Aces & Eights

by Dale Lucas

  The car hitched forward, took the three of them for a ride. Carr slumped, eager to make sure that no one made him in the vehicle with a known mafioso.

  “This won’t do,” he said. “That’s the message I’ve been instructed to give you by the men I serve. This. Will. Not. Do.”

  “For once, Mr. Carr, you and I are in complete agreement.” That was the fat Irishman.

  “You know Officer Heaney?” Nasario asked Carr.

  Carr only nodded and offered his hand. “Officer.”

  “Harlem’s his beat,” Nasario continued. “He’s seen some of this strangeness first hand, and he’s our contact in the department up that way.”

  Carr thought it strange that an Irish cop would align himself with Italian gangsters, but then he reminded himself that a fellow like Heaney was probably a contact for lots of downtown mobs on his uptown beat. He was probably on three different payrolls and would only declare absolute allegiance if caught in hock or backed up to a wall.

  “They invaded a whole quarter of prime real estate,” Carr said, trying to boil down the base elements of the arguments of his masters. “They made a little paradise for themselves above 110th street, and we didn’t complain. But if they think they’ll do as they please up there and not render unto Caesar, like everyone else, they’re sadly mistaken. And this lawlessness... good, white citizens, gunned down in the street by colored hoods armed for war. I repeat, gentlemen: this will not do.”

  “Suffice to say,” Nasario answered thickly, “we’re on the same page. We just want assurances that if we take steps to bring some law and order to Harlem, we won’t end up arousing the ire of City Hall.”

  Carr swallowed. “I have been authorized to assure you that so long as we are kept apprised of the broad sweep of your activities uptown, only the coloreds will feel the weight of justice. Yourself and your associates will be protected.”

  Nasario looked to Officer Heaney. He wore a shark’s grin and Carr didn’t like it one bit. “Hear that, Officer Heaney? That sounds like an invitation to the dance to me.”

  “My ears hear the same, sir. I suppose all that remains is a friendly swig on it, eh?” He drew out a flask, unscrewed the cap, and drank. He then offered it to Nasario. Nasario drank and offered it to Boss Clayton Carr.

  Feeling a little sick at his stomach, Clayton Carr took a long, deep swig.

  Downtown had just declared war uptown; City Hall had just sold its soul to the rackets.

  And Harlem was about to be set on fire.

  XXX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Writing, at its best,” wrote Ernest Hemingway, “is a lonely life.” This is true. But I’m here to attest that said loneliness is sometimes ameliorated by the warm support and keen criticism of friends and colleagues kind enough to read a work in progress. Mark Owens, Melissa Campos, and Keith Gouveia all read this one, and the final product benefited from their attentions and insights.

  In addition, I’d like to offer my gracious thanks to my publisher, Matt Peters, for unleashing the Dread Baron on an unsuspecting world. Even when risks are calculated, they’re still risks. He’s done me a great honor by taking this one.

  And I thank my wife, Gisely, whose love, faith, and incredibly low threshold for B.S. continues to motivate and inspire me.

  Now, with the candles lit, the offerings laid, and the chants all sung—let’s get horsed . . .

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dale Lucas is a novelist, screenwriter, civil servant, and arm-chair historian. His short stories have appeared in Samsara: The Magazine of Suffering and Horror Garage, and his film reviews in The Orlando Sentinel.

  He lives in Los Angeles, California.

  Find him online at www.facebook.com/AuthorDaleLucas