A man stepped over, a cigar in one hand and a drink in the other, "Sorry, gentlemen, this is a private meeting–"
Bruno took a menacing step.
Rocco put a hand on the big man's shoulder, "It's okay." He stepped up past Bruno, "I'm Rocco DeLuca."
"Oh yes. Sorry, Mr. DeLuca. I'm League President Flynn Fox." He extended his hand. As he shook it, he looked at Tony and Bruno, "I'm afraid this is an owner only meeting, Mr. DeLuca. I'm sure your friends can relax in the lobby. Or grab a nice meal–"
Rocco pointed back at Tony, "This is Tony Genovese. He's my partner in the team."
Fox looked indignant, "Oh. I wasn't told you had a partner–"
"You just were," Rocco said. "He's also the manager. Tony, shake hands with our League President, Flynn Fox."
Tony stepped forward and took the man's hand.
Fox winced as Tony gave him a very firm grip.
Rocco turned to Bruno and pulled a wad of cash from a pocket that he handed him, "Go get yourself something to eat and hang in the lobby. And make sure our rooms are ready...and clear...."
Bruno nodded and left.
Fox turned and called out to the noisy group of men around the room, "Gentlemen, come and meet with the new owners of the Quebec...I mean the Hamilton Voyageurs."
The men crowded around, all with cigars and drinks.
"So you're still going to call them the Voyageurs then?" one of the men said in a loud voice.
Fox laughed, "Don't start on them already, Ted." He looked at Rocco and Tony, "That ball buster is Ted Blicker, the owner of the Renfrew Kings. Ted, this is Rocco DeLuca and his partner and team manager, Tony Genovese."
Blicker shook hands, "I wasn't aware it was a partnership that was buying the team."
"Well, I'm the money and the good looks," Rocco said, "and he's the brains."
Blicker clamped his teeth around his cigar, "The brains eh? We'll see about that when I call to make a trade."
"I look forward to it," Tony said. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"And these are the other owners," Fox continued. "This is James Arthur Wagstaff of the Montreal Huskies...and these gentlemen are the Toronto Shamrocks partnership, Joe Dignam, Roy Tippins, Calvin Tippins and Tillman Longhurst."
Rocco and Tony shook hands with each one.
"Okay," Fox said, "Let me get these two gentlemen a cigar and a drink and we can all get down to some business." He led Tony and Rocco over to a long bar while the others headed for a large table on the far side of the room. Several boxes of Cuban cigars lay on top of the bar and he opened the lid on one and offered it to Rocco.
Rocco took a cigar and passed the box to Tony.
A young man came from the other end of the bar and he indicated the array of liquor in the cabinets, "What can I get for you, gentlemen."
Tony asked for a scotch on the rocks and he chose a cigar and put the box on the bar.
Rocco ordered a straight whiskey as he bit the end off his cigar, "Aren't you boys afraid of a raid with all that liquor around?"
Fox brushed off the concern, "No, the local cops know us and they don't say anything. And the hotel hides it behind a wall that slides over after a meeting in here. Businessmen keep the revenues flowing in a place like this, gentlemen. Business keeps the country moving. The government should understand that but they don't." Fox picked out a cigar as well, "Speaking of that, what business did you boys say you were in?"
"We didn't," Rocco said.
Fox let that pass as he lit his cigar.
Minutes later Rocco and Tony sat side by side at the large table with the other men taking up positions around the table.
Fox sat at the head of the table.
"Any news on that new league, Flynn?" Blicker asked loudly.
Fox looked at Rocco and Tony, "Just to get you up to speed, we've been battling with a former partner, Freddie McCants–"
"He owns the Toronto team," Tony said to Rocco.
"In the old Canadian Hockey Association, not in the new National Hockey Association," pointed out Fox firmly.
"Right, sorry," Tony said, "I read about that–"
"That asshole was always causing problems," Wagstaff grumbled.
"He tried to run two teams in the league at the same time," Blicker scoffed. "How the hell do you ensure your paying customers that everything is on the up-and-up if you own two teams."
"Once we got rid of him, he's been working to create a rival league ever since," Fox added.
Rocco nodded, "We read about that in the paper on the way up here–"
"What is the latest on that bastard McCants, Flynn?" Tillman Longhurst asked.
Rocco looked at Longhurst, his jaw clenching at the interruption.
Tony raised an eyebrow as he brought his drink to his lips, wondering where Longhurst's teeth might land.
"He's offering three Québec players, Carson Cooper, Leo Reise and Herbie Reaume, $1,500 contracts to jump to their league," Fox said.
"Shit, they're not worth $1,500," Blicker grumbled.
Fox looked to Joe Dignam, "How about your team? McCants told the press he's already signed Cully Wilson–"
"He thought he did," Dignam shot back. He looked at his partners, "Roy and Calvin took our player contracts to Ashburn J. Kinsley, Barrister and Solicitor. He has a team of five lawyers working for him–"
"They tell us the contract is iron clad," Roy Tippins said firmly. "Kinsley even brought it to a judge for an opinion. He pointed to the fact that we actually gave each player a $100 advance against next year's salary as an action that strengthened our position–"
"Lucky for you," Wagstaff said.
Roy Tippins threw him a glare, "Luck had nothing to do with. We know what we're doing in Toronto."
Calvin Tippins lifted his head and blew a smoke ring, "One of Kinsley's people even came up with an interesting fact. Reg Noble and Corbett Dennenay...?"
Fox thought about the two names and nodded, "Right, right. When I had to suspend the Toronto Blueshirts in '17, I transferred Reg Noble to the Montréal Huskies–"
"And then you sent him back to Toronto and McCants the following season," Wagstaff added.
"Corbett Dennenay was traded to us in '17," Blicker added as he thought about it. "Wanted to play with his brother Cy...but he left to go back to Toronto–"
"And because of all that back-and-forth," interjected Calvin Tippins. " Mr. E.J. Livingston hasn't really offered either Noble or Dennenay an official contract for two years."
Roy Tippins leaned forward and stabbed the air with his cigar, "Which means their services are very much in play, since this new league and the new team are still a fantasy."
All the men laughed and blew smoke rings like they had won their own personal championships.
Rocco and Tony looked at each other, passing subtle head shakes to each other.
"Which brings us back to you Mr. DeLuca...and Mr. Genovese," Fox said. "We understand that the owner of the Hamilton arena is negotiating with McCants and the new league to bring in a team."
"I hope you two mugs aren't screwing this up," Blicker growled. "You've got a team. I hope you've also got an arena."
Rocco's eyes flashed. His fist tightened around his drink.
"And you're going to need a lot of money behind you," Roy Tippins snapped. "Or else you'll have to bring in a lot at the gate to pay for the long trips to Montreal and Renfrew–"
"Don't worry about it," Tony shot back.
"But he's right, gentlemen," Fox said. "We need your team to secure the Hamilton location. If Livingston gets a foothold there, it could create tremendous problems for all of us. Do I make myself clear?"
Now it was Tony's eyes that flashed and his jaw clenched, "Yes. Clear as a bell."
Fox turned his attention to Dignam. "And you and your bunch, Joe, better make sure McCants doesn't get ice at the Mutual Street Arena."
Dignam's face took on a smug look, "It's before Chief Justice Falconbridge of the Court of Appeal. And
I have a little bird inside his chambers who tells me it's a lock in our favor."
Fox didn't look too convinced. He turned to another matter, addressing Tony, "I've talked to Ray and he's agreed to help with the competitive balance of the league. Punch Broadbent will be transferred to you boys in Hamilton while Sprague Cleghorn will be transferred to the team in Toronto."
"I'm thinking of bringing in some players from out west," Tony said. "Cyclone Taylor would be a good addition–"
"From the Vancouver Millionaires?" Blicker asked. He scoffed, "He's washed up–"
"He's a name," Tony countered. "It would be a great attraction to bring the fans in–"
"Isn't a professional hockey team a good enough attraction down there in the sticks?" Roy Tippins countered smugly.
Tony ignored him, "There are a lot of good hockey players out west. Mickey MacKay is a good one. So is the last scoring leader out there, Tommy Dunderdale. And both Eddie Oatman and Alf Skinner would be good additions–"
"Just don't go and screw up our payrolls," Blicker growled. "We're in this to make money." He looked at Fox, "What did you do? Bring in a couple of playboys with no sense of business?"
Rocco and Tony were ready to jump over the table.
Roy Tippins blew out a cloud of smoke, "What's wrong, Blicker? You already afraid you have a couple of new guys who will take away all that glory you think belongs to you?" He looked at Tony and winked.
The other men laughed and piled on Blicker.
Sitting back, Tony chewed on the cigar in his mouth.
Rocco leaned over and whispered to Tony, "Right now, I wish Machine Gun Tommy was here...."
Tony nodded as he glared at Blicker.
Chapter 67
Hamilton
One Week Later
THOMAS DIGBY AND SHERWOOD CHIVERS each owned 12% of the Pure Ice Company that, in turn, owned the Barton Street Arena. Actually, they were the real money behind the company and the men who backed Pops McMillan. Digby was the President of The Hamilton Bank, an important position in the community but he wanted more. He wanted the prestige a professional hockey team would offer. His friends would be green with envy. Chivers was a tax lawyer. And a successful one who knew all the loopholes. But unlike Digby or McMillan he didn't care about pro sports or the prestige. He put up his money because he needed more of it. Gambling had left a big hole in his pocketbook and he was always running on the next client's fees. The plan was to cash in once the team became valuable and retire. At least that was the plan if he could get his gambling under control.
THOMAS DIGBY LEFT THE bank at precisely 5:40 PM and headed for the newsstand on the corner. Picking up his newspaper, as usual, he crossed the street and reached the streetcar stop, where he checked his watch. Still 6 minutes left. As usual. He settled onto the far end of the bench to wait for the streetcar. Digby crossed his legs, unfolded his newspaper and looked over the headlines.
As the streetcar approached, a large man, flat cap pulled low over his head, stepped up beside Digby. The newspaper he held in his left hand at waist height was different from Digby's in one respect. It was draped over a hidden .22 caliber handgun with a Maxim silencer and modified cartridges. As the streetcar began braking, the squeal hid a muffled sound. Pffft.
Passengers began queuing to get on the streetcar.
Except for Thomas Digby. He slumped a bit to the left, still holding his newspaper as blood from the hole in his right temple streaked the side of his face.
Bruno Gagliano walked slowly away from the scene.
Behind him, a woman screamed as her horrified eyes took in the blood that drained from the hole.
IT WAS 3 AM. SHERWOOD Chivers slipped out through the side door of the underground gambling den he frequented and into the back alley and the smell of urine and puke. Pulling his collar up against the cool night air, he headed through the darkness for the street. He had broken even tonight at the craps table and that pissed him off. He needed to win money after last night's game. He skirted a puddle of vomit, turning his nose away from the sick smell.
A large figure stepped from the shadows and blocked his path.
Chives cursed whoever it was and stepped to the side to go around. He stopped dead in his tracks. The cold end of a silencer was pressed against his forehead. Chivers opened his mouth but the words never came. and he never heard the quiet shot. A bullet drilled its way through the bone and rattled around inside his skull, obliterating his brain. His body slowly collapsed backward to the dirt.
Bruno Gagliano bent down, avoiding the blood as he slipped his hand inside Chivers jacket and pulled out his wallet. Taking the cash, he threw the empty wallet down beside the body. Then he slipped his hand into a pocket, pulled out a pair of loaded dice and threw them beside the empty wallet. Looking both ways to be sure there were no witnesses, Bruno then walked casually down the alleyway to the street.
Chapter 68
Two Days Later
BRUNO GAGLIANO STOOD SMOKING a cigarette near the back loading door of the Barton Street Arena. A small cardboard box tucked under his left arm. Despite the cold, he was dressed only in an old brown suit and a wide-brimmed Fedora to keep his head warm. Bruno blew smoke rings to occupy himself as he waited patiently. He turned his head at the sound of someone unlocking the loading door from the inside.
Moments later the door slid open and two men started backing out, dragging heavy trash cans outside. One of the men stopped dragging the trash when he saw the tall, heavy-set man. "Can I help you friend? The arena won't be open today. No events."
Bruno casually tossed the remainder of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his foot, "I have this package to deliver to Mr. McMillan. He is here?"
The man screwed up his face, trying to understand the man's heavy Italian accent, "You have a what?"
Bruno tapped the top of the cardboard box under his arm, "A package. For Mr. McMillan. He is here?"
The man nodded, "Yeah. He gets here real early. Even before us." He reached out for the package, "I can take that–"
Bruno placed a big meaty hand out, "No. I've been instructed to hand it to him personally." Then as an afterthought, he added, "Please."
The man scratched his head.
The other man was still dragging his trashcan to the edge of the lot where more garbage was piled up, "Come on Marty. We haven't got all day you know. Let's move it, we got two dozen more in there and old man McMillan will be pissed if we don't get it done before noon."
Marty waved his hand dismissively, "Ah, we'll get it done." He turned to Bruno and indicated to go inside and to the right, "Go all the way to the other side of the building and up the stairs. He's got an office up there on the top level. You can deliver your package to him personally."
Bruno moved inside and followed along the corridor to the far side. His footsteps echoed off the block walls of the empty building. Climbing the stairs to the top level, he found himself in a long corridor. A number of doors were on the right-hand side and he checked them. The first two were locked. The next one was unlocked and he pulled the gray, painted door open. It was a small, musty smelling office with a man sitting behind an old battered desk on the far side.
The man looked up and squinted at the large man stepping through the doorway, "Who are you? Who let you in the arena? I'll fire somebody's ass."
"Are you Mr. McMillan, the owner of this arena?"
McMillan's jaw moved back and forth in agitation, "Yeah."
Bruno took the package from under his arm, "I have something to deliver to you...sir."
"What is it?"
Bruno shook his head as he stepped across towards the desk, "I'm only the deliveryman."
Waving an agitated arm to his right, MacMillan said curtly, "Put it over there, on that cabinet. I'll look at it later. And then get out. I have a funeral to go to–"
As Bruno reached the desk, he simply tossed the cardboard box to the side and continued walking towards a high window behind and to the left of
McMillan's chair.
McMillan watched in surprise as the cardboard box rolled and tumbled. It sounded hollow and empty. Then his face was screwed up in both surprise and anger as he watched the man head for the window, "What the...?"
Bruno reached up, undid the window lock and then grasped the bottom of the window and lifted it completely open, the wood groaning all the way to the top.
McMillan's jaw dropped, amazed at the strength of the man, "No one's been able to open that window in years...."
Bruno turned and stepped back to McMillan.
Looking up as the man towered over him, McMillan leaned back in his chair, "What are you doing–?"
Bruno grabbed MacMillan's clothing in the collar area with his big right hand, lifted him off the chair and threw him face down on the painted, concrete floor.
McMillan tried to break his fall with his hands but he landed hard on his face with a groan. He spit out dust and placed his hands flat on the floor to lift himself up.
Bruno reached down, grabbed the man's left ankle and lifted his leg off the floor.
McMillan felt his whole body twisting awkwardly, "Hey!"
Bruno reached down and grabbed the man's right ankle, then lifted him completely off the floor and upside down.
McMillan yelled in fear as he saw Bruno's shoes, upside down and swinging back and forth in front of his eyes as the big man turned.
Bruno calmly walked to the open window, lifting the old man's body higher.
McMillan yelped as his head hit just below the window sill. Then he screamed as his body was moved out through the window and he found himself hanging upside down, staring at the ground two floors below.
Bruno barely broke a sweat as he held the old man upside down on the outside of the building.
Screaming, yelling and waving his arms, McMillan tried to get someone, somewhere below, to see his plight.
Bruno jerked the old man up and down once, "Stop yelling and listen."
King of the Bootleggers Page 30
