by Koko Brown
“I guess we’re done here.” Ollie reached out to unlace his gloves. Shane backed away from him.
“I can do it myself.” Shane faced Ollie’s hurt look head on. He needed to get used to it because he’d see it again when he wound up breaking the old man’s heart. “I’m going to hit the showers.” He removed one glove tucked it under his arm, and then attacked the other.
“Sounds good.” Ollie hobbled over, picked up his hat, and placed it back on his head. “A good hot shower should clear your head.”
He needed more than a shower to clear his head. He needed to make things right.
***
The Parliament was a hive activity. Money exchanged hands quicker than the horses at Belmont Stakes. People cursed, others cried. A couple of lackeys recorded the days’ results on a monstrous chalk board, running half the length of the room.
Slot machines lined two walls and black jack and roulette tables peppered the main floor. At each and every game, some unlucky bastard, unaware that the odds were stacked heavily against them, was trying to beat the house.
Amazing, Shane mused as he picked his way through the throng. There was a raging recession and people still whittled away their money in gambling holes.
At the back of the room, Shane approached a steel door which broke up the monotony of games of chance. With clammy fingers, he pressed the buzzer per the doorman’s instructions. Almost instantly, a metal slat slid back.
“What’d ya want?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Ferruci.”
“Who are you?” The other man’s voice was so low and gravely, Shane could barely make out his Brooklyn accent.
“Sugar Shane Brennan.” Although he hated the moniker, Shane decided to throw it in. It was the only reason he’d gained entrance. Only people in the know or whales knew the whereabouts of Johnny Ferruci’s racket located in the basement of a butchery located in the meat packing district.
The pair of eyes peered at him. “You’s got an appointment?”
Shane shook his head.
“No appointment…no open sesame, capisce.”
“How do I get an appointment?”
The man sighed heavily. “You got to go through his secretary Marco Pirelli.”
“A secretary?” Shane ground his teeth. What was this the utilities department? “And how do I get to see Pirelli?” he asked with as much patience as he could muster.
“He’s upstairs,” then as if reading Shane’s mind, “but he ain’t seeing anyone today. Now scram,” he said then shut the metal slab.
Stunned, Shane didn’t move just kept staring at the immovable object in front of him. He was back at first base with no one to bat him in. He felt cornered, hemmed in and he didn’t like it one bit.
Embarrassed, furious and just feeling damned sorry for himself, Shane punched the door so hard his entire body reverberated.
Yeah, it was stupid, but he didn’t like feeling helpless or vulnerable. And he hadn’t felt that way since he was a child when his father used him as a punching bag.
Instead of checking his anger, Shane let it swell and fester until it clouded his better judgment. Hobbled with fury, he slowly turned around, a hot flush stealing up his collar. If he couldn’t get to Pirelli or Ferruci, then he’d make them to come to him.
He scanned the room, making note of Ferruci’s associates. Instead of gambling, they watched the tables. Few in number, Shane surmised he could take them if he had to.
Not wasting another minute on inaction, Shane stalked over to the nearest table. He bent his knees, grabbed the edge and flipped the table on end.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The dealer yelled.
“Trying to get noticed.”
While all three players fell to their knees and scooped up cash, Shane rushed another table. Seeing his approach, the dealer scrambled for his deck of cards. He was too slow.
Shane, head down and arms out, flipped the table so fast cards and money somersaulted in the air. Not only players from the table, but several people from nearby slot machines dove into the melee.
“Thanks, buddy!” one of the gamblers looked up from the floor and winked. “I was in the hole.”
Ignoring him and trying to keep out of Ferucci’s men, who’d finally woken up, Shane skirted the throng crawling around on all fours and set his sights on a craps table.
Made of cherry wood and lined with green felt, the thing looked heavy. Still, he could handle it. Grinning, Shane cupped the edge as he bent his knees.
“Heave h—”
The fist connected with his jaw, filling his head with stars. Shane stumbled back. About damn time! He was about to wreck the goddam place.
Another fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over, knocking the breath out of him. He barely had any time to regain his bearings when another fist uppercut him under his chin, spinning him around on his heels.
Sure, he could’ve recovered and dished out as good as he got. But Shane kept his hands down at his sides, accepting blow after blow until his knees eventually buckled and he sank to his knees.
His nose felt broken and his left eye was swelling. In spite of the pain coursing through his body all he could think of was Celeste.
“You had enough?” recognizing the man’s voice from behind the metal slab, Shane lifted his head and tried to smile, but his lip was busted.
“Feels like old times,” Shane paused to spit out blood. He barely managed it. From his cheekbones down, he couldn’t feel a thing. “Now do I get to see Pirelli.”
“Oh, you’s gonna see Mr. Pirelli all right!” The man guffawed. “But it might be the last face you’ll see before we put you to sleep permanently. Fellas pick him up.”
Shane stifled a groan as several pairs of hands lifted him up, hauled him across the room and up a flight of dimly lit stairs.
Shane wasn’t sure if his one good eye was playing tricks on him or if the stairwell was just poorly lit. He couldn’t even see his feet
At the top of the landing a three-hundred pound meatball materialized out of the darkness. With heavy bags under his eyes and jowls rivaling a walrus, the man looked like death warmed over.
“Open the door Salvatore. We got a present for Marco.”
The next few moments happened so fast, Shane fought a wave of dizziness as they ushered him inside and dumped him unceremoniously in one of two leather chairs before a large desk.
They even held his arms down as if he had enough power in his limbs to escape. The thought made Shane laugh. His amusement was only fleeting because the task hurt too much.
“Is this him?”
Marco Pirelli didn’t look up from counting what looked like receipts. Elegantly dressed in a navy pin-striped suit, and streaks of gray threading his dark hair, Pirelli reminded Shane of one of those egg and butter men on Madison Avenue.
A couple of books lay scattered across his desk along with several stacks of billets, but what caught Shane’s eye was a full service porcelain tea set sitting at the other end of the desk.
“This is him. Hope you don’t mind me and the boys working him over a bit before bringing him up.”
“Figured as much.” Pirelli kept counting. Unlike Ferruci’s other men, his voice was devoid of an accent and his voice rolled softly off his tongue. “Now who do I owe the pleasure of this acquaintance?”
A hand dug into his shoulder, and Shane grimaced. “Shane Brennan,” he bit out.
Pirelli’s hand stopped midcount. He set the receipts off to the side and looked up, finally meeting Shane’s gaze with a set of piercing gray eyes.
Despite his elegant attire and deep olive tan, there was something cold about Ferruci’s secretary. So much so, Shane was glad Pirelli hadn’t dealt out the punishment or he would be sinking to the bottom of the Hudson right now.
“Sugar Shane Brennan?”
Shane gritted his teeth as he nodded.
Pirelli’s gaze shifted to a point behind Shane. “You fucking idiots. You almost beat our top card to
death.” Pirelli jumped up, tea cup in hand. He hauled back and pitched it, cracking one of Shane’s assailant’s in the head. “Don’t you guys know this guy has a bout in the Garden next month?”
“W-we didn’t know, Marco. Honest.” The man behind the metal slab spoke up. Handkerchief in hand, he wiped at the blood running down his forehead. “We-we just thought he was some loon trying to bust up the place.”
Pirelli waved the man’s excuse away. “Get the fuck outta here. All of you.”
“But what if tries something?”
“Does he look like he’s going to try something? He can barely keep his head up.”
Pirelli waited for his men to leave before he sat back down. He straightened his desk a little before giving Shane his full attention again.
“Would you like some tea?” He asked as if they were old friends. “There are lady fingers as well.” He pointed to a plate of powdered cookies. “Salvatore picked them up fresh this afternoon.”
Resisting the urge to roll his one good eye, Shane declined. He couldn’t wrap a tea cup around his lips even if he tried.
“Your loss,” Pirelli said, sitting back with a tea cup in one hand, a cookie in the other. “So what brings you to our humble establishment?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Ferruci,” Shane mumbled, his lip was swelling by the minute.
Pirelli’s eyes narrowed. “You busted up the place to see Mr. Ferruci? Kind of counterproductive don’t you think?”
Shane tried to shrug, but it hurt too bad. He prayed to God those buffoons didn’t break any ribs. “It’s an end to a means.”
“Does Gould know you’re here?”
“No.”
Pirelli sat back with a protracted sigh. He took several sips of his tea then set it back in the saucer, so gently one could hear a pin drop.
“The only reason I’m going to do you this favor,” he said, picking up a pen, “is because Mr. Ferruci is going to want you reimburse him for this hit to both his pocket and his reputation.”
If his bottom lip wasn’t so fat, Shane would’ve smiled. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet. Slightly dizzy from the sudden rush of blood to his head, he reached for the back of the chair. “Is he next door?”
“His office is, but he’s not.” Shane’s stomach dropped to his shoes and he sat back down. “But I’ll set up a meeting so the two of you can speak as soon as he gets back.” Pirelli flipped the page of a desk calendar and then scribbled in Shane’s name.
“December twenty-first,” Shane balked, reading the date. “Where’s he gone Mars?”
Pirelli set the pen down with a flourish. “Mr. Ferruci’s gone to the old country to visit family… and to take care of some business.”
“But the fight’s the day after Christmas!”
Pirelli waved away Shane’s concern with a flip of his hand. “He’ll be back before the fight. He never misses a card.”
Not liking it one bit, the wheels in his head started to spin. There had to hundreds of wise guys on the island.
“Take my advice and wait it out, kid. You don’t want to go getting yourself indebted to half of Manhattan.”
The man’s advice made sense. He was already up to his neck in debt. So much so, he could feel the noose tightening.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“It’s four o’clock, Miss Celeste.”
Maggie stood just inside the doorway to the sitting room, wrapping a wool scarf around her head. “The dishes are done and I put your laundry on the bureau how you like it. There’s a hot plate in the oven when you’re ready to eat.”
Celeste shut the book she was pretending to read and pasted on a smile. She hoped it was enough to keep the other woman’s concerns at bay. She wasn’t up for questions. “Thanks for everything, Maggie. Have a good night.”
Unfortunately, her housekeeper wasn’t ready to go home because she hesitated in the doorway.
“I know it’s none of my business, but what happened to your beau, Mr. Brennan? He hasn’t come around in a couple of days.”
Try five.
She hadn’t seen hide or hair of Shane for almost a week. The first night had been hell, sitting at a dinner table set for two for almost four hours, now his absence felt like a dull ache. Celeste hugged the book to her chest.
“I have no idea where he is and I don’t care,” she lied. “I guess he’s had his fun and moved on.”
Her expression dubious, Maggie planted her hands on her hips. “Doubt he had his fun that quick. He seemed mad about you, more so than you. Good thing too considering how handsome he was. A man that big and fine would lead a woman to searching the streets high and low with a flashlight.”
Maggie bent over at the waist, one hand extended, the other cupped over her brow, pantomiming a one-woman search party.
Laughing at her housekeeper’s antics, Celeste uncurled herself from the settee. “Well, I’m not that kind of woman. I have a career and I don’t need a man to complete me.”
Maggie cocked her head. “You’re what those drugstore novels call a modern woman aren’t you?”
The way she said ‘modern’ and ‘woman’ made them sound like dirty words. Even if she didn’t need to defend herself, Celeste’s tongue had a mind of its own.
“There’s more to life than babies and a man.”
“No, nothing wrong with having a career. God made us all equal, some more than others, but he didn’t make us an island. We thrive in each other’s company. And no amount of money and prestige will keep you warm at night.”
“So basically you’re telling me to keep the candle burning in the window. Give him the benefit of the doubt for why I haven’t heard from him in five days.”
“I’m not telling you to hold out too long, but if you like your young man you should give him the benefit of the doubt. Heck, I would even seek him out, find out what happened. There could be a good plausible excuse for why he hasn’t shadowed your doorstep. And you better do it before some other woman will.”
And be a double fool. No way, no how. Bristling, Celeste sat back down and reopened her book.
Maggie lingered in the doorway, but Celeste refused to acknowledge her any further. “Well I better go. You don’t pay me to be a philosopher.”
“See you tomorrow bright and early,” Celeste said still not looking up. As far as she was concerned the conversation was over.
Unfortunately it didn’t die a quick death.
An hour later, Celeste still fretted over the conversation, especially the part about another woman.
Was that the reason why Shane never showed up for dinner the other night and why she hadn’t heard from him since?
Celeste set her book aside and rested her head in her hands. Why did she even entertain the old busy body? Celeste had cataloged Shane right along with the rest of her mistakes.
Nooo! Maggie had to put a different spin on things.
Vexed, Celeste stood. Was she overreacting? Could there be a perfectly logical reason for his disappearance? Or had he simply played her the whole time? And if he’d moved on, why couldn’t she?
Deep down, Celeste knew she wouldn’t get any peace until she had some closure. Mind made up, she walked into the front hall and pulled out her overcoat.
Celeste took a local bus north from Fort Greene to the Navy Yard. Normally, she would’ve traveled by foot, but a light snow had started to fall, blanketing the sidewalks with white powder.
The temperature had dropped as well and with a show in less than six weeks there was no way she was going to risk her big break with a case of pneumonia.
She alighted at Flushing Avenue, then walked the short distance to the Navy Yard Athletic Club.
Celeste had no earthly clue where Shane lived. If she’d been quicker on the jump, a half hour earlier, she could have caught him finishing up his daily conditioning. So she was hoping someone from the gym could point her in the right direction.
Already acquainted with the place, Celeste didn’t linger in the
front lobby. She walked down the short hall into the open gym.
Other than a couple of fighters sparring in a corner ring and a young boy sweeping the floor, the place was deserted.
Pot-bellied and needing a shave, the welcome wagon strolled out of a side office. Celeste remembered the cantankerous bastard from the last time she’d paid a visit. Before she could turn heel, his voice rang out. “Don’t you read?”
“I can read and write.” Out of the corner of her eye, Celeste noticed the boy had abandoned his chore and took an interest in their conversation.
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, getting right up in her face. Even though her palm itched to slap the cigar out of his mouth, Celeste greeted his reticence with a steely resolve. This jerk had nothing to do with her and Shane so she refused to let him run her off.
“I’m looking for Shane Brennan.”
“I know who you’re looking for, toots.” His gaze raked over her in a way that made her feel dirty. “He ain’t here.”
Dirty looks aside, Celeste wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Earlier today.”
So he hadn’t left town. Celeste’s heart soared and then tumbled at the news. “Can you tell me how I can get in touch with him? Maybe I can have his address.”
The man’s gaze drifted to the loading dock door. “Not possible. He’d have my dick in a sling if I did.”
What was he trying to hide? Was Shane with another woman?
Celeste didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but she wasn’t born on Monday. She’d played this game of Hide and Seek with countless men. Now with the shoe on the other foot, she wished she could go back and apologize to every single one.
“Peter, do me a favor,” the curmudgeon barked, catching the kid off guard, making him drop his broom. “Escort this lady outta here and lock the door behind her.”
He’d dismissed her, the old coot. Head held high and not waiting on her escort, Celeste marched back the way she came with the boy struggling to keep up.
“Excuse me, miss.”
“What?” Celeste didn’t mean to bite the kid’s head off, but she wasn’t feeling rather amicable at the moment.
