“Well, I think I do,” with a smile.
“It is from Gorleston’s solicitors! In it they say that he has discontinued his action against us, that he exonerates us from all liability, and that no further proceedings will be taken over this matter.”
“And you can go on cashing his cheques, Sir John,” she added sweetly, “and can henceforward reckon him the most scrupulously honourable client – so far as you’re concerned – whom you have on your books. You see, he knows that if he tries such a thing again – well, we produce this paper!”
For some moments he gazed at her, too bewildered to speak.
“Miss Wrayne,” he said at length, “words simply fail me. How on earth have you managed this?”
For answer she lay back in her chair, merriment dancing in her hazel eyes.
“Ever play poker, Sir John?”
“Why, certainly, Miss Wrayne,” surprised.
“Ever been bluffed out and induced to chuck in a good hand?”
“Afraid I have once or twice,” he admitted, “and been a bit mad afterwards.”
Smiling she put out a slim hand to him.
“Oh, Sir John,” she exclaimed merrily, “if Richard Henry Gorleston ever knows what a good hand he threw in on, he’ll be a million times madder than you’ve ever been!”
A Pebble for Papa
MAX ALLAN COLLINS
& MATTHEW V. CLEMENS
I hardly know where to begin when introducing Max Allan Collins. His output is phenomenal, both in quality and quantity. He is probably best known for his graphic novel Road to Perdition (1998) which was the basis for the powerful 2002 film directed by Sam Mendes. Collins has adapted many film novelizations including In the Line of Fire (1993), The Mummy (1999) and NYPD Blue: Blue Beginning (1995). Perhaps his best known character is his private eye, Nate Heller, who first appeared in True Detective (1983). These stories are set mostly in the 1930s. Collins is known for the depth of his research, none better exemplified than in his series of disaster mysteries, which began with The Titanic Murders (1999).
Matthew V. Clemens is the author of the regional bestseller, Dead Water: The Klindt Affair (1995), a true crime work that led him into assisting Max Allan Collins on the forensics and plotting of the popular CSI novels.
The following is more of a whowilldoit than a whodunnit. I reckon you’ll soon work out the victim, but who’s going to be the perp?
The winter of ’28 had refused to release its frigid grip on the city’s throat, so the crowd dining at Papa’s Ristorante was sparse. From the outside Papa’s looked no different than a dozen other hole-in-the-wall restaurants in Little Italy.
Couples were scattered here and there, some huddled over their table gazing into each other’s eyes, others ate spaghetti and drank wine. None of the patrons were paying attention to each other; no one noticed the big man in the brown fedora and cashmere overcoat enter.
The diners had no idea that this was the head of the Irish mob, though one look into Lou O’Hara’s dead black eyes would have told them that something about this guy was not quite . . . right. Without even a glance toward Papa’s other customers, O’Hara stomped through the restaurant and flung open a door at the far end of the dining room.
His hat and coat were taken from him by an attendant, and he was shown to a chair at the long oak table that dominated the center of the room. Around him were most of the other crime bosses of the city. O’Hara ignored them except to nod toward Raven Milhone, who occupied the chair on his left. The leggy brunette beauty had a crimson-nailed finger in everything from blackmail and prostitution to murder.
She was O’Hara’s kind of woman.
The door to the private banquet room opened and Giacomo Ghilini, “Papa” to most everyone in the city, took his rightful place at the head of the table. A powerfully built, thick-chested man, Papa was angry but he didn’t let it show. Not even when his hooded brown eyes fell on the reason this dinner hadn’t yet been served – Lou O’Hara.
Papa saw it as a lack of respect to start the meal before all his guests were seated. O’Hara, head of the biggest independent outfit in the city, was really nothing more than a two-bit strongarm who had made it to the top through cruelty, callousness, and an uncanny ability to remain standing when those in line ahead of him had fallen. Though O’Hara’s late arrival showed flagrant disregard for his host, Papa was not going to allow himself to be dragged down to this thug’s level.
He bestowed O’Hara a smile, almost a grin. “We didn’t want to start without you, Lou.”
O’Hara nodded non-committally, mumbling something about having some business to take care of, but made no attempt to apologize for his tardiness.
“Vito,” Papa said motioning to his son and chief lieutenant who sat on his right, “pour Lou a glass of wine.”
Vito nodded and did as he was told. Papa noted the contempt in his son’s eyes as Vito handed the glass across the table to O’Hara. A good boy, Papa thought, but he must learn to mask his feelings better. He still thought of his third son as a boy, his student, his protégé, though Vito was pushing forty and already graying at the temples.
O’Hara accepted the wine without thanks and gulped down nearly half before he set the glass on the table in front of him. Uncouth, Papa thought. A pig.
Papa studied the faces around the table. O’Hara was on his left, the Irish mobster’s white shark’s teeth drawn into a grin for Raven Milhone. Beyond them were Deng Chou Lo, leader of the Chinese Tongs, coldly impressive in his traditional silk, dragoned garb; and the ragu-nosed Lawrence Rafferty, city councilman bought and paid for with Ghilini money. Next was another Papa purchase, police Lieutenant Adam Maynerd, in a gray suit that matched his complexion, and finally past him sat Wa Tse Wang, head of the Triads, in a natty three-piece suit whose only Chinatown touch was a many-blossomed tie.
Papa trusted none of them.
Rafferty and Maynerd were allies, but once a man had been bought, Papa believed that sooner or later he’d be bought again. Both Wa and Deng had met privately with Papa recently and he had been forced to work out new accords with each to keep them from going to the mattresses. Raven Milhone seemed far too ambitious to settle for the arrangement she had with the Ghilini family, and O’Hara? Well, O’Hara was just plain nuts.
On the right side of the table were the attendees that Papa considered his allies. Vito of course, Josef Freidkin, aging head of the Jewish gang, Papa’s secret grandson Toshiro, Rabbi Seidelman, a close friend for many years, Papa’s adopted daughter Beatrice, and Leonard Ford, editor of the City Times. At the opposite end of the table was Monsignor John Rossi, priest to the Ghilini family, and most of the rest of the mob as well.
Silent waiters in white jackets and black bow ties served the group their dinner. Though Papa claimed to be nothing more than an honest restaurateur, those seated at this table, unlike the diners in the other room, knew that wasn’t true. He was, instead, the man who held the city in his palm.
Papa received his plate last. As the waiters made their exit, Papa looked down the table to Monsignor Rossi. “Father, would you like to lead us in grace?”
The priest nodded and rose. The Confessor, as he was known within the mob, was a compact man of moderate build whose shoulders seemed to sag a little from the heavy weight they bore. His longish silver hair was combed straight back away from a face that seemed far more ancient than his sixty-one years. He clasped his hands, bowed his head.
“Oh, Heavenly Father, we thank you for your blessed bounty we are about to receive and for the kind hospitality of our host, Papa Ghilini. We are grateful to you for all good things. Amen.”
Papa broke off a piece of bread and offered it to O’Hara who accepted it without thanks and wolfed it down along with his salad.
“I want to express my gratitude to all of you for coming,” Papa said as they ate. “It is good to see that we can all get along again, even after – .”
“So why the hell d’you call us all here?” O’
Hara interrupted.
Papa glared at O’Hara and just as quickly smiled. “As I was saying, even after this recent . . . unpleasantness, it’s good to see that we can still get along. It is my hope that this dinner can serve as the glue that binds the peace we have negotiated.”
“Peace serves the best interests of us all,” Councilman Rafferty piped in. “The pie’s plenty big for everybody to get a piece.”
O’Hara shot Rafferty a withering look. “How the hell would you know? You don’t dip into shit. You take exactly what Ghilini hands you and leave it at that.”
Rafferty looked down, suddenly very interested in his plate.
“Lou, Lou,” Papa said mildly, patting the air. “Mr Rafferty is merely . . .”
“Full of shit,” O’Hara finished for him. “Deng,” he went on, “how big a percentage are you paying to the Ghilinis?”
The leader of the Tongs glanced quickly at Papa, then turned his eyes to O’Hara. “Our relationship with Mr Ghilini has proven to be quite profitable for both of us.”
“Has Papa supported you in the sale of opium?”
Deng leapt to his feet. “We do not sell drugs.”
Grinning, O’Hara said, “Why is that, Deng? Is it ’cause you don’t wanna make money . . . or ’cause Ghilini here told you he’d put you out of business if you did?”
Deng said nothing as he slowly resumed his seat.
“Lou,” Papa said, his voice rising only slightly. “I’ve told you before, we will not sell drugs in this city. There we draw the line.”
Papa hated narcotics and the trouble they brought. He had seen what that vile poison could do, and it was a thing he was loathe to see again. Sure, he made his living from people’s weaknesses, but drugs were different. Where gambling and prostitution were activities men partook of their own volition, narcotics were like a whirlpool. They swept you up, then they swept you under and you drowned before you even knew you were in trouble.
O’Hara was glaring at him.
“The issue is closed,” Papa said, fighting to keep his voice even.
“Like hell it is,” O’Hara exploded. “I’m tired of you tryin’ to tell me where and how I can make my money, old man. If I want to sell drugs or whores or fucking red-white-and-blue iceboxes, it’s none of your goddamn business and you and your combo of Chinks and petty grafters ain’t gonna stop me.”
The others were eyeing Papa as he carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin. This was not how this meeting was supposed to go. Papa had sent out the invitations for this meet the previous Sunday, to assure that the heads of all the gangs would be here when he announced his retirement. It was to be a celebration of his stepping down and Vito’s ascension to his throne.
And here was O’Hara throwing a fit like a child, challenging his authority in front of the others. Papa felt he could count on most of the others to fall in line with whatever he ordered. After all, they always had before. The course of action he was considering was dangerous, but Papa felt it was the only way to amicably stave off O’Hara’s challenge.
He tried to read the faces of the others before he spoke. They were guarded, waiting to see what action he would take. Only Papa felt suddenly weary. He wondered if his decision was coming a year, even six months too late. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Lou,” he finally said, reasonably, amicably showing the bastard far more respect than he warranted, “this is not a dictatorship as you would have the others believe. We have made business decisions together. And we have prospered because we have stood by those decisions.”
O’Hara was twisting his napkin between his fingers. His knuckles were white, but he said nothing as he continued to glower at his host.
Papa continued: “To prove to you that we are all involved in the decision-making of this organization, we’ll put this drug issue to a vote of the board. The decision will be final. And I’m confident, after this vote is taken, we’ll have no more talk of drugs in this city.”
O’Hara swiveled on the rest. Their eyes fell away from the Irishman’s dark stare and Papa was sure he had O’Hara right where he wanted him.
Papa said, “Vito, you will cast the ballot of the Ghilini family.”
Vito cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice sounded shaky. “You . . . you all know that the Ghilini family has been against drugs since the beginning. We will not change now.”
Beatrice, unable to wait her turn, jumped in. “I’m with Papa too. As I’m sure Toshiro is as well.”
All eyes turned to Toshiro who shifted nervously in his chair. “I’m here representing the Yakuza,” he said. “You all know that. You also know that when the Yakuza first came to this city, it was Papa Ghilini who found a place for us. Back then, he was the one who helped us thrive when he could just as easily have squashed us like a bug. We are forever in his debt and we vote to follow the current policy.”
Papa’s eyes darted to O’Hara who seemed about ready to tear his napkin in half. It was all Papa could do to keep his smile to himself. “Josef?”
Freidkin cleaned his gold-rimmed glasses with his napkin. Papa noticed that the man’s hand was shaking ever so slightly.
“Papa, you put me in a difficult position. You know that my partners and I are basically law-abiding businessmen these days. Over ninety percent of our holdings are now completely legal. I feel as if I am being asked to vote on an issue that does not concern me. I’m afraid I must abstain from this ballot.”
Papa’s eyes met Freidkin’s and the old Jew looked away quickly. A quiver ran through Papa’s gut.
Deng spoke up. “Papa, though it grieves me to agree with Mr O’Hara about anything . . . I’m afraid on this issue, he is correct. Though Councilman Rafferty rightly points out that the pie is large, there are so many pieces being meted out that the Tongs are getting barely a sliver. It is possible that opening the drug market could give us the larger piece we feel we deserve.”
Wa echoed the opinion of his countryman.
Due to Freidkin’s abstention, the count would now be close. Even if it had come down to a tie, Papa would have the deciding vote. But with only Raven and O’Hara himself left, Papa was suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. If Raven Milhone didn’t side with him, it would be a stalemate, and the one thing he had fought to keep out of the city might well become a reality. With each passing thought, another jet of acid shot into Papa’s stomach.
He did not feel at all well.
O’Hara rises, his maniacal grin a malignancy spreading over his face. From nowhere, a machine gun appears in his hands. Papa watches in mute horror as fire leaps from the barrel. The stream of bullets rips through Vito even as he rises. Papa feels his mouth drop open as he sees only a red mist hanging in the air where Vito had been standing. O’Hara turns the weapon on Freidkin, the hot steel rain decapitating the Jew. Papa struggles to rise from his chair, but he is somehow glued to it, frozen in anguish as he watches O’Hara mow down Toshiro and Beatrice. He cannot scream, or move, or even whimper, though he feels hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Finally he breaks the spell and heaves himself up. He dives for O’Hara . . .
Papa, bathed in sweat, awoke to find himself sitting up in bed. Mama was sleeping peacefully next to him, blissfully ignorant of the thrashing that had been going on next to her.
“Jesus,” he whispered, crossing himself in the darkness. This had not been the first nightmare of the night. He had gotten blessed little sleep since last night’s meeting and the few times he had dozed off had been punctuated by these turbulent, violent dreams. Slipping his feet over the side of the bed, Papa bowed his head, and for the hundredth time went through the events of the meeting.
He had known that he was taking a chance calling for the vote on selling drugs, but he had figured the odds were on his side. His whole career had been built on playing the odds and this time, this one time, he had been woefully mistaken in his calculations.
Now instead of handing over the reins of the biggest operation
in the city to his son, Papa was left in charge of a family that was considered, for the first time, as vulnerable. What had taken him a lifetime to build had been put at great risk, if not destroyed, over dinner. A voice inside him wanted to blame Raven Milhone and the others who had sided with O’Hara, but he shook his head and drove it away.
It was his fault, his own ego that had caused his error. He pounded a hammy fist into his thigh and swore under his breath. Regaining control, he peeked over at Mama to make sure she was still asleep. He then looked at the clock on the nightstand next to him.
Five o’clock.
Two more hours and The Confessor would be at the church. Papa accepted counsel from very few people, but Monsignor Rossi was a man on whom he could depend for sound advice, perhaps the one man who could help him avoid the war that now seemed inevitable.
Pushing himself to his feet, Papa padded to the bathroom. He cleaned up and dressed in a brown suit, his favorite. His white shirt felt a little snug at the collar, but Papa ignored it. Being careful not to wake his wife, he crept through the bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen. After he brewed the coffee, he sat alone at the table, contemplating the steam that rose from the mug.
The Tongs and the Triads would probably stay in line as long as they were sure that he remained in charge. And though Raven Milhone had secured her position at the table by being an independent thinker, it was clear to Papa that O’Hara was the wild card in the deck. He hoped that between Rossi and himself they could come up with a plan that would allow this to truly be a Good Friday.
He sipped from the mug and worked to clear his mind. Over the course of his reign, Papa’s ability to dispassionately view a situation had been the key to his survival. No matter what the circumstances or the people involved, Papa never let his emotions get in the way of making the right business decision.
His son, Paulo, had been proof of that.
O’Hara, though, was making that a difficult proposition. Papa’s gut was telling him to have the crazy Irishman whacked, the consequences be damned, but his head told him that there had to be a another way.
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits (Mammoth Books) Page 51
