Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  Vincent took the passenger seat, then nodded to Lefty as he closed the door. “Onward, Jeeves.”

  Lefty swung around to the driver’s side, offering Vincent a rude gesture before starting the engine. “You really trust this information broker?”

  “No,” Vincent admitted. “Should I?”

  “Absolutely not. But it’s good to hear you’re keeping your head on your shoulders.” Lefty turned to face Vincent. “All of this is going down fast. Part of me wanted to see this happen a long time ago.”

  “What about the other parts?” Vincent pressed.

  “They’re not sure you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “This responsibility. You’ve been taking orders for years, but you’re in the hot seat now. Everything you do is gonna be under scrutiny. There’s something to being able to hoop the pooch and not suffer consequences.”

  Vincent grimaced. “You think I like living that way? That means I get no respect, no credit.”

  Lefty snorted. “Credit’s overrated, and it don’t got no stick. Success means you’re the golden boy for a second. Failure on the other hand? That’s stays with you. It haunts you. Hangs on your suit like cheap cigars. That’s how you’ll be remembered, if you let it all go to your head and screw this up.”

  Vincent nodded. “You’re gonna keep that from happening, though. Right? Seriously, because I’m gonna throw you right under the train if this goes sideways.”

  Lefty laughed. “Good. You’re learning. So, we’re left with us needing Smith and no way to find him.”

  Vincent chuckled, a smile drawing wider on his lips.

  Lefty eyed him. “Just caught up with last week’s funny pages?”

  Vincent opened his door and leaned around the front of the windscreen, pulling a tiny white card from the edge of the hood. He sat down in the car, lifting the card to the midday light.

  Florid strokes of a pen spelled out an address.

  “Looks like we got a date,” Vincent said.

  They drove to the address, a side lane in a neighborhood off Charles, not far from the Jesuit college. It had only just opened its doors at its new uptown location, and a bevy of lush houses had already sprung up along its periphery—cozy manses for the faculty members and administrators. Smith’s note had led Vincent to one of these urban estates, a gothic dark-stoned structure with leaded glass and a short length of well-tended grass separating the masonry from a wrought iron fence.

  Lefty snorted. “That’s new money, right there.”

  “Kind of old-fashioned for new money.”

  “Are you serious? It’s god awful.” Lefty shook his head. “Only someone with more money than sense would build an eyesore like that.”

  Vincent smirked at Lefty. “Get a load of you. Looking down your nose at the upper crust. What do you know about money, anyways?”

  Lefty swiveled in his seat with a testy glare. “You know I was born in the Old Country, right? My papa was a man of means before Crispi got his mitts on everything of value. I’ve forgotten more about airs than you’ll ever know, you horse-eating bastard.”

  “Well, what do you know about that?” Vincent muttered with a thoughtful nod.

  Lefty stepped out of the car and shut the door, leaning through the window at Vincent. “Before we come calling on your mole man, here, I gotta lay this out there.”

  “Here we go.”

  “You can’t trust this fella. He’s just come outta nowhere with a cherry piece of intelligence. It was bona fide. That’s all you know. A man like this has to have some angle.”

  Vincent sighed. “You think I hadn’t thought about that? Hadn’t been turning this around for days, now? Yeah, he’s got an angle. My bet is his angle is profits.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “I suppose we’ll never find out sitting out on the street. Come on.”

  Vincent exited the car and strode for the iron gate. He lifted the latch and held it open for Lefty. The two stepped up the flagstone pavers for the broad, buttressed porch of dark wood beams, then rang the bell. Half-expecting some deep gong or otherwise portentous toll of doom to suit the aesthetic of the house, Vincent nearly laughed as the thing sounded in an asthmatic electric buzz. He pulled his finger away as if jolted by the electricity, then stuffed his hand back into his pocket, avoiding Lefty’s glare.

  At length, the door opened to reveal Alexander Smith, clad in a light gray suit with a white tie, a folded newspaper tucked underneath his arm. He offered a practiced smile for Vincent, then nodded to Lefty with grace.

  “Misters Calendo and Mancuso. Welcome.” He stepped back to hold the door for the two men.

  The interior of the home was arguably more dismal than the exterior. Dark wallpaper soaked as much daylight as it could before sending the rest into deeply-stained mahogany paneling running the length of the foyer. A spray of flowers sat in a vase near the double sliding doors to a front parlor, filling the space with the syrupy floral charm of a funeral home.

  Smith slid open one of the parlor doors for the two, entering the room ahead of them. Vincent exchanged glances with Lefty before following. The parlor was lavish in its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, leather wingback chairs, and a carved wood desk the size of a Ford. As they filed into the room, Smith turned with an affable smile.

  “Are you hungry? I could send for sandwiches.”

  Before Vincent could answer, Lefty replied with steel-jawed charisma, “No.”

  Vincent added, “We just ate. Thanks anyways.”

  Smith lingered by a lacquered globe, setting his hand on its apex and spinning it lazily with his thumb. “I’m gladdened to see the both of you. I assume the information I offered has proven…helpful.”

  Vincent nodded. “We saved a life.”

  “Which was hardly the point,” Smith added with precision. “Corbi is now in the good graces of Joe Masseria, and you’ve dealt a blow to the Russians which may set their ambitions back a pace or two.”

  “A lot of mileage out of that blind shot,” Lefty commented.

  Smith snickered. “If it were anything less, I doubt Corbi would have sent you to summon me. Alas. The cost of doing business. Shall we call it simple overhead?”

  Vincent peered at Lefty with a lift of his brow, then replied, “The Capo hasn’t summoned you.”

  Smith’s smile thinned rapidly. “Say again?”

  “We’re not here for the Capo.”

  Smith glanced back and forth between Vincent and Lefty. “May I ask what brings you here?”

  Vincent took a seat in one of the chairs. “Don’t get me wrong, the info made an impression. I’m sure Vito’s gonna be interested in how this all plays out.”

  “I’d like to hear that from his mouth.” Smith withdrew his hand from the globe, shoving it into his jacket pocket with a scowl.

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Lefty told him coolly.

  “We’re not there yet,” Vincent added. “We may be soon. But I’m here for personal reasons. Well, not personal. It’s Crew business, but—”

  “Let me guess,” Smith interrupted. “This so-called light pincher?”

  Lefty took a step forward. “You know about that already?”

  With a derisive chuckle, Smith answered, “Of course, good man. It’s my damned business to know these things. I recognized Corbi might latch on to the opportunity, though I wondered whether it would be to the exclusion of more pressing matters.”

  Vincent asked, “Such as the Bratva?”

  “Please. The Bratva are essentially beaten. Little more than an annoyance, at this point. No, the issue at hand is the very destiny of the Baltimore Crew. I’ve opened a door for you lot. Well, you were the ones opening the door, but I gave you the key. I’d hate to see this moment squandered chasing phantoms.”

  Vincent shrugged. “Well, I can tell you this much. You want an audience with the Capo? You’re gonna find a way to put that phantom into his pocket.”

  “There are some p
articularly interesting developments occurring in Richmond at this very moment. I’m certain Corbi would enjoy hearing about it.”

  Lefty cleared his throat.

  Smith rolled his eyes, then sighed. “Fine. Who must I speak to regarding this errant light pincher?”

  Vincent stood up. “That would be me.”

  Smith winced. “You?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Vincent scowled.

  “It’s no secret that the Crew holds you in, well…shall we say less than stellar regard?”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  Smith snickered. “Spoken like a true amateur.”

  “Let’s keep the tone civil, huh?” Lefty snapped

  “Civil.” Smith wandered over to one of the paintings hanging on the wall. It was some god-awful thing with bright colored swirls and what Vincent suspected might be a nude woman if one was looking at a nude woman through twelve inches of dirty glass.

  “So tell me, what do you gentlemen think of this?” he gestured toward the painting.

  Before Vincent could demand they return to the topic at hand, Lefty spoke up.

  “Odilon Redo.” He shrugged. “Not one of his better works.”

  Smith blinked in surprise. “Are you a fan of the French symbolists, Mister Mancuso?”

  Vincent’s head swiveled to Lefty, uncertain if he’d slipped into a dream state by accident.

  “Not particularly, although I appreciate Moreau. His The Voices in particular.”

  Smith faltered for a moment before recovering his composure.

  “Helped divert a motorcade of stolen museum artifacts heading over the Pyrenees back in 1917,” Lefty added, unusually verbose. “Spent some time with a cultured lady discussing everything from the Impressionists to the Symbolists to cave paintings.”

  There was something in the man’s tone that indicated he’d done a lot more than discuss art with this “cultured lady.” Vincent’s eyebrows shot up at the rare glimpse into Lefty’s past.

  Smith clapped his hands twice, then folded his arms. “Civilization brought to the beast in the pursuit of feminine beauty. I say, that is positively maudlin.”

  Vincent squinted at Lefty. “That turn into something? You and this art woman?”

  Lefty eased over to Vincent before popping him on the shoulder. “Keep it professional.”

  Smith laughed, leaning back against a bookcase. As his laughter subsided, he nodded to himself, then said, “Well, gentlemen. I must say, you are not what I expected.”

  Vincent couldn’t agree more. He’d run with Lefty for the better part of six years, now. And only this past year had he actually discovered anything about the man’s life. But they had more pressing matters to attend to than women and art.

  He turned to Smith. “Will you help? It will make one hell of a difference in how the Capo considers your proposal.”

  Smith unfolded his arms, then strode forward to extend a hand to Vincent. “Yes, yes. I’ll turn my eyes and ears inward. We’ll ferret out this little scamp of yours, and deliver one light pincher safe and sound to the Capo. I only ask for two things.”

  Vincent took Smith’s hand, then froze as the contingency was mentioned. “What’s that?”

  “First, I want to be there when the delivery of this pincher is made. I want Corbi to know how you came by this knowledge. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here, Calendo. Work with me, and I’ll work with you.”

  Vincent nodded. “And the second?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  Vincent pulled his hand away. “What?”

  “You want me to repeat the number?” Smith cooed in a mocking tone.

  Lefty said, “That’s a fatter payday than any of us…brutes.”

  “I suppose I deserve that,” Smith confessed. “But still. Can you tell me that Vito Corbi wouldn’t pay it, if I brought him his precious light pincher?”

  Vincent shifted uncomfortably.

  As if sensing the change in atmosphere, Smith held a hand out to Vincent. “Not that I have the first intention of cutting you out, dear Mister Calendo. I have no interest in the glory. I just want the money.”

  Vincent nodded, then shot a look at Lefty. “What’d I tell you?”

  Lefty scowled in return.

  Smith stepped forward. “I’ll assume that you’ll need to make a call, Mister Mancuso?”

  “Aren’t you the genius?” Lefty grumbled.

  “Come.” Smith led Lefty back to the foyer. “I have a phone in the office.”

  Vincent asked, “This isn’t your office?”

  “Oh, heavens no. This is for entertaining guests. Seriously, my good man…”

  Smith brushed past Vincent, opening the sliding door to Lefty and joining him beyond, ostensibly guiding him to a telephone, leaving Vincent alone in the parlor. He wandered around a bit, eyeballing the horrible paintings as well as the rigid leather-bound spines standing at attention along the bookcases. Lots of Latin there.

  He walked over to busy himself with the globe. It sat in a finely-rendered frame of cherry wood. The orb bore a paper-and-foil veneer lacquered into place around some damned thing or another, the borders of known countries etched along the surface. Vincent smiled as he recognized some nations that were now long gone, thanks to political matters in Europe. Borders shifted so easily with the application of sufficient force, he mused.

  A side door opened behind Vincent, and Smith reappeared. It wasn’t the same door he’d taken with Lefty, but was likely a more direct entrance from a room deeper in the house. The man slithered into the room, his face pulled just a bit tighter, his eyes a shade darker. The genial if stuffy demeanor that had greeted Vincent and Lefty had melted away between his exit and his reappearance. In its place was that same steel-cold confidence and intellect that had ambushed Vincent in his own séance parlor.

  Smith smirked at Vincent. “How do you intend to do this?”

  Vincent stuffed his hands into his pockets to step toward the center of the room, presenting as little threat as possible. “Do what?”

  “Secure this light pincher. If I put you in the room with her, I mean. How do you convince someone like that to come to Jesus?”

  “Well, you haven’t caught me at my best. But I’ve been known to be pretty damned charming when I want to be.”

  Smith smiled but didn’t laugh. “Charisma alone, then?”

  “Maybe it’ll be enough.”

  “Forgive me, but with the specific sort of pressure the Capo is bearing into this matter, do you really want to leave this up to ‘pretty damned charming’?”

  Vincent scowled. “I suppose you’ve already put more thought into this than I have.”

  Now, Smith laughed. He wound his way around the desk to take a seat. “This wouldn’t be my first snatch job. The question you have to ask yourself is how do you want things to stand when it’s over? This dictates the entire method. If you’re comfortable with a hostile cohort, this light pincher dragged into the service against his will, then you may take the shorter, more violent approach.”

  Vincent tensed. “Her.”

  “Hmm?”

  “She’s a she,” Vincent stated. “I would have thought you’d have known that, given the nature of your business.”

  Smith shook his head slowly. “My apologies. My information is fresh, and often times such newness proves incomplete.”

  Vincent nodded, deciding to let that slide for the moment. “Let’s say I’m not interested in a hostile whatever.”

  “Then it gets interesting. It’ll take time, and a slow, practiced hand.”

  “I got practiced hands,” Vincent drawled.

  “Is that so?” Smith winked. “Is that why you’ve failed to collect her, to date?”

  “Things went down quick. I made a call. It kept people from getting ventilated.”

  “Which was likely the best choice available to you.” Smith turned toward the sliding entry doors near the foyer, his ears pricked. “If,
you’ll excuse me a moment.” The man rose to his feet, then exited the room.

  Vincent grinned. Lefty must have finished his call and was likely sniffing around the house. Hell, he would’ve done the same. Just as Vincent turned back to consider the carvings of acanthus leaves on the enormous desk, the sliding doors opened. Lefty sauntered inside the parlor with a quick nod.

  Smith followed Lefty, as near to the man’s elbow as was possible without being discourteous. That condescending manner was back. It gave Vincent pause. Why would he pull down his guard to talk brass tacks with Vincent, when around Lefty he behaved like a snobby aristocrat?

  “A practiced hand,” Vincent offered with a dip of his chin. “As you were saying?”

  Smith’s brow eased into a knowing lift. “Such a thing can’t be stumbled into. Surely, you realize this? It takes planning, time. Intelligence.”

  Lefty snickered. “Which happens to be your bread and butter. Go figure.”

  “Go four figures,” Smith jibed. “Which brings me to the question of the moment. Has Corbi agreed to my terms?”

  Lefty shot Vincent a quick, reassuring glance, then replied, “One thousand on retainer. Then another thousand upon the delivery of the light pincher.”

  Smith’s grin tightened. “That’s less than half what I asked.”

  “I didn’t finish,” Lefty snapped. “You’ll get another thousand annually for the first three anniversaries of the light pincher’s service among the Crew.”

  Smith rested his fists on his hips. “Three years? Sir, I am not a babysitter. You want me to find this pincher, I’ll do it. But you can’t hold my information for ransom, all on account of someone’s questionable performance.”

  Lefty replied, “The information alone is not worth five thousand dollars. I think that’s the point the Capo’s making. Having a second pincher in his service? That is. And if the information doesn’t make that happen, you’ll have to be satisfied with a small fortune instead of a large fortune.”

  Smith frowned, pacing a few steps as he pondered the offer.

  Vincent, for his part, watched Smith as he moved. There was a current there, one Vincent recognized. A discomfort. A hesitation. Despite this man’s spit-shined veneer, a crack was showing.