The Grandmaster’s Legacy: Masters of Love and War (A Taylor Lee HOT Historical Romantic Suspense Collection) (The Grandmaster's Legacy)

by Taylor Lee

  With a laconic toss of his head, the sheriff replied, “It’s a little early in the century, Greg, to give last night’s event that degree of infamy, but who knows, you might be right. Tell you one thing I do agree with you on, and that is that it took one hell of a pair of cajones to do what the Frenchman did.”

  Painfully aware that he was the one who had to explain their defeat not only to the governor but to the goddamn mob, Greg bit back his fury and upped the ante with the sheriff. By Christ, if Jim Thompson wasn’t afraid of Aldo Marcello, he goddamn well better be.

  “Since you are sanguine about this whole affair, Jim, I presume you have an explanation for the New York business leaders who not only had their property razed to the ground and twenty of their employees burned to death, but, as an aside, had over $100,000 of merchandize stolen from them.”

  The sheriff openly guffawed.

  “For Christ’s sakes, Greg, would those ‘business leaders’ you refer to be the goddamn mob? And those employees? Any chance they were the same ‘employees’ who shot to death five johns last week and were being arraigned for murder? Think about it, Greg. If it hadn’t been for their ‘employers’ who put up an astronomical bail, the unlucky assholes would have been in my jail instead of being charred like roast pigs on a barbecue spit in last night’s fire.”

  At that point, Sheriff Thompson pulled his horse to a stop and positioned himself in front of the Martin and Greg. His face was tight with anger and his eyes flashed a clear warning.

  “Even though you are a lawyer, Greg, you may need a refresher course in the limits of the law. As you well know, we didn’t have a subpoena and had no legal right to go on Bai’s property without his permission. And one more thing, Greg, I don’t know any law in this land or any other civilized country that would classify fifty children forced to work as prostitutes as merchandise.”

  Greg knew he was treading close to the edge of the sheriff’s infamous temper, but Martin Quince, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, jumped in.

  “For Christ sakes, Jim, you aren’t that stupid. You know goddamn well that the mob will want answers and they will want the Frenchman and his band of Chink hooligans held accountable for the crime they committed. I can assure you that on behalf of the governor and myself, we will make it clear to the New York business leaders that our local lawmen weren’t up to the job.”

  Sheriff Thompson moved his horse up within inches of the insufferable lieutenant governor. His voice was soft, controlled.

  “Are you threatening me, Martin?”

  Martin’s face reddened and he mumbled something under his breath.

  “Look, Jim, all Greg and I are saying is that you had the guy dead to rights and you let that arrogant prick ride roughshod over you. And someone is going to have to pay the consequences.”

  The sheriff didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his horse back to the road and made a point of riding up next to Marshal York and Tom Creighton, who chose not to get involved in the angry conversation between Greg and the sheriff.

  Greg was furious with the sheriff. His refusal to arrest Bai or retrieve the young girls made his job exponentially more difficult. By God, he would find a way to make sure that the sheriff got the blame, not him. But at this moment, he wasn’t about to let the son of a bitch have the last word

  Ignoring the sheriff, he caught up with Marshal York.

  “Do you have anything to say, marshal, since your colleague seems to have thrown in the towel and has more respect for a Chink warlord than he does for the law?”

  The sheriff snorted at Greg’s outrageous comment and replied with a derisive grin.

  “I gotta say, Greg, you seem to be taking this incident a mite personally. While I don’t appreciate your misstatement of my position, I will ignore it and chalk it up to your obvious envy of Bai. But then Elena McManus is without a doubt the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. It must rankle like hell that she chose a Chink warlord, or was that a Chink hooligan, over a fine, upstanding full blooded American like you.”

  Chuckling at the flush of rage on Greg’s face, the sheriff’s grin spread across his wrinkled face.

  “But I will grant you one of your assumptions. Given a choice between aligning with the mob or the Frenchman, you can be damn sure I will choose the Frenchman. You might want to take Bai’s advice and seek his protection. Marcello isn’t gonna take this lying down. They are going to need scapegoats and upstanding politicians like our fair lieutenant governor here and even you might be temping candidates. As for myself, I will take the Frenchman up on his offer of protection. He’s done a hell of a job to date, and if the mob gets their heads outa their asses, they will know they’ve been outmanned.”

  Greg didn’t try to hide his anger. Ignoring the sheriff, he turned again to Pete York.

  “You didn’t answer me, marshal? Whose side are you on? The arrogant asshole who committed the crime or the group that was wronged?”

  Marshal York looked at him from half-lidded eyes and said, “The mob or the Frenchman? You gotta be kidding, Greg. The mob doesn’t stand a chance.”

  With that, the sheriff and the marshal urged their horses forward and rode off with Tom Creighton, leaving Greg and the lieutenant governor sputtering behind in the distance.

  Greg’s fury threatened his breath. Gasping for air, he grabbed hold of the discipline that had made him what he was. A hard grimace tugged at his mouth. A sheriff’s life was hazardous. Somehow, Jim Thompson, to date, had survived the dangers that came his way. Greg’s grimace became a grin. Maybe so. What he couldn’t and wouldn’t survive was Greg.

  ~~~

  Greg and Martin pulled up in front of the governor’s mansion and turned their horses over to the stable master.

  Martin wiped the sweat off his face with a soiled handkerchief and, huffing and puffing, tried to keep up with Greg, who was striding ahead, clearly angry.

  “Look Greg, I know it looks like the Frenchman got a bit of a jump here, but you and I know where the real power is. That doesn’t mean the Chink bastard isn’t dangerous. What we need to do is make sure that Aldo and the boys know we did our damndest and it’s that chicken shit sheriff and marshal that are causing the problem. I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna insist that Aldo up our take. When I think about the shit we have to put up with and that fuckin’ Chink looking over our shoulder, I don’t think we’re getting paid what we are worth. And, goddamn, I think I’ll tell Aldo that to his face.”

  He stopped for a moment to mop his face and seemed to rethink his bravado.

  “Or since you talk to him more than I do, maybe you should ask him for a bigger cut.”

  Greg choked back his fury and barely hid his disgust for the fat man beside him. The obsequious, cowardly piece of shit wouldn’t know Aldo Marcello if he walked up and introduced himself by name. And the overbearing little asshole waltzed around acting as though he was on a first name basis with the Costa Nostra leaders. Goddamn, maybe I should tell Aldo that the whole fucking mess was Martin’s fault and have one of Aldo’s men wipe Martin out.

  Christ, just his luck to get stuck with a fucking bastard like Martin as his foil. But Marcello had insisted. Greg had to give those Eastern gangsters credit. Like Greg, they could sniff out a corrupt politician with buckshot up their noses. But, let’s face it, Martin’s stench wasn’t hard to track. The mob liked having the high level, visible pricks in their pocket and the closer they were to the top, the better. But the mob figured out in short order that the only thing Martin had to offer was a big mouth, a small brain, and a smaller pair of balls.

  It didn’t help Martin that Greg used every opportunity he had to undermine Martin’s credibility and exalt his own. As disgusting as he was, Martin was a useful pawn for Greg. Until he was ready to take him out, Greg used Martin as a buffer, a scapegoat. A comment here, a shrug of a shoulder there, or with a distressed smile, he made sure Martin got the responsibility for the fuck ups while Greg insinuated himself gracefully into t
he victories.

  It took Greg a couple of years to worm his way to the mob’s top echelon. Two years ago, he suggested a scheme that was phenomenally successful—and lucrative. Marcello had been undyingly grateful. Greg was uninterested in gratitude. A third of Aldo’s take was enough for now.

  In Greg’s humble opinion, no one was as smart as he was or, frankly, as unscrupulous. Unlike Martin’s overbearing bluster, on the surface Greg was smooth, cordial, and seemingly deferential. He played the back room, always dealing from the bottom of the deck. The only person he hadn’t been able to outsmart, or fool with his flattering exterior was the Frenchman. But now that he had Aldo Marcello’s muscle behind him, it was only a matter of time.

  Shoving his anger down to his roiling gut, Greg pasted a disingenuous smile on his face. In as nonchalant a voice as he could muster, he said, “You are no doubt correct, Martin. We are not being paid at the level we should be given our expertise and the dangers we face. However, at this point, we should deal with first things first and the next thing we need to do is report to the governor.”

  “And then,” he added with a grim sigh, “we will need to decide what the hell we’re going to tell Aldo.”

  He added with an unctuous smile, “As always, I’m pleased to write the report, but given the importance of the issue, you should be the one to sign it.”

  Martin’s fat chest puffed out, a preening peacock. He patted Greg on the arm and said with a solicitous grin,

  “Of course, Greg. With a matter this important, the report should come from me, given who I am—my position. But you write it up. I never was good at those clerk duties.”

  Greg stifled an angry retort and contented himself, imagining how he would kill the fat pretentious prick. A bullet would be too simple—not violent or painful enough. But Greg didn’t like to get his hands dirty; he didn’t have a weekly manicure for nothing. No, it would need to be a bullet – or maybe several bullets. Given Martin’s pea sized brain, it would be better to start with his heart and then several shots straight between his eyes – or maybe one in each eye.

  Chapter 12

  The sweet smell of opium filled the room and softened the faces of the bleary eyed girls sprawled in unseemly half naked mounds on the bare floor. If any of them heard the old man’s furious invective, they ignored it, sunk in blessed oblivion.

  “God damn you to hell, Pauli. You fucking, ignorant piece of pig shit.”

  Pauli, the trembling object of the tirade and the unlucky messenger who brought the news, kept his eyes downcast, risking an unseen blow rather than face the hideous wrath of the man berating him.

  The outraged man was short, slight; at first glance, an old man pounding on the table with clenched fists. He looked more like a spoiled two year old child than the leader of the Brooklyn based mob, the largest and most vicious of the East Coast Costa Nostra gangs.

  Glaring at the circle of silent men in front of him, Aldo Marcello visibly struggled to control his anger. Shaking, he spit out his furious questions, enraged bullets of venom directed at the cowering men in front of him.

  “Tell me. Someone? Anyone? How were twenty of our highly trained Costa Nostra fighters burned alive in one of our brothels, fifty pieces of our valuable merchandise stolen, and no one, no one,” his voice rose as he spoke ending in a shriek, “NO ONE knows where they are or how to get them back?”

  Carlos, the bravest of his lieutenants, ventured to speak.

  “Look, Aldo. Tony has been telling us for months that they have this crazy Chink out there that no one can get a bead on. He’s like some savage holdover from the days of Genghis Kahn. They call him the Frenchman because he’s half French or some crap like that. Tony warned us…”

  “I don’t give a shit about that fat fuck Tony!” Aldo screamed. “Do you hear me? I’m glad the fucker is dead. All he ever did was eat up the profits, but even Tony, as pitiful as he was, would not have let a bunch of dirty Chinks, do what these assholes did. God damnit, are you all so stupid? Don’t you see? It has to be the Micks. They are trying to pull a fast one on us.”

  Carlos took a deep breath and with his life in his hands, he disagreed.

  “It would be easier if it was the Micks, Aldo. At least we know where they are and who the fuck they are. But it wasn’t. Every San Francisco cop and pol in our pocket is tellin’ us the same thing. It was that asshole, the Frenchman.”

  Aldo’s voice dropped to a sinister growl and he enunciated each word.

  “And if the cops and pols, those sons of bitches we pay up the ass, know who did it, then where the goddamn hell are my pussies this Chink bastard stole?”

  Carlos sighed again.

  “That’s just it, Aldo. Not only did this asshole take our girls, he is flaunting it and, according to our people on the ground, there is not a damn thing any one of them can or will do to get them back. Nobody is willing to go up against the Frenchman.”

  ~~~

  Long after Aldo had beaten the drugged girls unconscious and their bloody bodies hauled away, and the shards of a case of whiskey bottles he’d smashed against the wall swept up, and Pauli’s dismembered body crated and disposed of, Carlos sat across from his leader and waited for instructions.

  With sparkling eyes and in a voice exhilarated by his lethal tantrum, Aldo said, “Get him.”

  Carlos nodded and left the room.

  ~~~

  Rory Calhoun raised his glass to the beaming owner of O’Donnell’s Pub and shouted out a gleeful order, “C’mon, Patty, keep ‘em coming. Refills all around! Goddamn, I ask ye men, do we have a reason to celebrate or not?”

  A raucous roar of laughter filled the room and a whiskey fueled chant of “Hell, yes!” coursed through the pub, thirty members of Calhoun’s gang raising their glasses as high as their voices.

  Rory’s normally ruddy cheeks were glowing flushed from the liquid celebration that showed no signs of abating any time soon. It wasn’t every day that Aldo Marcello’s gang, their bitter rival, was brought to its knees. Rory wasn’t dumb, he knew that it could as easily been his gang. But he knew a reason to celebrate and, Holy Mary Mother of God, this was one fuckin’ good reason.

  “Sorry, Liam, to make you repeat the story, but it is just too damn good. I gotta relish it. You’re sayin’ that they crawled right up Aldo’s ass and burned down his flagship brothel AND the twenty gang members inside? Burned ‘em alive?”

  “I’m telling you, Rory, our men who saw it go up in flames said you could hear those poor fuckers screamin’ their lungs out for over an hour. And Christ, those Chinks didn’t crawl up anyone’s ass. They marched in as bold as you please and set the whole damn place on fire – Tony and all of his men included. And that Chink bastard—the one they call the Frenchman—stood on a hill smokin’ a cigarette, watchin’ the entire thing play out while his men loaded up six carts full of whores and drove off like it was somethin’ they did every day. You would of thought they was pickin’ up a load of vegetables instead of fifty of Aldo’s prime pussies. Hell, Tony’s guys were rakin’ in the dough from those Chink cunts – passing them off as virgins—and the Frenchman waltzed off with every damn one of ‘em. Come to think of it, they might of been virgins. Colin said the oldest ones were maybe thirteen or fourteen.”

  Rory shook his head in admiration, his eyes dancing with glee.

  “Jesus Mary Joseph, what I wouldn’t give to ‘ave seen Aldo’s face when they brought him the news. Hell, he wouldn’t give a fuck about his men being killed, but to have someone steal his merchandise? And, goddamn, I wouldn’t want to be the poor son of a bitch who had to tell ‘im what happened. That bastard would be lucky to be shot, but knowing Aldo, he chopped ‘im in pieces first.”

  Rory shook his head in wonder.

  “I gotta tell you, it sure as shit makes me think twice about investing in Chink cunts. Now, I have nothing against Chinks, cunts or otherwise. But I’ve always preferred those sweet little Irish lasses, especially the convent rejects, you know, the
ones with mischief in those dancing eyes? But hell, yes, I applaud the use of virgins. Damn, I’ve been worshipping one of ‘em every Sunday of my life. We all have, right men? Who the hell do you think is sittin’ on top of that shrine everyone of our mama’s has – if it isn’t the virgin of all virgins?”

  Screams of laughter filled the tavern as Patty slid four more bottles down the length of the bar and Rory shouted, “Here’s to virgins, Holy or not! May they ever be available and as eager to spread their legs as we are to deflower them!”

  Rory was a big man, Irish to the core. His russet hair and beard and flashing sky blue eyes charmed every woman and man he met, all of whom basked in his good humor and rich Irish brogue. But no one, friend or foe, was fooled by the easy grin or Irish banter. Beneath that affable surface was a man as hard as steel, tempered in the tough streets of New York, as quick with a knife as he was with his fists.

  The nuns gave up long ago trying to tame him with book learning. He was street smart and didn’t need the kind of knowledge they had to impart. By the time he was ten years old, he knew how to pick a lock or a pocket and which bookies could be trusted and which snitches could be blackmailed. He learned early that a grin and a wink were weapons worth having, but only when backed by a willingness to shove in a blade and twist it deep. He racked up victims the way he did women. Whether killing or fucking, he never lost his smile. Even those he extorted, manipulated, or bamboozled enjoyed his company. He was as loyal to his men as they were to him. There wasn’t a gang—Irish or Sicilian—that didn’t think twice before messing with Rory Calhoun.

  Hours and many bottles of whiskey later, Rory sat with Liam, Ian, and Mike, talking through their next steps.

  “This ain’t the first mind-blowing thing we’ve heard about the Frenchman. Hell, Pat says he is the scariest, smartest son of a bitch you ever want to meet. In addition to being a master with a knife and a gun, he is some kind of Chink hand to hand fighter. They call him a grandmaster. I don’t have the foggiest notion what that means, but if he is anything like Chung Lee, that prick in Chinatown who kills men twice his size, kickin’ em to death, then this Frenchie guy is worth gettin’ to know. From what I hear, the only thing bigger than his balls is his bank account. Pat says there ain’t a money pot, legal or not, that he don’t have his dick stuck in.”