with that same narrow gaze. “You should be with your family. I’m sure this is all very shocking and upsetting for all of you. And Trudy.”

  “Yes.” Mia turned away to head for the terrified, redheaded Irish girl. “I am quite upset.”

  She spent the rest of the morning with Trudy, assuring her she would always be taken care of. She’d vowed to find a suitable position for Trudy, perhaps in an office as a secretary.

  “With respect, miss,” Trudy had said, “I wish to work for you. In whatever capacity you can find. If you need a governess for your little niece, I do hope you’ll consider me.”

  “Absolutely,” Mia had replied. “My sister-in-law has been looking for a good governess. I’ll speak to her about it.”

  From there, Mia had taken Gloria, Emilia, and Raquel to the grocery to spend the afternoon and part of the evening with Uncle Joe and Aunt Connie, both of whom had been horrified to hear about her shop, but Mia assured them it was just faulty wiring that had cause
d the blaze, and no one had been hurt. Raquel had watched Emilia up in the small apartment while Mia and Gloria had gone to visit Signora Cancio and Signora Franco, together at Signora Cancio’s apartment with a few other women of the neighborhood. They’d chatted with the women for long hours. Signora Cancio planned to bury her son in three days’ time, on Thursday. It would cost her the last pennies of her meager savings to bury him and have a small reception, but she would do it, she said, her chin lifting with pride. She would do it because he had been a very good boy and had done his best to take care of his mother throughout his short years.

  It was that pride that made Mia refrain from offering her money, but after she and Gloria left the flat, Mia had Paolo drive her to Most Precious Blood, where she gave Father Alessio enough money to cover the service, a nice casket, and a good meal following the service.

  “Don’t tell her where the money came from,” she’d added. “She’s a proud woman.”

  Finally, they all returned to the hotel in the evening. Gloria wanted to go down to the restaurant for supper instead of ordering up.

  “No,” Mia said firmly. “We’ve been out all day. We should stick close to our rooms now.”

  “Oh, come,” Gloria said. “It’s not as though we’re leaving the building, just our rooms. We’ll bring Bobby and Joey with us. And Paolo.”

  “It’ll be nice to sit downstairs,” Raquel added hopefully.

  Mia hesitated, then glanced at Paolo, silently asking for his opinion. He was frowning, as usual, but he flicked his head up slightly, glanced at Gloria, and gave a nod.

  “Fine,” Mia relented. “We’ll eat downstairs.”

  For the excitement that caused, it was as though she’d suggested eating at the Ritz.

  Just as they stepped into the hallway, the telephone rang from Mia’s room. “You go on ahead,” she said, waving them on. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Paolo hesitated at her door.

  “Go with them,” she insisted. “I’ll catch up.”

  She hurried back into the room and scooped up the phone, hoping she hadn’t missed the call. A nasally operator’s voice came on the line.

  “Connecting you to Chicago,” the woman said. “Please hold.”

  A moment later, there was a faint click. Then another woman’s voice. “Hello? Miss Scalisi?”

  “Miss Watkins,” Mia said. “What a surprise. I didn’t think I’d hear back from you so soon.”

  “Well, I’ve heard you’ve been having a hell of a time up there,” Maurine said. “And that you lost your shop to a fire this morning.”

  Mia blinked. “How could you possibly know that already?”

  Maurine laughed. “Fella I used to date in college is a reporter in New York. Told me everything. Including the hush money he got paid to not mention that arson is suspected.”

  “Damn, you’re fast.”

  “And I’m good, too,” Maurine added smoothly. “Lookit, I really am concerned for you. You’re just a kid, after all. And you’re running with some real unpleasant fellas.”

  “Speaking of that,” Mia said, “have you got anything for me on the unpleasant fella I asked you about the other day?”

  “Why I’m calling. Looks like that Detective Abner Wallace really is a Chicago detective, but he’s as dirty as they come. My source tells me he’s been on the payroll of the North Side Gang for years now. Even back when you still lived here.”

  “What a shock,” Mia said drily. It was good dope to know, even if she’d suspected as much.

  “Even more than that, he’s directly in Hymie Weiss’s pocket. By that I mean, there’s no buffer between them. From what I hear, Weiss gives his orders straight to Wallace. So that means, Weiss likely told Wallace directly to punch your ticket.”

  She figured Weiss would have it out for her because she was Nick’s sister, and she’d killed a number of Weiss’s buddies, but she’d never had any direct dealings with the man. It surprised her, perhaps naively, that he would want her dead before they’d even exchanged two words.

  “Any idea when this order was given?”

  “Wallace has a track record of moving fast. You say jump, he doesn’t even waste time asking how high. My source tells me he bought a train ticket to New York on Thursday, April twenty-second. That means he landed in New York Saturday the twenty-fourth, and he made your acquaintance the very next day.”

  “So Weiss told him within the last, what, month to come after me?”

  “It’s possible. I’d say it could have been anywhere from the evening of Wednesday the twenty-first back to the first of the month. Likely not earlier than that—as I said, my source tells me Wallace moves fast, especially where it concerns Weiss.”

  Then how does Morelli factor in? Mia wound the telephone cord about her fingers. Wallace had mentioned “his friend.” Had they known each other before?

  “Wallace was to meet a contact in New York,” Maurine continued. “Being new to the city and not knowing where to find you, he’d need someone familiar with your whereabouts for guidance.”

  It was as though Maurine had read her mind. “Any idea who this contact might’ve been?”

  “Another business contact of Weiss’s,” she said. “Let me see… I wrote all of this down to tell you.”

  “Make sure you burn those notes.”

  “Fire’s already crackling, darling. Ah, yes—I doubt this is a real first name, but his contact was some fellow called Gems. That ring a bell to you?”

  Mia closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  There was a beat of silence as though Maurine were waiting for her to continue. When it became apparent she wasn’t going to, the reporter cleared her throat. “Well, that’s all I’ve got for you. My source is a dirty prohi. He knows a whole lot of things about a whole lot of people, but rarely does he know any hard and fast details because these people are good—they don’t keep record of hard, fast details. I hope that’s enough for you to go on. What’ll you do with that information, by the way?”

  You don’t want to know. “Sleep better at night. Eventually.”

  “Good luck with that. I take it that pesky little dragon isn’t slain yet, huh?”

  A little smile crossed her face as she recalled the words she’d said to Maurine on the occasion of their first meeting, at Sal’s trial, the day she’d had him murdered. Maurine, with her astute intelligence, had been sure there was more to Mia’s false testimony than what she was letting on, and had pressed her for an exclusive.

  Perhaps one day, Miss Watkins, when the dragon is slain, I’ll take you up on that.

  “Not quite yet,” Mia said. “But this dope helps.”

  “My goodness,” Maurine drawled. “This is going to be quite an exclusive, isn’t it? Even though I’m working on screenplays these days more than news articles, I’ll drop everything for you whenever you say the word.”

  Mia chuckled. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that. It’s just not a good time.”

  “Shucks. Anyhow, I do have a little play in the works. You ought to come see it if you ever come back for a visit. Then we can kick up our heels and have some drinks out on the town.”

  “I’d love to. What’s it about?”

  “I based it on these murder trials I covered a couple years ago. Two broads killed their old men and got off scot-free. Isn’t that a gas?”

  “Sounds riveting,” Mia said with a private grin. “What’s it called?”

  “Chicago. Do ring me up next time you’re around—I’ll make sure you get the best seats in the house.”

  “When does it premiere?”

  “December, but there’s a special limited engagement in October.”

  “I’ll be there,” Mia promised. “You got a deal.”

  Her levity dissipated as she hung the receiver up on the candlestick base. Now, it seemed, she had the confirmation she’d been looking for, the little push she needed to ensure what she wanted to do was the right thing to do.

  That her con
science would be eased when blood ran in the streets again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Joe “The Boss” Masseria pursed his lips, drumming his fingers slowly on the white tablecloth that covered a round table at the back of John’s of 12th. A small dish of tiramisu sat in front of him, from which he took small, almost dainty, bites in a sporadic pattern that made sense only to him. A tiny cup of espresso sat beside the dish, which he stirred occasionally.

  The location had been his suggestion, as it was a favorite restaurant of his in town, and, as he’d said, according to Charlie, he wished to hear bad news in the presence of a comfortable atmosphere with a sweet in front of him, to counteract the bitter information.

  Beside him, Lucky Luciano sat smoking, a small smile on his lips. He’d studied Mia intently as she’d spoken, but waited for Mr. Masseria to speak first.

  After Mia had told him of the demise of the shop, Mr. Masseria had taken four bites of the dessert and three sips of espresso. Finally, he broke the silence.

  “I do not like it when other people’s problems become my problems,” he said. “I have enough of my own. And now, you tell me I have a new problem. Is that right?”

  Mia sighed.

  Charlie spoke up. “Look, Joe, it’s her problem, too. It’s everybody’s problem. Your stock wasn’t the only one that got burned up. We lost all the booze, and she lost her shop. You’re on the same side here.”

  “Only one side,” Mr. Masseria said sharply, waving his index finger in the air, cutting a look at Charlie. “My side. That’s it.” He shifted his gaze back to Mia and shrugged. “So what you want me to do?”

  “I didn’t come here looking for your help or favors,” Mia said coolly. “I came out of respect, as a business associate. To allow you to hear from me what occurred before you read it in the papers and put two and two together.”

  “He burned your stock, too, Joe,” Mr. Luciano said, tapping ash off his cigarette butt. “That’s a move against you.”