by Debra Dunbar
Lefty sighed. “Is everyone on this Earth a simple bastard?”
“Believe her or not,” Catena added, “she claims to have a passel of assets that she’s poached from other gangs.”
“Are you inclined to believe her?” Lefty asked.
“At this point, I don’t see that I have any choice. We’ll never survive that rabid glass pincher unless we secure O’Toole’s cooperation.”
Buddy leaned forward eagerly. “Well, you have us.”
Catena chuckled. “Indeed? And what happens when O’Toole goes to Maranzano? Do you think he won’t press his advantage?”
Vincent asked, “What if Luciano succeeds in greasing Maranzano?”
“That would take an act of God, I feel. It’s my place to plan for his inevitable failure.”
“Then what do you want from us?” Vincent pressed.
Catena stood. “O’Toole. Masseria wants to meet her face-to-face. I suggest the Julietta to avoid cries of indignance from the other families. Find her and bring her to the club.”
Lefty sneered. “We’re supposed to trust her now that we know she’s campaigning to take over Baltimore?”
“I expect you to abide by your Capo’s agreement to assist mine.”
Lefty maintained a steel-sharp glare. “And when my Capo hears that yours is conspiring with our enemies?”
“He’ll decide whether it’s worth angering Joe Masseria,” Catena snapped. “Do you think he cares whether it’s Vito Corbi or Brigid O’Toole running liquor in and out of Baltimore? Whatever it takes to secure the New York families is paramount. Now, the Baltimore Crew can attend with good faith in our agreement, or we will find alternatives.”
Lefty stood, pausing to brush off the front of his jacket. “My apologies. I hadn’t realized you were quite that desperate.”
Catena glared at Lefty as he turned to his men.
“We’ll find O’Toole,” Lefty declared as he led them to the door. “Julietta Social Club. Tonight work for you?”
Catena lingered for a moment, then answered, “Give Luciano a day, at least. He might get lucky.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Lefty tipped a finger to his hat.
Buddy opened the door for Lefty, and the two followed him out past the tellers’ desks and to the street.
Buddy half jogged beside them. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Catena’s putting his money on pincher power,” Vincent told him. “That’s what’s happening. We have to wrangle more pinchers before he’s satisfied. Same old song, different verse.”
Lefty sighed as he waited to cross an intersection. “One of these days, someone’s going to tell me exactly where this Brigid O’Toole came from.”
“Ireland, I think,” Vincent replied with a smirk.
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“So, now what?” Buddy asked.
Lefty nodded to the youth. “I need you at the Julietta. Talk to the manager, the maître d’. Whoever can get us a private room. I want to know where the exits are. How big the kitchen is. Is there a cellar access? Any way this could go sideways on us. Understand?”
Buddy stared at the ground, mouth twisted in disappointment.
Vincent put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, kid. If this O’Toole has these pinchers like they say she does, it’s possible one of them is…” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “One could be a light pincher.”
Lefty squinted at Vincent.
“A light pincher?” Buddy gasped.
“An illusionist. Don’t get rattled about missing that shot on Betty Sharp. Could be, you were aiming at an illusion the whole time and never knew.”
Buddy’s eyes grew wide and he shivered. “Really?”
With a nod, Vincent added, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid. We got ways of working around each other’s witchcraft. It’s a bag of nuts, and you gotta get over it and keep pressing forward.” He gave Buddy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Right?”
Buddy nodded, eyes still wide. “Right.”
“Go on,” Lefty urged.
Buddy took a cleansing breath, straightened his spine, then trotted back down the street to hail a cab.
Vincent turned to find Lefty staring at him.
“Light pincher, huh?” Lefty grumbled.
“Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe about this. I need to know what Miss Malloy is planning here.”
Vincent sighed. “You know how she is. Half the time I’m in the dark as much as you are.”
“Catch you boys at a bad time?” a voice called from the street.
Floresta trotted through the intersection to join them.
“I hear you’re on a snipe hunt,” Lefty called out.
Floresta waved him off. “Luciano’s sitting on it.”
“Right,” Vincent said. “Wouldn’t do to whack Maranzano before Masseria’s in the crosshairs.”
Floresta pulled him aside. “Lower your voice, ass.”
“Well, Catena’s got us playing matchmaker. Putting Masseria together with O’Toole.”
Floresta nodded. “He’s looking to fill a Lennie-shaped gap.”
Vincent sneered. “I can see you’re real choked up about him.”
“Don’t be a child. He was half here, to begin with. Drunk most of the time. Pissed at the world the rest of the time. We’re better off.”
“Catena doesn’t see it that way,” Vincent said.
Floresta shrugged. “Let him waste his time with O’Toole. If she’s really got a coterie of pinchers to make deals with, it’ll only help our plan.”
“You want Masseria loaded with magic?” Vincent asked. “Won’t that make it more difficult for Luciano when things go down?”
“Listen,” Floresta whispered. “Whatever deal Masseria hammers out with O’Toole, you can bet the bank he has no intention of following through. She may be a legitimate player, but as far as the Boss is concerned, she’s still just a dame. Let’s not get in a lather over this. It’s temporary.”
Lefty shook his head. “You might find this dame has more muscle than you do. Things aren’t always what they seem.”
Floresta smirked. “You might do well to remember that.”
He nodded to both before stepping up the block toward the bank.
They watched him for a moment before Lefty turned to Vincent. “Get the feeling we’re being dangled at the end of a hook?”
“Yep,” Vincent replied. “Getting tired of it, too. I’d rather be the hook.”
Chapter 23
Floresta and Vincent sidestepped between box cars to enter Maranzano’s rail yard. A recent rain had muddied up the ground, creating puddles of varying depth in the craters. As Vincent tread carefully toward the abandoned port authority warehouse, he kept an eye out for Betty Sharp.
Pockets Polizzi stepped out of the warehouse with a nod. “Thought you two would show up sooner or later.”
“Is he here?” Floresta called.
Two gunmen emerged from the warehouse entrance, choppers in hand but pointed to the ground. As they took positions on either side of Polizzi, Vincent held a hand out for Floresta to hold up.
“What’s going on?” Vincent asked.
Betty Sharp’s voice rang from the front of the rail yard, “Trying to figure out which side you’re on.”
He glanced over his shoulder to find Betty lounging atop a box car, flanked by more gunmen.
“Looks like we stepped right into a murder hole,” Vincent muttered.
Floresta lifted a hand. “Everyone, stay calm.”
Polizzi squinted. “We are calm. It’s been a good week. Masseria lost ’bout twice the men we did in his thunder-assed bluster. And he’s lost a pincher, to boot. The only thing to sour this fine affair is one question. Are the pinchers who were supposed to be on our side still on our side?”
“Is Maranzano here?” Floresta pressed. “We have news.”
“Answer his damned question,” Betty shouted.
“We�
�re on your side,” Vincent replied. “We had to march with Masseria to keep our cover.”
Betty sat up, pressing with fists against the boxcar roof. “And your little Ithaca cur? He dropped seven men by himself.” She slid off the train, landing with a hard splash of mud. “And nearly put one into my forehead.”
Vincent turned to face her. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
Her face, though twisted with anger, held something new. A flicker of uncertainty. A pang of fear that Vincent hadn’t seen in her since Ithaca.
Floresta shook his head. “You know how this sort of game works, Pockets. You want us on the inside? We gotta make nice with the enemy. Don’t get your shorts in a lather. You know better.”
Betty marched toward Vincent, scowling. “What made him miss? He’s a target pincher. How did he miss me?”
Before Vincent could reply, Floresta stepped toward Polizzi.
“How about you answer my question, now? Is Salvatore here?”
A voice called from the warehouse. “No stregone ever speaks to me that way.”
A thin man emerged from the darkened doorway. He wore a light gray suit with a white coat draped over his shoulders, to match his wide-brimmed hat. His face was cratered and aged, puckered near the corners of his eyes. A cigarette burned at the end of an ivory stem as he stepped carefully around a puddle.
Floresta bowed. “My apologies.”
Salvatore Maranzano nodded to the gunmen, and they slung their weapons over their shoulders.
“I do understand this game,” the old man declared. “And if you are truly with us, Floresta, then my adversary has but one stregone left.”
“I’m with you,” Floresta replied. “And I’ve come with a warning. Masseria has put out a hit on you. A personal hit. He’s suspended courtesy.”
Maranzano’s face cracked into a feeble grin. He gripped the cigarette holder between his teeth and reached for his lapel to slip a bright red flower from a button eye.
“A red dahlia,” he stated through clenched teeth before tossing it into the mud at Floresta’s feet. “He has made his intentions clear.”
Vincent turned to spy the flower on the ground.
Floresta leaned in to explain. “Red dahlia. It’s a formal language, like a code. Masseria has suspended the code of conduct by declaring a hit on Maranzano personally. This is his way of maintaining etiquette.”
Vincent peered at Maranzano. “Then you need to move to a safe location.”
The gunmen snickered as Maranzano’s grin broadened. “Dear boy, I’m not afraid of a beaten and desperate hound.”
“Masseria’s not the one you should be afraid of,” Floresta told him. “He’ll send Augustus Henry to do the deed. Right now, no one knows where he is. Even Luciano. The man lost his friend yesterday. He might be looking for some payback.” Floresta added with a squint, “You might wish he was the one who went over the side of the bridge. You’ll never see Henry coming, and I don’t think there’s a pincher here who’s equipped to stop him.”
Polizzi shrugged. “The gloves are off, Sparks. Masseria’s open game, now. If Henry wants to take his sweet time, then let him. Meanwhile, we’re coming for his boss.”
Betty slapped a hand against Vincent’s arm. “How did he miss? How did that kid miss killing me?”
“Quiet, woman! This is not your place to speak,” Maranzano snapped. With a gesture to one of his gunmen, he added, “Get her out of here!”
Vincent took in Betty’s expression…rage mixed with resignation. They had her cowed, thanks to Ithaca and Sebastian. But this could be an opportunity.
Vincent turned to Maranzano, “You should be thanking her, you know.”
Maranzano’s eyes crinkled into hard squints. “What?”
“She marched right onto that bridge,” Vincent explained. “Her glass wall meant Masseria’s men had to funnel through a small space to get to you, presenting themselves as easy targets. If it weren’t for Betty, you wouldn’t be in the position you are today.”
Maranzano made a quick gesture with his cigarette holder, and the gunmen returned to his side.
“It’s true, though,” Vincent continued. “Masseria crossed the line, and you can take him out. And since he’s the one who suspended courtesy, you’ll have the families behind you. But you can’t dismiss Augustus Henry. He’s motivated and dangerous. Not to mention, you’ll have to think past Masseria. What happens to his apparatus when he goes down? You’ll need talent to consolidate your power. Magical talent.”
“Your point?” Maranzano spat.
“Ithaca’s hamstrung. Getting pinchers from the farm is an agony and gets the families in a frenzy. There’s an option.” Vincent stepped forward. “Brigid O’Toole.”
Polizzi turned to explain, “The Irish woman I told you about.”
Maranzano nodded thoughtfully. “She is the one threatening the power in your city, no?”
“We’re not worried,” Vincent replied. “But she claims to have pinchers to spare. Whoever steps up to secure her partnership stands to inherit a windfall.”
Maranzano grinned. “And why would you volunteer this information? Is this not a betrayal of Vito Corbi?”
Vincent shook his head. “Oh, I have no delusions that you will actually follow through with any agreement you reach with O’Toole. She’s a cult of personality, but she is no leader.”
Floresta quickly picked up Vincent’s line of reasoning. “Secure her pinchers, take down Masseria, then eliminate O’Toole. You will, in one swift stroke, become the Capo di tutti Capi.”
Maranzano stared at the ground, eyes darting back and forth in thought.
Polizzi offered, “I’ve met the woman. She has the assets. But she’s a clever one, and I don’t think she’s satisfied with intermediaries.”
Maranzano declared, “I should meet with this woman personally?”
Floresta snickered. “Pockets isn’t exactly spit-polish. You’ll need a diplomatic touch.”
Maranzano mulled the thought over, then nodded. “Let us not rest on Masseria. We acquire stregone and kick the man while he’s down.”
Vincent bowed. “I’ll set up a meet with your glass pincher.”
He turned to Betty, who narrowed her eyes as Vincent ushered her back through the rail yard.
“What are you doing?” she snapped.
“Take it easy. The meet’s tomorrow night. Julietta Club,” Vincent whispered.
“Why do I care?”
He leaned as close as she would let him. “You want to know why my pincher missed you on the bridge? Brigid O’Toole, is why.”
Betty stiffened. “What?”
“You take a moment and think about that. She has people you’ll want to talk to. You’re only alive and standing here because of O’Toole.”
Her eyes searched his face with a wary intensity. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Believe it or not, I’m on your side.” He stopped and added with a nod, “Do us both a favor, and keep that to yourself. Huh? If you find both Maranzano and Masseria in the same room?”
She laughed. “That’ll never happen.”
“But if it does?”
“What are you—?”
Vincent leaned down to whisper. “We have people ready to take down your boss. You’ll have to be the one to take down Masseria. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Vincent stepped away, straightening his sleeve as Betty stood bewildered.
“Tomorrow night,” he added, then gave Floresta a nod as he approached.
The two exited the rail yard, heading back to Floresta’s car.
“Quick thinking,” Floresta said as they got in.
“Your plan’s back on track,” Vincent declared. “Both bosses will be at the Julietta tomorrow night.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“As sure as anyone can be. Listen, can you drop me off in Brooklyn Heights?”
Floresta eyed him with interest. “Why?”
“I
’ve just volunteered someone for something and I think they ought to know.”
Chapter 24
Hattie watched as Maria paced. She would have been up and pacing too, if she wasn’t still completely worn out. Keeping the illusion of Bridget O’Toole up for hours had been draining, even with the earrings to help, but when she’d cast an illusion of Betty over a gangster, made the original Betty invisible, and kept the O’Toole illusion up, it had been too much.
When that bullet had slammed through her illusion of Betty, killing the gangster, it had nearly killed her as well. She still wasn’t sure how she’d managed to make it off the bridge, but the one thing she did remember was that figure falling to his death from those heights.
“I went to the hotel, I asked as discretely as I could. I even snuck up and knocked on the door. He hasn’t been there. None of them have been there. Then I went to the bank where we met Catena, but I couldn’t get close because of all the activity, and I didn’t seem him there. Then I stopped by a speakeasy, and everybody was all abuzz about what happened on the bridge, but no one seemed to know exactly who died, or who it was that fell into the river.”
Hattie clamped her jaw tight to keep from crying. She could find out. She could get up and use an illusion to sneak into the bank and listen in on conversations. But she needed to recover from this morning’s exertions. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if she ran out still exhausted and barely able to hold an illusion for five minutes. She just had to hope Vincent was okay.
“But I did manage to pick this up.” She extended a cup with steaming tea inside. Hattie couldn’t help but smile, transported instantly back to her parents’ house. They always drank tea, and she’d forever associate the beverage with her childhood and comfort, even though she’d become Americanized enough to prefer coffee.
“Chamomile,” Maria told her. “Relaxing and soothing. My mother always made it for us at nights when we couldn’t sleep. It won’t make you groggy or anything, just help you relax a little. You drink this and rest, and I’ll go back out and look for Vincent. I swear I won’t be back until I hear what happened.”