The men didn't pay attention to him, being more concerned with several other people who were getting out of a Model-T that had just pulled up in front.
Rocco stumbled past a man and two women who had stepped out of the car and were heading for the entrance. He heard them talking to the men as they climbed the stairs.
One of the guards yelled for the man still in the car to park against a line of trees to the right on the edge of the lot, just this side of the main road.
As the car moved, Rocco used it to shield himself from the veranda and then he quickly slipped into the tree line and away into the darkness. There were no lights on in the house that was his target. He kept moving over the broken ground and the roots until he was sure the shadows would keep him hidden from the club when he moved back across the open area. Pulling the Colt semiautomatic pistol from inside his coat, he watched the men back on the veranda. Doesn't look like they know I'm here. Crouching low, he scooted across to the two dark shacks next to Russo's and scooted between them. The dark water lapped against the shore not twenty feet away as Rocco turned right around the corner of the shack and dropped to one knee in the dark. Not seeing anyone, he scooted across the back of the shack to the far corner where he knelt and eyed Russo's shack. It was twice as big as the others but just as dark. Rocco crept forward and a faint light caught his eye. It wasn't much but it was coming through the old window shutters on this side. A bedroom? Sprinting across the open space between the two shacks, Rocco knelt against the side of Russo's house. The window was too high up. There was no way he could pull himself up and peek inside. Or take a shot if Russo was there. Moving low, he crept back to the side facing the water. Three wooden steps led up to a veranda and a door in the center of the building. Creeping lightly up the stairs, Rocco checked the door. Typical of these old shacks, there was no lock and the door opened a crack with a slight squeak. Rocco held his breath and listened. There was no movement from inside. Slipping inside through the crack, Rocco found himself inside a musty room. In the dark, it looked like a large kitchen. Straight ahead was a hallway. And halfway down the hall, he could see a soft light emerging from under a door. Rocco listened intently. He moved low to the entrance to the hallway and stopped, listening again. Creeping into the hallway, he could see the light under the door was flickering. Probably a kerosene lamp or candle. As he approached the door, he heard the heavy scrape of a shoe on the old wooden floor on the other side. Someone definitely in there. Rocco slowly raised himself and stood against the wall opposite the door. Raising his weapon to waist height, he readied himself. One step out and Rocco kicked the door in, bringing the weapon up.
Dead ahead, Salvatore Russo sat on a toilet, his pants down around his ankles and an open newspaper in his beefy hands. His eyes shot wide open.
Rocco never hesitated. He pulled the trigger.
The gunshot echoed off the old walls and a neat bullet hole appeared between Russo's eyes.
Russo's head snapped back and then began to fall forward.
Rocco pulled the trigger again and again and again, obliterating Fat Sal's face.
Fat Sal slumped to his left and his fat body crashed to the floor, dust rising in a light cloud.
"Don't forget to wipe yourself before you meet your maker," Rocco hissed. Then he ran for the back door, cleared the veranda in one step and ran low back along the water into the darkness.
Men were shouting from back at the Paradise Club, no doubt alerted by the gunshots.
Rocco ran hard past several shacks and then turned left, running between two ramshackle buildings and back towards the tree line. Before running across the open space, he checked to see if the way was clear.
The men from the Club were running for Russo's shack, shotguns now in their hands.
Rocco waited for them to reach the shack and then he began walking across the open space towards the trees. He froze when he heard voices in the dark to the right.
"I told you something would happen. I told you."
Two men appeared running out of the dark.
Rocco spun in their direction and raised the Colt, pulling the trigger. It clicked over and over again. Shit. Empty.
The two men were frozen in the semi-darkness, shock evident on their faces. One of the men had a box camera on a tripod slung over his shoulder. The other man had a battered old fedora with a card saying 'PRESS' stuck in the hat band.
Tony suddenly emerged from the darkness at the edge of the lot and stood beside Rocco, lifting his own weapon at the two men. He turned his head slightly to Rocco, keeping his eye on the two as he said in a low voice, "That guy is the reporter, Latimer Stealey. I saw these two jackasses passing in their car back on the road." Tony swung the gun directly at Stealey, "What the hell are you doing here? And you better have a damn good reason before I pull the trigger myself."
Stealey's voice was trembling as he spoke, "After we talked, I knew something was going to happen. We parked back there and when we heard the shots...t-this is my photographer. Pictures of a crime scene are gold...once the police arrive...the other police, I mean...we'll never get any good photographs for my story...."
"Have you taken any pictures yet?" Tony asked sharply. He swung the weapon into the face of the other man. The threat was apparent.
The photographer shook his head emphatically back and forth no, too scared to even speak.
Stealey raised his hands beseechingly to Tony, "N-no...he didn't. Not yet. I swear," He looked at Rocco, whose empty weapon was still pointed at him.
"You're lucky I don't have any bullets left," Rocco said in a low voice. "Next time...you might not be so lucky."
Stealey and his cameraman nodded their heads.
Rocco lowered his weapon.
So did Tony, "Okay. Get going. But keep in mind we have other men around here. You say anything, we'll hear about it. And then you're both dead men."
The two men nodded their heads repeatedly in understanding. After a moment, they took off at a run towards Russo's shack.
Chapter 21
Mob Hit In Cootes Paradise
GINO WAS STANDING in the front area of the distillery, looking at the sensational headline splashed across the front page of the Hamilton News-Express newspaper, "I still think you should've shot those two dumb boobs."
Rocco was smoking and watching Kippen in the back through the large archway
The former owner was instructing the guys they had hired from the neighborhood on the operations of the distillery. Tommy, Ox, and Gianni were back there as well, listening.
Besha, Maria, and Andrea were inside the little office, setting everything up business wise.
Rocco shook his head, "And like I said, Gino, that would've brought intention to us. Me and Tony would've been sitting ducks out there in the open." He turned his head and looked directly at Gino, "Or were you hoping to get me killed?"
Gino looked at Rocco, a hurt expression on his face, "No, Rocco. That isn't what I meant–"
"Then drop it."
Gino folded the newspaper, "Okay, you got it."
Gianni came walking briskly from the back.
Ox was following him.
"The old man says we have a bit of a problem," Gianni said.
Rocco eyes flashed anger, "What are you talking about?"
"Kippen says it's illegal to sell whiskey that hasn't been aged for two years. It's a Canadian law–"
Rocco threw his cigarette down and headed for the back, his fists clenching and unclenching.
Kippen saw him coming and put his hands up defensively, "I just...I just thought you should know–"
All the men backed away.
Rocco raised his voice, "Why didn't you tell us this before? And what does it matter, anyway?"
Kippen licked his lips, "I...I just thought you should know about the law...and no one's been selling much since the province went dry so...I didn't really think about it before–"
Rocco cursed.
"And if you don't age it, pe
ople will know...it won't taste right–"
Rocco's rage rose as he stared at the man.
"There is a way to do it though," Kippen said quickly.
Gianni stepped in to keep the man alive, "What do you mean? How?"
Kippen swallowed, "It's...it's against the law too, but...you can add peroxidise to your new batch of whiskey."
"Peroxa-what? What's that?" Rocco asked him.
Kippen took a breath, "Peroxidise. It's a substance you get from horseradish–"
"Bull," Gianni said.
"No, no. There are different ways it can be done but adding peroxidise will do the trick in twenty-four hours. And it works best when you have older, charred oak barrels. I can show you how to do the charring with a flame and make the–"
Rocco glared at the man, "Get the guys back together and start to show them how it's done. Now."
Kippen shot away to get the men together again.
Rocco clenched his jaw as he turned and headed back to the front, "We gotta start making money. Get all the freakin' horseradish we need."
Gianni nodded his head, "Okay. I'll take some men and go find it. And I'll keep on old man Kippen, make sure he gets the guys working on it as soon as possible. I'll even get more guys and run day and night to get it going faster."
Rocco took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
"But where are we gonna move the alcohol we do make, Rocco?" Ox asked. "If Monterosso is buying it from someone else...?"
"With Russo out of the way, we take over his bootleggers," Rocco said firmly. "They're going to need a supply."
"What about Genesio Marino?" Gino asked. "With his boss gone, I'm sure he's looking to take over the North End gang."
"And everything that goes with it," Ox added.
Rocco mulled it over as he watched Besha come out from the office. She pulled her moth-eaten sweater tighter around her, "We're going to need more heat in here once we get the money." She gestured with her head to the small office, "I think Andrea and Maria have gotten the hang of filling out the customs papers and the fake purchase orders."
"We won't really need that right now," Gianni said, "Rocco says we're gonna have to sell it to the bootleggers in the North end for now."
Besha shook her head, "You still need to export it. You have to put it on the boat just like before."
Gino looked confused, "Why? Didn't you hear? We can't sell to Monterosso–"
Besha jutted her chin out defiantly, "Because the law says you can't sell it here. If the government agents find out, they shut us down." She looked at Rocco, "But it's perfectly legal to export the whiskey we make."
Rocco nodded his head in understanding, "All we have to do a short-circuit the shipment to Cuba back into the province."
"Right," Besha said, "the trucks load it on a boat after it officially goes through customs. And instead of landing it on the American side, we land it somewhere down the shore on our side and our trucks pick it up again." She looked at Gino, "Capisce?"
Gino blinked and nodded, "Capisce."
Rocco gave her a quick kiss on the lips, "That's my Besha. Always thinking." He looked at Gino, "Why don't you and Ox pay a visit to Mr. Genesio Marino. Tell him that he can have the Paradise Club. As long...as he stays out of our way. Otherwise...we go to war."
Gino nodded.
Ox looked a little disappointed and Rocco addressed him, "You only kill him if he doesn't cooperate. Understand?"
Ox nodded and left with Gino.
"That one's always itching to take someone out," Gianni commented as he watched the two leave.
"We can always use someone like that on our side," Rocco reasoned. He looked to the back where Tommy was sitting on a barrel, his Thompson perched on his leg, "Hey Tommy."
Tommy jumped off the barrel, cradling his weapon and moving quickly towards the front, "Yeah, Rocco?"
"Once we make more, you and me are going to take two truckloads of whiskey down to Port Maitland and run it through that customs guy."
"We going to Buffalo? I thought...?"
"Besha says all we need to do is land the stuff on this side and pick it up again.That way the feds think it's been exported, like before. We just bring it back here and sell it to the bootleggers."
"Oh, okay," Tommy said.
"I want you to get six guys you can trust and who can handle themselves to go with us. We might run into hijackers again."
"Makes sense," Tommy agreed.
"While you're getting the guys, I'll work with Tony to get the addresses for all the bootleggers in the North End. I'd like you to be in charge of delivering the stuff to the bootleggers."
"Yeah, I can do that."
"Good," Rocco said, "Make sure the guys you choose to work with you are all well armed. Anybody interferes or don't want to work with us...."
Tommy nodded firmly, "I understand."
Chapter 22
TOMMY HAD THE ACME COMPANY heighten the sides of both cargo beds and his pops' one-ton truck now carried 200 cases of whiskey while the second held a load of 300 cases. Rocco rode with Tommy, while two armed men drove the second truck behind them. Each truck carried two men in the cargo bed, wrapped in heavy blankets against the cold. The roads were snowy and slippery and it took two hours longer than they expected to reach Port Maitland. As they turned the final corner to the docks, Rocco wondered if Gamble would be there. Maybe he gave up waiting and sold his boat.
But there he was, sitting on the back of his tug in a large woolen coat, smoking his pipe and spitting over the side as he watched the two trucks pull up.
Tommy stayed seated and gave the old sailor a thumbs up as Rocco got out.
Gamble just sat and waited.
Rocco walked around the front of the truck and approached the tug, "Same deal?"
Gamble considered Rocco with one eye as he puffed on his pipe. Then he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, "Had the idea you guys weren't comin' back."
"Had some trouble."
Gamble spit over the side, "Wouldn't have anything to do with the stuff I read about up Hamilton way?"
"I don't know anything about that."
"Uh huh." Gamble puffed on his pipe.
"How about the three hundred per trip you thought you should have asked for?"
Gamble puffed on his pipe a few times and then stood up, "In that case, I guess we should go see old Sam."
Rocco watched the old sailor step over onto the dock, "Only difference for now is we don't need to go over to the Buffalo side. We just need to find a spot on our side to make the drop."
Gamble walked with Rocco towards the trucks, "You pay the bill and I take you where ever you want to go. I imagine you want to pick up the load like those other guys over in Buffalo, only with your own trucks?"
Rocco didn't say anything as he reached up to take the paperwork from Tommy.
Gamble looked up at Tommy, "Once we load my tug, you take the road back out of town and take the first left. You follow that road for...thirty minutes and you'll see a sign says Fisherman's Glen. Take the second left...that's my brother's place. You'll see a dock past the house. I'll meet you there. That way you won't have to wade into cold water. I'll let my brother know and I'll settle up with him for use of the dock."
ROCCO WALKED INTO THE customs office behind Gamble. The air was blue with tobacco smoke but had a sweet, toasted smell to it.
Sam was sitting by the hot stove again and he pulled the pipe from between his lips and spit on the floor, "Back again I see."
"Shit, you're eyes are as good as ever," Gamble grumbled.
Sam rose slowly from the chair and ambled to the counter, "Heading for Cuba again, I imagine."
Rocco stepped forward and placed his papers on the counter, "We sure are." Then he casually placed an envelope beside the papers and tapped it several times, "And we just might be going to Cuba every day." He then strolled over to the stove and warmed his hands.
Sam glanced at the envelope and then eyed Rocco.
Gamble walked over to stand by Rocco, where he stuck his hands out over the stove for warmth as he puffed on his own pipe.
Sam reached for the envelope, lifted the flap and peeked inside. He saw a $100 bill and blinked. He closed the envelope for a moment and peeked again, wondering if the bill would disappear. It didn't. He closed the flap and looked over at Rocco, "You say...every...day?"
"It might even be two or three times a day. Same arrangement...if it's not too much trouble," Rocco said as he rubbed his hands together.
Sam reached for his stamp, pounded it in the ink and nearly pounded a hole in the desk under the custom papers, "No trouble at all, sir. That's what I'm here for. I look forward to serving you."
Chapter 23
A WEEK LATER Rocco was helping to load the trucks in the back of the distillery when one of the workmen approached, "Your missus says to tell you that you have a visitor up front."
The day was snowy and cold and Rocco was cranky, "Did she say who it was?"
The workman wiped his hands off on a rag, "No, she didn't say."
Rocco cursed under his breath and headed through the distillery for the front. Everything was running full bore and he hated wasting time. He saw a large, sullen-looking man standing just inside the front door. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his heavy wool coat and his black flat-cap was tilted low over his forehead. The bulge under the coat told Rocco the man was packing.
Besha was standing in the open doorway to the office and she just gestured with her head to the man before disappearing inside the office.
Rocco stopped short of the man, a tactic he had learned from the street. It gave you space if the opponent decided to launch a physical attack, "What can I do for you, friend."
The man knew what Rocco was doing and his expression showed respect as he sized Rocco up from head to toe, "You must be Mr. Rocco DeLuca."
Rocco stayed quiet, waiting to see what this was about, watching for any sudden movement or sign of a hidden weapon.
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