by Greg Enslen
“Rugio, what do you know about the Luckies?” Shotgun asked.
He shook his head. “Not a lot, Al. The word is out that they’re changing direction—it looks like Vincent talked in Tony’s ear long enough and they’re tired of being legit. No one’s seen any of the old capos lately, so it’s possible Tony had them done, and there’s no one left to contradict the change in policy. If that’s right, Tony’s listening to Vincent about what to do—Tony has no experience in coke, as far as we know. Vincent’s run up against us a few times, mostly doing little stuff on the side, and we always pushed back. Maybe too hard, looking back on it. Anyway, they’ll start in Belleville and O’Fallon and get a few of our guys to deal for them. Then they’ll get their own supplier and undersell our pushers until they run the northern markets. After that, they’ll come at us.”
Nodding again, Shotgun wondered at the sheer knowledge and talent base in this room. Either one of these guys was good enough and smart enough to run the Dogs, and that made Shotgun feel better. If anything happened to him, the set would be in good hands.
“Willie, check with our suppliers and ask if any of them have heard anything. They might not be talking, so tease them with a big order or offer to bump our price up a little to offset their ‘costs.’ And see if there are any other pushers getting roughed up—in fact, have a meeting with the crews from the east side and give them a heads-up. Take them something nice—get them some girls. Impress upon them the importance of not leaving the crew. And find out who already has gone, and try and get them back. Use whatever tactics you think are necessary,” he said, making eye contact with Willie B.
Willie B. nodded, and he and Rugio got up and left the room, leaving Shotgun alone with his thoughts.
Maybe he should try and contact Tony Luciano directly—or that might just be asking to get killed. If Vincent was running things now, the Luckies were in a lot of trouble. Shotgun had heard plenty of bad things about that guy—he was a loose cannon. Vincent’s notoriously short temper might work in the favor of the Dogs.
Or Vincent might go too far, too fast. He might kill a bunch of Shotgun’s men, trying to provoke a war. That was the problem with loose cannons—they were, by definition, unpredictable.
Chapter 22
“Mom?”
His stepmother’s voice came back over the phone connection tentatively, as if she was afraid to talk loudly.
“Yes, Gary?”
He jumped right into it, with no preamble.
“What does this picture mean, the picture of the birthday party? I see me in it, but the rest of the people I don’t remember. And the name on the cake isn’t right. And I don’t know who the girl is. Is this all a joke or something? Why did you send this picture with Mike?”
There was silence on the other end, and Gary was about to say something else when she spoke. “Gary, you have to find out for yourself. Your father doesn’t want you going back to St. Louis because it’s too dangerous, but I think that’s the only way you’re going to be happy. Now, listen carefully, and I’ll tell you what I know. You might want to write it all down.”
He listened for a few minutes, interrupting her with questions, and writing down what he could. The story seemed plausible, all except for the part about the phrase....
A sudden pain shot through his head and he dropped the phone, needing both hands to hold onto the kitchen counter without falling. He took several long breaths, in and out, before picking up the phone, his stepmother’s voice frantic on the other end.
“Could that be your mind reacting to the news, not wanting it?” she asked after he’d explained what happened.
“I don’t know, Mom. The headaches have always come when I have the dream. My head would sometimes hurt when I tried to remember St. Louis or anyone back there, but the picture has made the headaches a hundred times worse.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I know, son. I’m sorry. The phrase—your father doesn’t remember the words, and he doesn’t think there is anyone else alive who would know it. The doctor who hypnotized you was Frank Martin, your uncle, but he died after you and your father moved out here. Murdered, according to your father. You have to be very careful when you get to St. Louis. You can’t tell anyone your name. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Gary nodded.
“Yes, I have to. My...real name, my friends, my memories—they’re all back there. And I have to go back because...I think that girl in the picture—”
“Judy,” his stepmother offered helpfully.
The migraine instantly blinded him. The world swam around him, fuzzy and indistinct, then suddenly went black.
Gary sat up, wondering where he was. The phone was on the kitchen floor next to him. After a moment, he remembered, and the headache came right back with the memory, searing into his mind....
Gary reached over and picked up the phone. “Mom?”
A relieved voice came back. “Oh, thank God! You scared me! I’ve been yelling into this phone for almost ten minutes, and nothing. What happened?”
“I...I passed out. If what you say is true, then maybe...maybe my mind isn’t reacting very well to the news. I need to see a psychiatrist or someone and find out what’s going on in my head. And like I was saying, I need to go back.”
He paused for a long moment, collecting his thoughts, ignoring the pain. “The...girl in the picture, I think she’s the one in my dream, and the dream is the reason for all of this in the first place. If it weren’t for the dream, none of this would be happening. The girl in the picture—I think she might be in trouble. That’s the feeling I get from the dream. My real name....”
Another sharp spike of pain left him speechless and panting. “My name...and the other stuff, I have to accept and figure out how it’s all connected. I have to go back and find out, even if something happens.”
The line was quiet for a moment, and then Denise answered.
“I know, son. Things are bad, and I know your father feels horrible about it. He waited...he always thought he would remember the words. He thought he would remember, and bring you up to Sacramento and you two would go see a doctor and finish this whole thing.”
She stopped talking, but Gary didn’t have the energy to prompt her—he was concentrating on writing everything down. And ignoring the tide of pain in his mind.
“And he’s always been worried about you going back there and finding out too much about what happened,” Denise said. “Your father’s always worried whenever there’s a story on the news about something happening in St. Louis—he almost had a coronary during all the flooding there back in 1993. Every night, the lead story on the news was about St. Louis. He was sure that you’d be watching the news and it would trigger something in your head. He worried himself sick about it.”
It felt like crabs were digging around in his mind, scratching and clawing and biting and gnawing at the inside of his skull.
“Well,” Gary said, “I really don’t have any other choice. Should I talk to him about it before I go?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. This is going to be hard enough when I tell him—I don’t think he could take it from you.” She was quiet for a moment, and Gary could sense the wariness in her voice. “I’m not looking forward to telling him about the picture—I thought it would trigger the memories, but I guess it only made you more curious. You don’t remember anything new?”
The headache surged every time he tried to think about it.
“No, it hurts too much. I looked at the picture and it gave me the worst migraine I’ve ever had. I think the only solution now is to find the phrase—maybe someone back there knows it, and that will unlock the memories. And the girl...I have to help her.”
“Well, at least take Mike with you,” she said, agreeing. “I don’t want you driving when you have one of those fits and pass out, okay?”
He smiled—she was looking out for him, even when delivering news that would shatter everything he knew about himself.
“I will. Mike’ll love the idea of a trip, even if he doesn’t know what he’s getting in for.”
“Take care, son. You get better, and I love you.”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you too,” he said and hung up.
There was no easy way to think about all of this. Twice, near the end of their conversation, his vision had swum in front of him as if he’d just downed a fifth.
He’d noticed that his stepmother hadn’t called him “Gary” again. She was just calling him “son,” now. She must know that his real name hurt too much to hear.
It was difficult for him to resist grabbing his keys. He wanted so badly to drive to the closest bar and drown himself. He was starting to think that maybe drinking wasn’t the problem—maybe his head was just so screwed up inside that he needed the alcohol to think straight.
But that wouldn’t solve anything, and he knew that. It would only distract him. What he needed now was the truth, not a detour. He needed to go home—not to Sacramento, but to his real home.
O’Fallon, Illinois, held all the answers, whether the trip was a dangerous one or not.
Gary glanced at his bag, still packed from the trip to Sacramento. There wasn’t actually a lot that needed to be done, but he had some arrangements to make, and some planning to do. There were tickets to buy, and people to make excuses to. He’d gotten good at making up excuses during his drinking days, and that skill would serve him well as he planned his trip.
He needed to get started.
Chapter 23
Shotgun Pope realized that there was going to be a war.
He had become aware of the coordinated efforts the “Lucky” Luciano clan had taken over the weekend to edge into his eastern territories in Belleville and Collinsville, and he was stunned at the significant gains they had made in only three or four days.
Shotgun was reading a disturbing report written by one of his captains, but he was distracted by the horrible grammar. He had spent ten years trying to grow what began as just another East St. Louis Bloods gang into something more powerful and influential than anything that had come before. But too often, poor education—or a complete lack of education—held his soldiers back.
Few of his people took him up on his offer offering to pay for classes—they were much more concerned with scoring chicks or blow, or putting cash away. This ‘report’ was a classic example—it was barely readable. Reggie was one of his newer captains, overseeing a crew of about twenty soldiers, and they were mostly in charge of coke and a little heroin in East Belleville—there was a good market there, especially with the students at Belleville Community College. But any valuable information contained in the report was masked by the horrible grammar and pitiful spelling—the boy constantly spelled “there” the same way, no matter the usage. It was frustrating.
A buy had gone down in one of the parking lots of the Community College, and one of Rugio’s soldiers, a guy named Bennie, was passing along some MJ and a bag of coke to one of the school’s dealers. The routine transaction was completed and while they were talking, a dark car had pulled up and two guys had gotten out. At first, Bennie had thought it was a bust and wasn’t too concerned—the student was now holding, and all Bennie had was four grand in cash in a paper bag sitting on the front seat of his car. There was a lot more in the trunk to be worried about, but Bennie was pretty sure they wouldn’t have a warrant.
It took a moment for Bennie to realize that the men weren’t cops. They slowly walked up and stood in front of Bennie and the student. After a moment, the one in front of the student punched him hard in the stomach. The tall guy had moved so fast, Bennie had hardly seen it. The student had dropped his stuff and bent over, holding his stomach, and the tall guy bent over and picked up the dropped coke.
The other guy was wearing glasses, too, but he was a lot shorter and on the chunky side. The chunky one pulled his glasses down and smiled at Bennie. “You’re one of Shotgun’s boys, huh?”
Bennie didn’t know what to say, but the student was still bent over, and the tall guy kicked him again, right in the chest.
Chunky asked again, and this time, Bennie answered. It didn’t seem to make sense to deny it, so he didn’t.
One of Chunky’s arms came out and stopped Tall from kicking the student again, and Bennie got the distinct feeling that Tall was enjoying himself. “You and your boys are done out here. This and the rest of the eastern side of B-ville are going to be part of our territory now—Shotgun should know that. This is too close to our own territory, and we need it just for our own protection. Open your trunk.”
Bennie just stood there. Everything he needed to sell for the next week was in his trunk—he’d just picked it up this morning. Did they know that? He was trying to figure out what to do when Chunky suddenly slapped him hard across the ear, stinging it.
“You don’t need to think about it, kid. Just open the trunk and give us the stuff,” Chunky said, staring at him.
Bennie had slowly reached into his pocket and handed Chunky the car keys, who handed them off to Tall, who headed around to the back of Bennie’s car and popped the trunk. The tall guy made three trips back and forth between Bennie’s trunk and the trunk of their own car, and the whole time, Chunky just stared at Bennie. Bennie was just holding his breath, waiting for Chunky to pull out a gun and kill him.
Tall closed up Bennie’s trunk and tossed the keys back to him.
Chunky smiled at him. “I’m not gonna pop you, kid. Tell Shotgun that this is your free pass, and that if you’re out here again selling, or even if you’re out here taking a class on how to fix car engines, you’re gonna get popped. Got it?”
Bennie nodded, and the two men turned, got into their car, and left.
Shotgun finished the last part of the report quickly, barely able to read Reggie’s elementary-school-level spelling. Reggie had had the same thing happen to three other guys, and one other soldier had gone off to make a deal in Collinsville, right near the big ketchup bottle, and hadn’t shown up again. That was three days ago, and Shotgun could only assume the dealer was dead. His body would show up in a few days with some clever note on it that read “stay out of our territory” or something else equally witty. Things were starting to get ugly.
The encroachments on his territory were just the beginning—if the Luckies could get established, they’d either cut off his suppliers or undercut his prices. That, combined with a wave of disappearances and deaths among his people, would ruin him.
And he really had no idea what to do.
He pulled out a file on Tony Luciano and began flipping through it. The grandmother, daughter of the original “Lucky,” had come west in the years just after the second world war, about the same time Lucky had been deported back to Sicily.
There was an interesting story behind all of that, Shotgun knew. Evidently, in the late 1930s, the Mafia and Lucky had controlled the entire New York waterfront. The U.S. Navy, concerned about possible sabotage and enemy encroachment into the largest American port, began asking questions. Everywhere they asked, they were referred to Lucky Luciano, who was at the time serving a prison sentence in the maximum security prison in Dannemora, New York, for running a prostitution ring. The U.S. Navy, refusing to answer to a mob boss, especially a jailed one, began basing ships in the New York waterfront near the mouth of the Hudson River.
Luciano and his representatives at the waterfront, Tony and Albert Anastasia, hit upon a perfect plan to get Lucky Luciano out of prison—blackmail the federal government.
On the morning of February 9, 1942, just two months after the Japanese bombing at Pearl Harbor, the American ship Normandie, once a luxury liner and in the process of being converted into a troop ship by the Navy, mysteriously caught fire. The fire, one of the most spectacular in the harbor’s history, burned out of control for several hours before the ship finally turned on its side and capsized in the shallow water.
The Navy supposedly approached the Mafia, seeking a solution to the sabotage problem
, but were told that only Lucky had the authority to protect ships at the docks. A month later, the Navy reportedly got their guarantee that there would be no more acts of sabotage and that the Mafia would work with federal officials to ensure the safety and security of the Navy’s ships. In exchange for this “assistance,” Lucky Luciano was to be released at the end of the war. In addition to their help with the waterfront, the Mafia offered to and eventually assisted the Navy in their invasion of Sicily in June 1943, asking their Sicilian brothers to assist the invading Americans. In the end, Lucky Luciano had been released just after the war and deported back to Italy.
Now, generations later, the Lucianos were still a force to be reckoned with, although a shadow of their former power. After Tony Luciano had taken over, the family had gone “legit,” divesting themselves of any illegal activities. They’d allowed all of their political contacts and union officials to drift away, and set themselves up as legitimate businessmen. They leased office space in an expensive building in Belleville.
But in the past three months, that had all changed.
Shotgun set the folder aside and picked up another one, one assembled by Rugio, an excellent investigator and a very intelligent man.
Tony and Vincent Luciano were not close, as far as Rugio could tell. The brothers had drifted apart when Tony, the older brother, was named to head the Luciano family. Vincent had fought Tony’s move to legitimacy and begun his own small organization. There was also some mysterious hit that Vincent had reportedly botched—the details on that were sketchy. But Vincent had ended up bartending in a local restaurant and fronting drugs and guns through his old contacts, assembling a small but effective crew of his own.
