Mob Massacre In North End
THAT WAS THE HEADLINE in the Hamilton News-Express newspaper that Tony was reading as he leaned back against the small kitchen counter. Gianni sat on a kitchen chair at the table, reading the smaller Observer with the headline; Marsala Ristorante Bombed On James Street North. Ox sat next to him, grimacing as Maria Genovese, a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, stood working on his shoulder wound. Ox had used a kitchen knife and insisted on digging the bullet out himself, fortified with half a bottle of whiskey. Bloody washcloths, towels, and bandages lay discarded in the sink. Maria was good at sewing so she was the one sticking a needle and thread in his shoulder while Besha and Andrea wiped and washed away the blood
Rocco and Gino sat across from Ox, loading up on whiskey and watching in silence
Tommy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, working on reloads of his twin magazines for the Thompson.
Gianni turned the page and scanned for the rest of the article he was reading, "Newspaper says we got seventeen of them."
Tony nodded, "Problem is, we didn't get Marino, Russo's right-hand man. Or Fat Sal himself. The reporter refers to him as Mr. Salvatore Russo, a prominent North End restaurateur, and businessman."
"I guess bootlegging is an honest profession these days," Ox complained.
"Looks like it," Tony agreed, "the reporter says Mr. Russo has no idea who would do this and blames it on outside provocateurs and criminal elements."
"Russo used that word, provocateurs?" Gino asked.
Tony shrugged, "I have no idea. All I know is what I'm reading here."
Gino rolled the word over his tongue a few times, "Shit, I doubt Fat Sal even knows the word exists."
Quiet laughter sounded around the kitchen table.
Ox grunted in pain.
"Stop being a big baby, it's just a scratch," Besha scolded.
Ox glanced up at her and then picked up her whiskey glass and downed the contents in one go. He grit his teeth as the alcohol burned its way to his stomach and set the glass firmly on the table, "So...where do we find the fat guy now that we've burned his place down? We have to strike before he gets all his guys together and shows up here to settle scores."
No one had an answer.
Tommy slipped the loaded twin-magazine into the Thompson and placed it on the floor. He picked up one of the Colt handguns and began to reload it as well, "He finds us or we find him...either way, we're going to need more ammo. A lot more."
"Maybe if you didn't spray so much of it around with that big rifle thing," Ox complained.
"Maybe...but it sure scares the hell out of them," Tommy replied with a sardonic grin. He never bothered looking at Ox, he just continued his reloading.
"Kid's right, we're gonna need more ammo," Gianni said. He glanced at Tony, "Lots more...."
Tony kept looking through the newspaper article, "Don't look at me. I got all I can. Any more disappears and they'll start looking closer."
"So? Maybe you should get it while you still can," Ox suggested. "How do you know Fat Sal ain't going to tell the coppers you were in on the shooting?"
Tony put the newspaper down on the table and shook his head no, "I don't think Fat Sal will do that. Before they took Rocco into the restaurant, Fat Sal said I was going to work on-the-take for him. He threatened to kill Maria if I didn't." He looked up at his wife.
Maria didn't flinch as she continued stitching up the wound.
Anyway," Tony continued, "Fat Sal won't burn an asset as long as he thinks he still has the upper hand on us. He won't talk to the coppers as long as there's a chance he can use me."
"Tony's right," Rocco agreed. He tapped the newspaper on the table and looked at Tony, "This reporter who talked to Fat Sal, does he say where he talked to him?"
Tony shook his head no, "Nothing in this newspaper about it." He looked at Gianni, "How about in yours?"
Gianni shook his head no as he folded the paper and set it on the table, "I didn't see any mention of it either. Maybe he talked to Fat Sal outside the restaurant when the fire brigade was trying to stop the fire."
Rocco gave it some thought and then shook his head, "No, I doubt it. Russo wasn't there when we hit the place. And I doubt he would be dumb enough to go there after and stand around in the street, watching the thing burn to the ground. He knows that would making himself an easy target for any shooter still waiting around. No, he'd be hold up somewhere, getting the rest of his guys organized to come after us."
Tony was in agreement, "I'll see what information I can pick up at the station. And I can always visit the reporter and see what I can find out."
"That sounds good," Gianni agreed. "But even if we do find him, we still gave the problem of low ammo. How about we do a hootch run and get some funds?"
Rocco clenched his jaw in frustration, "Russo took my twenty grand. We don't have the funds–"
"So we knock off the distillery and take what we need," Ox growled.
Rocco gave Ox a hard look across the table, "The last thing we need is a gunfight breaking out at the distillery. Keep in mind Russo's men could be waiting there for us. It's an asset that Russo needs to keep his bootlegging operation running. He'll make sure it's protected."
Ox gave a hard look in return but had to grudgingly admit Rocco was right.
"Why don't you leave that part to me?" Besha said firmly as she took off the apron she was wearing. She folded it and set it beside the sink, "Tony, you go find out what you can while I have Rocco take me down to the distillery."
Chapter 17
ROCCO DROVE BESHA to the Glen Gael Distillery in the one-ton truck with Tommy riding in the cargo box, his Thompson hidden under an old burlap flour sack in his lap. Parking just down the street, Rocco watched the building for activity.
Tommy stood up in the back and leaned against the cab, watching as well. He leaned over, "You want me to go check out the place, Rocco?"
Rocco considered it for a moment.
Besha spoke up, "No. You two stay here. I'll go in and talk to the man. What did you say his name was?"
"Mr. Stuart Kippen is the owner," Rocco said. "But Besha, if Russo's men are in there waiting–"
"–then I'll just be one of the ladies from the local chapter of the Women's Christian Temperance Union," Besha answered demurely.
Tommy laughed from the back when he heard that.
"You mind your manners back there, young man," Besha said in a mocking tone. She stepped out of the truck onto the running board and down to the ground where she straightened her print dress. "You two wait here. And don't do anything."
"What if something goes wrong in there?" Rocco asked.
"Then I'll scream my damn head off and you two come running," Besha answered. She then strode up the street as prim and proper as could be and entered the front door of the distillery.
STUART KIPPEN STEPPED out from his little office and his countenance fell when he saw a woman standing there. He held his hands up defensively, "Look. I swear I'm obeying the law–"
"Is that why you look like that?" Besha interjected, gesturing towards his appearance. Both of Kippen's eyes were still swollen with the right one barely open yet. His lips were swollen and looked sore. The cuts around his eyes and nose were still quite evident.
Kippen opened his mouth–
"This is what comes from the demon rum," Besha said as she strode towards the man. She gestured to his small office, "I'd like to speak you for just one moment, sir. And then I'll be on my way."
Kippen started to open his mouth again and decided better. He slipped his thumbs under his braces and stepped back into his office and around to the other side of his desk, where he stood standing and waiting for his tongue lashing.
Besha stood in the doorway of the office and glanced towards the work area of the building. It was quiet and empty. She gestured to his face again, "Are the men who did that still here?"
"Look. Madam–"
"Just answer me the question. Are they he
re?"
Kippen looked defeated under her withering glare and he shook his head no.
"When will they be back?"
Kippen gave her a confused look, "What does that matter–?"
"Because my husband is the man who bought all those cases of whiskey from you," Besha answered in a quieter voice. "He's the reason why you were beaten like that, correct?"
Kippen held his hands up in a defensive manner again, "Look, lady, I don't want any trouble–"
"Where are all your workers? It seems to be very quiet in the back."
Kippen's demeanor turned harder, "Look lady–"
"Answer my question," Besha said sternly. "My husband and another man are just down the road in a truck. Believe me, he'll be a lot more trouble to you than those men were. Those men who beat you up and took my husband from here? They took him down to Marsala Ristorante on Elm Street. They planned on killing him. But it didn't work out so well for them. They made my husband mad, Mr. Kippen. You've no doubt read about what happened at Marsala Ristorante by now...."
Kippen's face turned white.
"Good. Now I have your full attention. My husband wants to continue buying whiskey from you–"
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Kippen said in a quiet voice. His face suddenly took on a look of fear and he held his hands out defensively again, "Not that I'm averse to doing business with your husband. But as you see, all of my workers have quit. After the beating I took...and watching them march your husband out with his hands tied behind his back...."
Besha nodded in understanding, "They all cleared out, afraid of what could happen to them."
Kippen nodded sadly. Then he took a breath and let it out, "I worked hard to build this business. Then the government and the temperance movement people interfere...then the..." He hesitated, looking at Besha, "Then another element shows up, backed by guns and violence and...."
Besha narrowed her eyes and considered the man in front of her. He's not really any different from us. Hard work and perseverance are supposed to account for something. Then the rich or powerful interfere and grind you down. Besha lifted her chin. "I'd like to make a proposition if I can," she said to Kippen. "As you've noticed, my husband and his friends can move a large amount of whiskey. That's why those men took him, He was moving a lot more than they ever did. Am I correct?"
Kippen gave her a slow, "Yes."
"All my husband needs is a source."
Shaking his head slowly, Kippen showed fear again, "I wish I could help–"
"You can help by being quiet and listening."
Kippen blinked and shut his mouth.
"Right now, it looks to me like your business is worth nothing. You have no employees. Which means you're not going to have any cases of whiskey ready the next time those men come calling. Am I right?"
Kippen swallowed hard and blanched even whiter if that was possible.
"Do you have a piece of paper you can write on?"
Kippen hesitated for a moment and then nodded. He reached down to the old desk, picked up a piece of stationary and a fountain pen and held it out to Besha.
"Write down what your business is worth. Assuming everything was running fully."
It took a moment before Kippen reacted. He set the paper down, scratched his scruffy, white beard and then wrote a figure with a shaky hand. He straightened up, looking at Besha as she bent to read the figure upside down. He looked like he was expecting a violent outburst of anger.
Besha nodded and held her hand out for the pen.
Kippen's hand was still shaking as he held it out.
Besha bent over, turned the page around and printed Bill Of Sale at the top along with the date. Under that, she printed Glen Gael Distillery Sold To: Besha Margit DeLuca.
Kippen cleared his throat, knowing where this was headed but fearful of saying anything.
Besha drew a line through the figure Kippen had scribbled, wrote a much higher figure and turned the page back around.
Looking down and fearing the worst, Kippen's eyes grew large in amazement. Afraid to lift his head and have the figure disappear, his eyes glanced up, "R-really?"
Besha nodded, "You help me get this distillery back up and running and we have a deal." She held the pen out, "All you have to do is sign on the bottom of the page. We'll pay you from the proceeds of the cases we move. And, as you've seen, we can move a lot very quickly."
"I don't mean to be rude but...a woman owning property...?"
Besha's eyebrows rose, "You don't keep up with things, do you? According to The Married Women's Property Act of 1900, I can."
Kippen took the fountain pen in a flash and scrawled his name at the bottom of the page.
Taking the paper, Besha looked at Kippen with a shake of her head, "And just so you know, women were also given the right to vote federally in 1918."
Chapter 18
TONY GENOVESE WAITED until the reporter for the Hamilton News-Express was sitting in the small delicatessen having lunch before he approached him. The scent inside was rich and appetizing but Tony wasn't interested in the food.
Latimer Stealey was about to bite down on a pastrami sandwich when a police cap was set on the table and a constable sat in the booth across from him. He looked over the top over his glasses at his visitor.
Tony reached across to the reporter's plate and took a piece of pastrami sitting on the side. He popped it into his mouth without saying a word.
Stealey set his sandwich down and looked at the other two patrons eating at a table near the front window. Then he glanced around before looking back across at his visitor's name badge, "Is something wrong...Officer Genovese?"
"Constable Genovese." Tony reached across and took another piece of pastrami, popping it into his mouth, chewing with a cheeky grin.
Stealey sat back, "Constable Genovese, why do I feel this is not an official police visit?"
"I don't know. You tell me. I'm wearing a police uniform. And I have an official badge...."
The reporter waited a moment, considering Tony. "What is it you want?"
"Who says I want anything?"
Stealey flashed a little annoyance as he glanced at the other customers again, "What...do...you want?"
"Did Russo really use the word provocateur?"
Stealey blinked a few times, trying to figure out where this was going. He adjusted a little in his seat. An amused smile lingered on his lips, "No. I'm working on a story on labor unions and outside influences–"
"Communist provocateurs?"
"Something like that. It helps as you move from one story to another if you can give your readers a trail of breadcrumbs to follow with you." Stealey raised an eyebrow, "Are you going to arrest me for manipulating the reading public? For being good at my job–?"
"–no, but I could arrest you for withholding information in a police investigation."
Stealey sat up straighter, "What are you talking about?"
"I went through the police report. There was nothing about Mr. Russo being at the shooting or at the restaurant fire after it happened. That means you were somewhere else for the interview. We would like to know where that somewhere else is. We'd like to talk to Mr. Russo."
Stealey was silent for a moment, considering the man across from him. "By 'we' you actually mean you would like to talk to Mr. Russo. Correct?"
Tony didn't say anything.
Stealey chewed on his lip for a moment. Then he sat forward, "What's in it for me?"
Tony remained silent for a moment. "Mr. Russo is not the upstanding citizen you portrayed in your article–"
Stealey scoffed, "I know exactly what Mr. Russo is. But he's also a resource that I've cultivated. Sources like him keep me one step ahead of my competition. Why should I give up what keeps me one step ahead of every other reporter? And puts food on my table?"
Tony drummed his fingers on the table. "What is it you want?"
"An I.O.U.," Stealey said. "I have an idea you and I could–"
&n
bsp; "You got it. But don't think this makes you and me friends."
Stealey blinked at the coldness of the answer. He glanced at the couple eating by the window and then behind to make sure no one was listening. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, "When I talked to him he was at The Sicilian Order Lodge. The Hamilton branch is on St. John's. Russo was staying in a couple of rooms they have upstairs. I always suspected he was using the organizational structure of the Order to work with like-minded criminal individuals in other lodges–"
"That's nice," Tony said as he slid out of the booth.
Stealey gestured with his hands, "Hold on. Hold on."
Tony picked up his cap, "What?"
Stealey looked around and then whispered, "But he's not there–"
Tony bent over and gave him a hard look, "What kind of game are you playing?"
Stealey swallowed hard and sat back, "I'm not." He looked around nervously and leaned forward again, "Not many people know this, but he has a place down in Cootes Paradise."
"Where all the squatters are?"
"Yeah. But he's on this end. You know the Paradise Club? Where all the gambling goes on?"
Tony nodded.
"Russo owns it. And right next to it is the old home his grandfather built. When he's not at the restaurant conducting business...and he won't be obviously, since it's a burned out hulk...that's where he goes."
Tony considered the reporter for a moment and then rapped the table with his knuckles, "Let's keep in touch. When I have something good, you'll get it."
SEVERAL BLOCKS AWAY, Tommy Giachetti stood waiting for his sandwich in Piccolo's Deli. The rich smell of coffee, pastrami and Piccolo's specialty, Italian bread braided in sesame seeds, floated through the air. Growing up, Tommy had watched and smelled from the outside, too poor to actually buy anything. Working for Rocco DeLuca was slowly changing that.
"Hello, Tommaso."
Tommy turned at the sound of the female voice. It was Elena Borrasso. The green-eyed, brunette beauty with the long legs. He had a crush on her but she had never given him the time of day over the years. Like most of the girls in the neighborhood, she had her hair done up like Mary Pickford, after watching her last movie, Daddy-Long-Legs.
King of the Bootleggers Page 8
