As they approached, Rocco could tell Besha was really upset. "Is something wrong?" he asked.
Moon-faced man turned and gave them a disdainful look, his eyes running down over their poor clothing, "I was just suggesting–"
"That we might be better off finding a place with stuff we can afford," Besha said through clenched teeth.
Gianni started for the man but Rocco put his hand out, holding him back, "I think this one's going to be mine."
But Besha, in turn, put her hand up for Rocco to stay put and said firmly, "No, thank you. Let me take care of this." She dug into her old purse and pulled out a handful of cash.
Moon-faced man looked at the cash in surprise.
Pointing at a large bed with the cash, Besha looked moon-faced man in the eyes, "That bed frame, springs and mattress...you're asking $12...I'll give you $8"
"And that Queen Anne dresser over there?" Andrea said. "I'll give you $5 cash. Take it or leave it."
Moon-faced man opened his mouth and then shut it, nodding his okay.
Besha marched over to another dresser, "And let's talk about this one."
Rocco glanced over at Gianni and gave him a wink, "I guess we better start loading furniture."
LATER THAT NIGHT, ROCCO lay under the blankets, hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. Images of his father being shot in a dirty alleyway filled his thoughts. Is that how it happened? An image of Provenzano pulling a weapon on his father and laughing as he shot his father dead flooded in. These same images used to invade his dreams as a kid. Now he only obsessed over them before he fell asleep. Was my father a cheater? Was he cheating that night? I probably would have shot him too. Doesn't matter. This was my family. Provenzano shot my blood. A sound from the hall caught his attention.
Besha appeared in the doorway, naked and pink, running across the cold floor to the bed in quick steps.
Rocco held up the blankets and she jumped into bed, snuggling against him, "A nice, hot bath is heaven, but now I'm freezing."
Rocco wrapped the blanket around her, "I can tell. Your nipples are stabbing me."
Besha giggled and snuggled closer, "Well, it's your job to warm me up."
Rocco pulled his arm tighter around her.
"I can't believe we have this place," Besha whispered. "It's so big."
"It's not that big."
It's bigger than our last place," she protested. "And we have an extra room. That's a lot." Besha ran her nails gently along Rocco's shoulder under the blanket, "And we now have some money. I can't believe I bought new furniture."
"It's not new, it's used," pointed out Rocco.
"Well, it's new to me."
Rocco kissed the top of her head.
"Guess who I visited today?"
"I'm too tired to guess."
"The Hamilton Telephone Company. I'm putting a telephone in the distillery office."
"What do you need that for?"
"The salesman from the company that brings us the hops and the barley put a telephone in. I thought it would be a good idea to modernize–"
"Modernize? Why? We're just making whiskey."
Besha shrugged, "It just seemed like a good idea. I could put one here in our new apartment too."
Rocco screwed his face up, "Why? We have a perfectly good telephone in the hallway. And who would we call? No one we know has a telephone inside their place. It just seems like a waste of money."
Besha had no answer for that. She ran her nails down Rocco's chest, "Maria says Tony is thinking of coming around, maybe get together for Christmas–"
"No," Rocco said sternly, "I want him to stay away until this thing with Provenzano is settled...and one way or the other, it will be settled. Having Tony in that uniform could still prove to be valuable down the road."
"Okay," Besha said.
Rocco gave her a squeeze with his arm, "I may not have the book smarts and brains like you, but this stuff I know, Besha. Pay Maria double, tell her that's for Tony's friendship. I owe him a lot, considering he was the one who brought Tommy in and got this whole alcohol thing started."
"Okay, I'll pay her the extra." Besha changed the subject, "I wonder how Gianni and Maria are doing? She was so excited to get settled into her new apartment."
"I think they're doing okay. The headboard stopped banging against the wall ten minutes ago."
Besha giggled, "Well, you better start your own headboard banging, Mr. DeLuca or I'm heading out into the street to find someone."
Chapter 26
Gore Park Police Station
HAMILTON CHIEF CONSTABLE Denton Wherley was a retired Brigadier General from the British army and used to having everyone and everything he was responsible for under his command in full and utter control. Normally his red hair was always meticulously combed and in place and his red handlebar mustache was always waxed to perfection. But this morning, everything looked a bit disheveled. Wherley threw the report on the fire and the shooting at Marsala Ristorante down on his desk on top of two other reports and shook his head in disgust, "What in the world is happening in our city, gentlemen?"
The question had been thrown at Inspector Rufford Crawley from the James Street Police Station and Inspector Finn Moore from the Barton Street Police Station.
Inspector Crawley flipped over the pages in his copy of the report, "I know this one might look bad–"
"Might look bad?" Wherley thundered. He grabbed the report off the desk again and flipped the pages over in anger, finally running his finger under several lines on the page, "An unknown person bombs the Marsala Ristorante on James Street, using a damned petrol bomb. Seventeen men are killed, many of them piled up in the back alley, all of them shot to death."
"Yes I know, but–"
"And from the sounds heard and the destruction caused, it appears someone was using a Thompson submachine gun in the attack," Wherley yelled. "That's a military weapon in the hands of a common thug, used to kill citizens in one of the city neighborhoods we're sworn to protect. Do we have any idea who this submachine-gun-wielding thug is?"
Crawley's shoulders sagged a little, "No sir. We couldn't find any eyewitnesses to the bombing or the shooting itself."
Wherley tried to calm himself, the veins in his neck popping as he turned the page over roughly, "According to this, the owner of Marsala Ristorante, one Salvatore Russo, was then shot dead in a house down in Cootes Paradise."
"Yes sir," confirmed Inspector Crawley.
Wherley flipped over a few more pages, "What do we know about this Salvatore Russo?"
"The man was known to engage in a number of illegal activities, including the protection racket and bootlegging–"
"Bootlegging? With the present laws, why wasn't the man in jail?" Wherley asked sternly.
"Now that question you'd have to address to Chief Magistrate Tyrell J. Whitaker," Crawley said. "We brought him evidence of these crimes, but he never found enough to convict, according to him." Crawley was quite happy to pass that problem off on someone else.
Wherley shook his hand and grumbled, "The citizenry of our good city might be better off without wishy-washy prosecutors." He flipped the pages in the thick report over until he found what he was looking for, "And then we have this outrageous incident where an old woman, Mrs. Jacomina Maggio, is shot to death and then nailed like a saint to a house–"
"In my opinion, she was more than just shot to death," interjected Inspector Finn Moore.
Wherley looked across at the man without lifting his head. He was unaccustomed to anyone under his command interrupting him.
Moore continued on, "The way this woman was shot in the forehead, I would call that an assassination."
Raising an eyebrow, Wherley nodded his head imperceptibly, "I would agree. That's a very astute observation, Inspector."
"The house where she was left belongs to Roman Provenzano," Moore added. He read further down in the report, "Mrs. Jacomina Maggio is the sister of Provenzano's mother."
"Th
at sounds like the killing was someone sending a message," Crawley said.
Wherley nodded his head, thinking. "What do we know about this Roman Provenzano?"
Moore glanced at Crawley, "His background is very similar to what Inspector Murray was saying about Salvatore Russo. Provenzano is well known in Hess Village and Little Racalmuto as someone involved in various extortion rackets. He was also involved in bootlegging and supplying other bootleggers–"
"Any idea where these men were getting the alcohol?" Wherley asked.
"More than likely it came from the Glen Gael Distillery on Sherman Avenue North," Crawley said. "It's the only one still open–"
"Do we have any definite evidence connecting either these men to that distillery?" Wherley asked.
"No sir," Crawley said as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "We had to dismiss a police officer who was looking into that... actually... we dismissed several police officers on moral grounds. We had evidence they were taking bribes–"
"Why not bring them up on charges and make examples of them? And why was I not aware of it?" Wherley thundered.
"It happened seven months ago, just before you started, sir. Chief Magistrate Tyrell J. Whitaker thought it would be better to keep everything quiet, and not alarm the public–"
"I want that distillery monitored," Wherley ordered forcefully. "If someone is moving illegal liquor in contravention of the law, I want them in irons."
"I can do that," Crawley acknowledged, "but keep in mind that the James Street Police Station is undermanned. I'd have to shift men from more important tasks. The mayor and the City Council preferred not to have us hire new officers to take the place of the ones we dismissed."
"Unbelievable," Wherley grumbled.
"I'm afraid to say the Barton Street Police Station is a bit undermanned as well," Moore added. "The men we did try to hire couldn't afford to buy their uniforms and the city and the police board have been very stingy, refusing to help with a bit of cash."
Wherley took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "All right, forget about the distillery for now. But I want each of you to put your best man on the incidents surrounding these two men, Salvatore Russo and Roman Provenzano. Have them investigate any sort of criminal activities that these two men were involved in. If something appears to need a deeper investigation, I'll consider bringing in a Pinkerton agent."
"Salvatore Russo was also the owner of the Paradise Club down in Cootes Paradise," Crawley added. "It's right next to the house where he was shot. There's been a lot of gambling and prostitution going on down there–"
"Then why haven't we shut them down?" asked an incredulous Wherley.
Moore glanced across at Crawley before he spoke. "Because your predecessor, as well as the mayor, several city counselors and even members of the judiciary, have interfered in that regard."
Crawley nodded, "Many of them spend time there. You may not like to hear it, but that's the truth. If you want that to be part of our investigation into Salvatore Russo...."
Chief Constable Denton Wherley clenched his jaw, "Let the cards fall where they may." He flashed a cold smile, "If you find any evidence against someone like that, you bring it to me. I'll take care of them personally."
Chapter 27
IT WAS LATE in the day and Tony Genovese entered the front door of Glen Gael Distillery in a hurry. The ever-present sour, yeasty smell drifted across the air, accompanied by the sounds of the distilling operation in the back and the thud of wooden crates being stacked on top of one another. Tony glanced to the work area as he headed across the floor towards the small office on the right, "Hey, Rocco. You here? Rocco?"
His wife Maria appeared in the open doorway to the small office, "What's wrong?"
Besha appeared right behind Maria, "Tony? What is it–?"
"Where's Rocco? Is he still here?"
"Yeah, he's just loading the trucks out back," Besha said. "Tommy's already gone with his load. What's wrong?"
Tony headed for the open brick archway and back work area without explaining. "Rocco," he called out.
Besha placed her hands on Maria's shoulders and gently pushed her forward out of the office, "Move, move, move."
Rocco came from behind a stack of crates at the back door and yelled up to the front, "What?"
Big Gianni Reppucci was right behind him, "That sounds like Tony. Is something wrong?"
Rocco shrugged as he started walking towards the front of the distillery, "I have no idea but he sounds stressed."
"We got a problem, Rocco," Tony said as he hurried across the work floor.
Maria and Besha were trying to catch up to Tony, fearing the worst.
A number of the men stopped working as they watched Tony heading quickly for Rocco. They looked at each other, wondering what was happening.
"What is it, Tony?" Rocco asked as they met in the middle of the workspace. "We've got to get these trucks loaded so we can move out."
Gianni Reppucci stepped up beside Rocco, his hands on his hips, "Yeah, we're already behind, Tony."
Maria and Besha caught up to Tony and the others, equally wondering what the problem was.
Tony took a breath, gathering himself after his rapid pace, "That's just it. We're going to have to be extra careful when we move the stuff out of here."
"Why? What's happened?" Besha asked. She crossed her arms over her chest.
"There was a meeting of the top brass with the Chief Constable," Tony said. "The investigations into the Salvatore Russo fire bombing and shooting and that thing at Roman Provenzano's place were top of the agenda–"
"So they're looking at us?" Rocco asked.
Gianni Reppucci cursed under his breath.
Tony shook his head, "No, no, not that I know of. But when they were talking about Russo and Provenzano, their bootlegging operations came up. Since this distillery is the only one still left open in the area, they're positive the alcohol is coming out of here. The Chief Constable's got a bug up his ass about it and he wanted the Inspectors to put coppers watching this place."
Rocco swore.
"Are they out there now keeping a watch in the place?" Maria asked, a look of deep concern crossing her face.
The workers were now gathering around them, concern written on their faces as well.
"Hey," yelled someone from the back, "are we going to load these trucks or not?"
"Just hold on," Gianni yelled back.
Tony glanced at the back and then answered Maria, "No, they're not out there. Not yet anyway. Russo had a copper on the take to allow him to take his alcohol out of here. That copper and a bunch of others were caught and fired. It left the constabulary undermanned. I found this all out when the Inspector running our station was looking for volunteers to work overtime to watch this place. No one was willing because they never got paid for a lot of the overtime they put in before. The city keeps refusing to fork over the cash. But I'm sure someone will take them up on it eventually–"
"So we do like Russo and bribe the copper who does volunteer," Rocco said.
"The problem is, if it's someone from another station, Tony may not know about it or soon enough," Besha reasoned. "And we won't know if we can bribe them before they follow the trucks to our bootleggers. If that gets reported to the Chief Constable, we lose everything."
Tony nodded his head, "That's exactly what I was thinking."
"So do we shut this place down?" Maria asked.
"I don't know," Tony said, "but we have to figure out something."
Rocco clenched his jaw as he crossed his arms across his chest, pissed at the situation, "Just as we're getting things going again. Can't catch a break."
"What if we send out decoy trucks?" Maria asked.
"That might work," Rocco admitted.
"It could," Tony agreed, although he didn't look totally convinced. "But that only works if they follow the decoy. And what if we end up with two or three watching us. Or what if they just stop each truck as it leaves and sea
rch it for evidence?"
"Can they do that without a reason?" Maria asked.
Tony shrugged, "If they're suspicious of something, they can stop the truck. And since this is a distillery...."
Now it was Maria's turned to swear, "Damn coppers. Sorry, sweetie."
Tony winked at her but still remained serious and concerned.
Big Gianni Reppucci was looking at down at the floor, his hands on his hips, "Are there any empty buildings nearby?" He looked up and glanced around, "Anybody know?"
"The one on the left past the empty lot is empty," Maria said.
Reppucci crossed his arms and stroked the stubble on his chin, "Yeah, but it's too small...and too close...."
"Too close for what? Are you thinking about storing the whiskey somewhere else and running the trucks from there?" Tony asked. He shrugged, "You've still gotta get it from here to there. Same problem."
"No," Reppucci answered slowly, "that's not what I'm thinking of."
"There's an old warehouse that's about half a block from here," said one of the men. "It's past the building on the left. It's the wood frame building...."
"I know the one he's talking about," Besha said. "Mr. Starkman had a customer who used to store his sugar there. But he went out of business three or four years ago."
"But Gianni, even if you run the trucks from that building, you still have to get the whiskey from here to there," Tony said.
"True," Gianni admitted. "But it all depends on how you get the alcohol there."
Tony looked at Rocco, "I don't get it."
Gianni grinned, "That's because you're thinking like a dumb copper."
"He always was a jackass. Even when we were kids," Tony said as he shook his head in amusement.
Pointing his finger straight down, Gianni looked at Besha, "What's in the basement below this floor? I only had a glimpse down there."
Besha raised her eyebrows, thinking. She shrugged, "It's just a large storage area. They used it to store the barrels and age the whiskey. But since we don't worry about that now, we don't use it."
King of the Bootleggers Page 12
