“You know I’d come whenever you ask, Mr. Hart.”
“Did you bring what I requested?”
“Sure, sure. Here it is.” Sean shifted his hat nervously to his left hand and reached into his pocket with his right. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it over the desk. Mr. Hart opened it and dipped a finger into the powder, rubbing it on his gums before putting the packet away in his desk drawer.
“See? Didn’t I say it was good stuff?”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sean. I don’t have much experience in this sort of thing.”
Sean crushed the brim of his hat between his hands. “Have you figured out what to do with it, Mr. Hart?”
“Well, yes, Sean. I have. Mrs. Hart and I are going to give a party. A very exclusive party. And we’re going to share it with our friends.”
“But how are Mickey and me gonna get paid?”
“Well, Sean, you’ll just have to trust me on this. After our friends try it, I’m sure they’ll want to buy larger quantities. And you’ll get your money eventually.”
“Um… Mr. Hart. I don’t think Mickey’s gonna go for that. Like I said, he wants us to get the money up front. He’s not gonna like giving it to you and getting paid later.”
“Don’t you trust me, Sean?”
“Sure, sure, I trust you. But Mickey don’t know you like I do. He’s not the type to trust many folks.”
“How much money are we talking about, Sean?”
“Five thousand dollars, Mr. Hart.” Mickey took a deep breath and continued in a rush. “That’s how much we figured it’s worth. Course, you’d probably be able to sell it for a lot more than that to your friends. But that’s what Mickey and me want.”
“That’s a great deal of money, Sean. Particularly since you and Mickey haven’t been able to sell it. I think it might be worth quite a bit less. Say, two thousand.”
Sean was afraid it might go this way. He had a hard time standing up to Mr. Hart, but he’d promised Mickey.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hart. But that’s what Mickey says we gotta get before he’ll give me the rest of the cocaine. He’s got it hid and I don’t even know where it is any more.”
“Be reasonable, Sean. If I don’t take it off your hands, it’s worth nothing, don’t you think? I’ll give you twenty-five hundred. I think that’s very reasonable.”
Sean shifted uncomfortably. “All right, Mr. Hart. You get us the money and we’ll get you the cocaine.”
“I can give you a thousand when you deliver the cocaine and the rest when I’ve sold it.”
“Oh, that’s not gonna work, Mr. Hart. I told ya.”
“You have to trust me, Sean. I don’t know that I can lay my hands on that much in a short period of time. But you know I’ll be good for it.”
“I do trust you, Mr. Hart. But Mickey is worried. He wants to get the money as soon as he can.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t get the money, Sean, just that it wasn’t that easy. Give me a couple of days and I’ll have figured it out by then.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hart. I’ll do that.”
“Now, here are your tickets for tomorrow.” Mr. Hart handed him an envelope. “I’ve noted where my seats are and I want you to arrive at least an hour before the fight and keep an eye on them for me. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Hart. Don’t worry about a thing.” Sean knew that he’d been dismissed as Mr. Hart went back to the work at his desk. He let himself out of the library and walked quickly to the front of the house. Harmon, the butler, was waiting for him by the door. Sean didn’t know what he was going to say about the money, but he knew Mickey wasn’t going to like it.
Chapter Eight
Morelli
Early Friday Morning
It was cold in the office. Morelli sat up on the couch, pulling his robe around him, but didn’t bother to turn on a light. He leaned back and could feel the bottle of rye he’d stashed under the cushion last night. He wanted another drink badly. Morelli grabbed it and brought it to his mouth, greedy to wash away the bad taste, but there was nothing there to sooth his thirst. It was empty.
Cursing, he tossed the bottle toward the trashcan in the corner. The shot was good, and made a ringing sound as it rolled around the can. Morelli slipped a hand into the pocket of his robe and pulled out the old railroad watch he’d gotten when his Dad died. He didn’t know where his Dad had gotten it; he’d never worked on the railroad. Holding it up to the light from the window, he peered at the hands. Five o’clock in the damn morning. What a night to run out of booze.
He fumbled in a drawer for his tobacco and his battered army lighter. Lighting his cigarette in the dark, the ember glowed bright red in the dim light from the alley. Memory hit him like a flood. Gladys Hart. He smelled vanilla. It was as if she was here in front of him again, her pale face smiling up at him from under her hat. He couldn’t quite figure her out. Hesitant at first, then coy, then cold as ice. He didn’t know what to make of her. Was she playing him somehow? The memory of her warm hand in his, the smell of her hair when she stood close, made his gut clench.
Then he remembered the money. He grabbed his pants where they hung over the back of the chair she’d used. Rummaging through the pockets, he came up with the scented card and his wallet filled with ten crisp twenties. He put the card into the top drawer of his desk and was left holding the twenties, fanned out in his hands. He rubbed them together, listening to the seductive whisper they made. He sat down where she had sat, imagining her cool and her heat, the vanilla scent.
Shaking his head to clear it, he crushed out his cigarette, then rose and put on his clothes. He stacked the twenties on the chair beside him, admiring what a neat pile they made. He took the lamp and the ashtray off the desk and set them on the chair.
Grabbing hold of the front of the desk, Morelli jerked it heavily to the side, uncovering the rug that hid the most important aspect of this office, the safe. When he’d hung out his shingle, he’d looked all over for an office. He chose this one over the others because of the floor safe, thinking he might need it someday. Otten had said it had belonged to the previous jeweler but it was too small for him now. He had a much bigger safe downstairs in the back of the store.
Morelli had to admit his expectations were high back in those days. He went right out and got his Dad’s enormous old desk out of storage. After a little carpentry, the desk and the threadbare rug under it had become perfect camouflage for the safe.
He pulled back the rug, spun the dial on the safe, and pulled up on the sunken handle. It popped right up. He dropped eight of the twenties on top of his police revolver, which was wrapped in an oil-soaked rag, sitting beside two boxes of ammunition. The gun hadn’t been fired since he left the force. He kept it to remind himself of the bad times, and it did just that. He spun the dial and locked it up before pulling the rug back in place.
Standing, he put the remaining twenties in his wallet. Then he pushed the desk back into position. Nobody was ever gonna find it. He replaced the lamp and the ashtray, and went to pick up his cigarette, forgetting he had finished it. Well, he didn’t need to smoke any more anyway.
Outside, it began to rain. Sunrise never came. Gutters backed up, making their own gurgling music, and spilled water and debris into the street. Looking at his watch again, Morelli decided it was time for some breakfast and then get to work. He pulled on his coat and locked the door as he left.
Chapter Nine
The Cops
Friday Mid-morning
Flarrity broke through the crowd of uniforms on the steps of the Third Precinct. They were clearly placing bets on tonight’s fight. They would make book with their own and then go out and harass anyone else they could catch doing it. Flarrity shook his head. The whole town was mad with Dempsey fever. He didn’t have any money he was willing to lose, so he didn’t bother placing a wager, legal or not.
The desk sergeant glanced at him, but didn’t greet him. Flarrity had transferred into the Third
just a few weeks earlier and the men didn’t know what to do with him. He had a reputation in the Nineteenth of being a good cop, not one who rocked the boat, someone who was working his way up. But his loyalties lay with Richard Enright, the police commissioner, and everyone knew it. Politics had shifted and Enright had sent down orders to move some of his men to various precincts where his influence needed to be bolstered. That’s what brought Flarrity to the Third and seen him paired up with the Bull.
Flarrity didn’t take it personally. It took time to get to know the men and for them to trust him. That trust was the most important thing they had going for them. They risked their lives every day and they had to know their fellows were trustworthy.
He put his hat down on his desk, clearing a spot beside the files he was going through. They were all cases which hadn’t been solved, in fact, hadn’t gone anywhere in a long time. He’d pulled them to see what sort of crime had been going on in this precinct. He had seen the list of solved crimes, but as far as he was concerned, it was the unsolved list that showed the underside of the place. Were they unsolved for lack of effort or luck, or worse, buried for political reasons? Not that he planned to look too far into the dark corners, but he felt he needed to know where those corners were and who might lurk in them. He didn’t want to turn his back on the wrong ones.
“Flarrity. Going tonight?” The Bull walked up and sat on the edge of Flarrity’s desk, knocking his hat to the floor, and threatening to send all the files cascading after it. Flarrity grabbed for a stack of files and stacked them away from Bull’s reach.
“Nah, gonna have enough to do tomorrow cleaning up the mess that’s gonna happen.”
“What do you mean? You ain’t in charge of cleaning anything up.”
“Don’t you think there are going to be a few sore losers, regardless of who wins? Or bookies who took the wrong bets? A few somebodies who drink too much and take out their losses on the guy sitting next to them in a bar, or standing next to them on the street? It’s going to be a madhouse out at the Polo Grounds, and I don’t want to be part of it until after they’re done fighting each other.
“You’re such a sap, Flarrity. No spunk at all. How the hell did you make detective? I’ve never met such a palooka.”
Flarrity ignored the insults. “You working the crowd tonight, Bull?”
“You kidding? I’m sitting with the big boys tonight.”
“Really? And who might that be?” Flarrity still wasn’t sure where the Bull’s loyalties lay. Where was he headed? Because Flarrity knew he was climbing the ladder over any bodies that might get in his way.
“Working security for Murray Hulbert.” Bull had a smug look on his face.
“Docks commissioner?”
“Not just that. Acting mayor. And he’s gonna be the real mayor any day now.”
“You don’t say?”
“Sure do. And then we’ll see what’s what.” The Bull stood up and clapped Flarrity on the back. “We’ll just see.”
“Well, before that happens, why don’t we get back to some business. I got a tip that Mickey MacElwaine is out of the joint and back in town.”
“He’s what, a driver for the White Hands?”
“Was before he got sent up for something he might not have done. He took the fall for that liquor heist last spring and spent six months upstate cooling his heels. Would have been longer if they’d been able to actually catch him with any of the hooch, but they only got him on driving the truck away from the docks. The hooch was long gone by then.”
“So why are we looking at him now?” The Bull wasn’t known as a forward thinker. Flarrity took a deep breath and tried to explain it to him.
“You remember that boat, the Lorraine Rita, that was caught off Stamford and brought into Liberty Dock in Greenpoint last week?”
“I don’t pay much attention to all them rum runners. Every one we bring in, seems like there are three or five or seven more in its place. What’s so special about this Lorna Rose?”
“That’s the “Lorraine Rita,” two hundred feet long and one of the fastest boats out there running rum. She’s been brought in once before, but only by luck. We don’t have too many boats that’ll outrun her. Anyway, they found over two hundred cases of whiskey on her, which they confiscated.”
“I wouldn’t mind confiscating a few of those myself.”
“Let me finish.” Flarrity opened a file as if to check. “The report isn’t too specific, but there seemed to be something more on board than just booze.”
“Like what?”
“Drugs.”
“Really? These guys are branching out, are they?” Bull cracked his knuckles and looked over at the station clock, like he was ready to go.
“Well, that’s the funny thing. The report says they found something, but the list of inventory at the station doesn’t mention anything other than the whiskey. And one more thing.”
“What’s that?” The Bull sounded truly bored by now.
“Our little driver, Mickey MacElwaine, was seen in the vicinity of the docks that night. I’m wondering whether he’s got anything to do with this. I’ve had a man out looking for him and just got word about an apartment on Downing Street. I want to go take a look.”
“Sure thing, Flarrity. And let’s stop off for a drink on the way. All this talk of whiskey has made me thirsty.” The Bull stood up with a deep laugh, full of false camaraderie.
Flarrity grabbed his hat and followed his partner out the door. If he could get a line on the Irish mob and their smuggling operation, he was going to be getting somewhere. Although, he was going to have to keep an eye on his partner, who seemed to have his own plans on getting ahead.
Chapter Ten
Morelli
Morelli’s office was located in a red-brick, four-story walk-up downtown on Park. Place that is, not Avenue. Unlike his client, he couldn’t afford a fancier address. He was lucky to get a place on the second floor. Clients might not be desperate enough to climb any higher for his services.
The first floor of the building was taken up by Otten’s store. Ottensluffer’s Fine Jewels, to be exact. That’s what the sign outside read, but everyone called him Otten. Morelli didn’t even know his first name. Otten wasn’t just his landlord. He hired Morelli to collect some of his debts now and then. It helped pay the rent. He also let him use the phone and get messages at the store. This morning the only one in the place was Marlena, Otten’s wife, who worked in the store as a secretary. Otten liked to handle the customers himself, but Marlena was good with the books.
“New dress?” Morelli asked her, as he entered the office at the rear of the store.
“Yes, it is,” she chirped, “and thank you for noticing. You’d think Otten would notice some nice things about me like you do, wouldn’t you? It’s always you that notices the nice things. If Otten were around, all he’d say would be “Yah, yah, Marlena” and go right on counting his money. Counting his money, just like it’s more important than me.”
Morelli laughed at her perfect mimic of Otten.
“Can I use your phone, Otten’s sweet thing? I need to call my pal, Danny.”
“Oh, sure, you can use it. You know you can. You even know where the phone is.” She winked at him as she moved away from the desk and out into the store.
Morelli watched her sway as she left. She always smiled for him when he paid attention to her, but he’d never do more than talk. He wouldn’t do that to Otten, but he did like to watch Marlena’s round bottom sashay across the room.
Morelli picked up the phone and dialed Danny’s number.
“Hey, Petucci,” he said, when Danny answered the phone. “I have some work for ya.”
“Say, that’s switch.”
“Sure is. Got a new client that wants me to find her wandering husband. If he’s not where she thinks he is, I’m going to need a car and some extra feet to track him down.”
“No problem. Where shall I meet ya?”
“Why don’t y
ou just come by here tomorrow morning? I’m not sure where my tracks are gonna take me today.”
“What about tonight? You working the fight? You don’t wanna miss that for anything.”
“No dice. Townsend put in the fix and they wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.
“That makes no sense. They need every man they can get. Why don’t you just come with me and I’ll fix it.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble. I got a client now, so I’m doin’ okay.”
“It’s not about the mazuma, buddy; it’s the fight of the century. No trouble for me. Just meet me at Gate D at four thirty.”
“Well, then, thanks and I’ll see ya. And about tomorrow, can you bring the car and meet me here at eleven?”
“Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem at all.”
“Thanks, pal.” Morelli replaced the phone and left the office. He waved at Otten, who was talking to a customer, as he left. Now it was time to check out the address that Mrs. Hart had given him for the redhead.
Morelli walked out into the thick of the morning rush, which began about seven and only got worse. People spilled into the city from the boroughs, the islands and the coast—by bridge, tunnel and ferry. The main streets were filled with cars, trolleys and horse-drawn carriages, all jockeying for position. Normally, he tried to avoid the crush. Since coming home from France, noisy crowds bothered him.
Today, however, he wasn’t thinking about the trenches. He was surrounded by the city he loved: the tall buildings and sharp architecture, the bright colors and sounds of commerce. Stepping into the crowds of people moving along the street, he fell into their rhythm, thinking how alive he felt in New York. He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, and with his collar turned up against the wind and the rain, he turned north onto Broadway.
Quickly, he was cursing himself for having thrown away his worn-out rubbers last year and never replacing them. He hated what the rain and gutter mud did to the shine on his shoes. As he walked along, the rain stopped, but not the wind. Leaving his collar up, he snapped up the brim of his hat to see where he was going. Coming to a corner, Morelli stopped and picked up some wet newspapers to wipe off his shoes. The crowd flowed around him, like water around a boulder, intent on their separate destinations.
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