by Debra Dunbar
Sadie reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you.”
It took nearly an hour for Hattie to make her way back to the warehouse. No one was there. These were long nights, and Raymond was spending more time with his family. Lizzie, for her part, had found her Christmas spirit in the arms of Tony. With all the talk of losing parents to the hands of the Powers That Be, Hattie was taken with an urge to spend the week at home.
Well, at least the rest of the evening. Because tomorrow, there was work to be done.
Chapter 4
Rows of nearly identical cars sat in two herringbone lines in front of the cannery. Lefty released a low whistle as he and Vincent trod across the snow-speckled gravel dust pad, stepping between cars and their drivers.
“You’d think there was a fire sale,” Lefty muttered.
“How many pinchers you think are here?” Vincent asked as they approached the cannery.
Lefty shook his head. “I’m guessing maybe twelve. Based on what I hear from the wind these days.”
A voice called from just inside the enormous sliding door to the cannery, “Try fifteen.”
Vincent smiled as Loren DeBarre stepped into the daylight to extend a hand to shake.
“DeBarre. It’s been a hot second. How’ve you been?”
“Busy,” DeBarre replied, nodding for the inside. “Come on. You’re the last to arrive.”
The down pincher led them through the main work floor, still in full operation. As they paused to let a legitimate employee pass, Lefty asked, “All these cars out front…you gonna get lip from the local heat?”
“No,” DeBarre replied, “we’ve greased the correct palms. Wasn’t hard. The blue in this town’s as crooked as a corkscrew.”
They reached the hidden stairs to the basement and the nerve center of the Philadelphia bootleggers. The hatch was propped open, and a wash of voices lifted from below.
Arnoud peered up from the stairs, gesturing for them to climb down. Once they had joined the rest of the East Coast pincher elite in the basement, Arnoud stopped to shake Vincent’s hand. The man seemed a bit more groomed than usual.
“Dressed up on our account?” Vincent nodded at the other pincher’s somewhat pressed pants.
A disturbing grin spread across Arnoud’s face. “Got my eye on a lady that comes this way every so often. Trying to make a good impression.”
Vincent didn’t want to imagine what sort of woman might actually be interested in Arnoud’s advances.
“She’s so pretty. Short and slight, but strong and smart,” Arnoud went on, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. “Red hair, like a sunset. Freckles even in the winter. She’s got a real Mary Pickford look about her.” The man sighed. “I just love Mary Pickford.”
No. Vincent clamped his jaw tight and balled a fist. What would Hattie be doing up here? She couldn’t be coming to see Arnoud. She didn’t even know Arnoud, and the touch pincher was…well, not the sort of man a woman would travel hours to visit. But she did know… He turned to look across the room to where DeBarre was speaking with another man.
“Handlers are up in the gallery,” Arnoud told Lefty. “Come with me and I’ll show you there.”
Lefty gave Vincent a cautious glance as he chucked his shoulder and stepped away to follow Arnoud. Vincent hardly noticed, intent as he was on burning holes through DeBarre with his glare. With a breath, he strode across the room, straight toward his quarry.
DeBarre turned to him with a smile. Vincent came to a stop in front of him, fighting to keep from slugging the other man in the face.
“What in the hell is Hattie doing coming up here to Philadelphia?” Vincent snarled.
DeBarre’s smile widened, and he reached across his chest to pull a handkerchief from his jacket. The motion slid his forearm between the two, inching Vincent away from him.
With a quick swipe of his handkerchief across his brow, DeBarre replied, “That wouldn’t be any of your business now, would it?”
“Stop shining my shoes, DeBarre. What’s she got going on up here with you?”
The down pincher stepped to the side. “If she hasn’t elected to make her business any of yours, why would I betray that decision? I know how to keep a lady’s secrets.”
Vincent shot a fist toward the other man’s midsection, but with a lightning-fast cock of his jaw, DeBarre down-pinched Vincent just enough to slide him backward a full three feet.
“Better find your manners, Calendo. This moot is important. And as for you…well, let’s just say you need to not be starting a brawl with me today of all days.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” DeBarre said, turning to face Vincent with a sympathetic glance, “that there are precious few moments where the Sicilians are in the same room as the mainland Italians, and fewer still where we pinchers are allowed together. We only have a few hours, here. You’re on thin ice right now and your boss is on the ropes. Pull it together, huh?”
Vincent nodded, straightened his tie and hat, then stepping forward.
“Just tell me one thing, before we start,” Vincent muttered. “Is she bootlegging on the sly? Or is she here for…”
DeBarre lifted a brow.
Vincent completed his thought. “To see you?”
DeBarre’s shook his head with a dry chuckle. “Let’s just say that I enjoy the company of a spirited, intelligent, good-looking woman. And she seems to be enjoying my company as well.”
Vincent’s stomach tied itself into a knot before dropping into his feet. What did he expect? This was his own fault. He’d kept her at arm’s length and she’d clearly moved on. But the thought of Hattie and DeBarre made Vincent want to do more than just punch the man.
“You…she and you… She.” Vincent swallowed hard, then stuffed his hands into his pockets, not sure what to say without coming across as even more of a jealous jackass.
“Grow up, will you?” DeBarre grunted, throwing his arm around Vincent’s shoulders to lead him into another room. “You’re acting like a school boy.”
Vincent ignored him. He didn’t want to imagine Hattie with this man. Her coming up here to visit DeBarre? To have dinner with him, and maybe more? But was the other explanation for her visits any better? He’d exerted considerable effort erasing Hattie from Vito’s chalkboard. He’d given up every last bit of standing he had with the family to keep her safe. He’d stretched his neck too far out on the block for Hattie to risk exposure and blunder her way back into the Crew’s crosshairs. No, it was better if she was coming up here for some romance with the down pincher, even if that idea twisted his guts worse than any time pinch he’d ever done.
DeBarre spun Vincent by the shoulders and gripped his face lightly between flat palms. “Vincent. Stop it. Stop brooding over this and listen. Are you listening?”
Vincent rolled his eyes and nodded.
“You gotta let this go. This moot’s about more than just pinchers. It’s about the balance of power. You’re worried about me and Hattie, but you oughta be worried about yourself and how you and Corbi stand with these other families.”
“I try not to worry about that.”
“Then you’re stupid,” DeBarre grunted. “I’m outta line here, giving you this lead-in, but Corbi’s days might be numbered, and where you are when the dust settles is gonna mean everything to your future. Pick your alliances and choose your actions carefully.”
The man was right. As Lefty had said earlier, he needed to get his head back in the game. Vincent nodded. “Okay. Uh, look.”
“I know, I know. You’re sorry. Get over it. Let’s do this.”
DeBarre led Vincent into the back room, the personal salon where he entertained small groups. The space was now crammed tight with bodies, some standing shoulder to shoulder along the far wall, some seated around a square table so small it looked almost comically inappropriate. All the chairs around the table were occupied by wide, self-important men in expensive suits. One, in particular, sat in a light
gray ensemble, a black pocket square and necktie sending a tasteful splash of menace over his features.
Following Vincent’s eyes, DeBarre whispered, “Those are the New Yorkers. Got here this morning, been drinking all my gin.”
Vincent asked, “Who’s the goon in gray?”
“Oh, him?” DeBarre snickered. “That’s Sparks. Angelo ‘Sparks’ Floresta. I’ll let you guess what his power is.”
“He Sicilian?”
“Yep. Used to belong to someone in the old Five Points gang, but now he’s Lucky Luciano’s pincher.”
“Luciano?” Vincent sucked in a breath at the familiar name. If Vito changed his mind and sold him, this man would be someone he’d be working side by side with.
“Ain’t heard of him?” DeBarre shook his head. “Jesus, you pokes down in Baltimore gotta start keeping up with the times. Luciano’s playing the middle in New York, positioning himself to climb the ladder. So, watch your ass around Sparks. One of these days, his Capo might end up calling the shots around here. Or he could be dead by next week. Never know with these New York families.”
Vincent’s eyes took in the rest of the room, finding a row of tall-backed chairs on a dais behind the bar. Ten men sat like kings, though none of them seemed to enjoy the privilege. Among them sat Lefty, shifting his weight to give himself space next to a portly gentleman with silver hair.
These were the handlers, all given an elevated perch to observe the proceedings. It wasn’t a simple gesture of respect, it was a reminder of these pinchers’ place in their circles. They were here with gatekeepers sent to monitor the proceedings. Nothing would be said in this room in confidence. It would all go back to each and every kingpin from Boston to Charleston. Though they might be comrades in powers, this was not a safe space.
So, the New Yorkers in the center table, all of the handlers to the left behind the bar. Vincent turned to the right to spot the pinchers that must be from Charleston, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and Chicago. There were no women present, although Vincent knew there were female pinchers in several of these families.
DeBarre nodded to one of the handlers waggling a hand as some kind of cue. “Excuse me, I think we’re about to get started.”
He trotted toward the center table to whisper into several ears as the room’s conversations grew quickly louder, then soft again.
Arnoud sidled up next to Vincent, arms crossed, brow cocked in perpetual amusement.
“You get stuck being in charge of handler hospitality?” Vincent asked him.
“Yeah. Handlers and the guy from upstate.” With a nod, Arnoud added, “The older fellow in the navy wool sitting with the New York pinchers is Dominguez. He’s a water pincher. He’s what you’d call an assessor up at Ithaca.”
Vincent examined the man, face leathery in texture and tint, deep wrinkles creasing their way from the corners of his eyes to his receding hairline of fine white strands.
“What’s that mean…? Assessor?”
“Puts the stamp on the merchandise, so to speak. He ensures we’re ready to be of service.” Arnoud straightened his spine and lifted his chin, as if he were a marionette on a string. “To be an asset of true value. To become a creature of power, not for my own gain, but for the betterment of those who have earned my loyalty. To reflect on my betters in a way that forwards their fortune, their stature, and the light the Lord of Creation chooses to shine upon them.”
Vincent shivered at the recitation. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Arnoud’s voice was wooden and flat.
“Sorry you had to go through that.”
The man shrugged. “That’s the life we were born to lead.”
DeBarre finished conferring with the New York power elite and straightened up to clap his hands several times. “Gentlemen? Gentlemen!”
The crowd fell to a conversational hush as DeBarre gestured in wide circles, arms held high to capture the room’s attention.
“Thank you for attending on such short notice. This represents the first Pincher Moot since 1894. Today, we’re here to discuss the increased demand and dwindling supply of pinchers in this part of the world.” DeBarre nodded to the elder man at the center table. “Our colleagues from Ithaca and the New York families will take it from here.”
As DeBarre stepped off the center floor Dominguez stood, “Loren is correct. We no longer have available talent to fill current demand, and although we’re excited to see new generations of pinchers being produced, it will be a decade or more before they’re ready for service.
“For the past fifty years, the Ithaca market has guaranteed fair and equitable access to magical talent, assisting in the brokerage and sale of pinchers between families as well as educating and training talent. To date, the system has performed admirably.”
Several people nodded, including the handlers.
“However,” Dominguez added with a gesture of his finger. “The administration of Ithaca has concluded that we have insufficient talent to support the current demand. Beginning immediately, we return to auctions.”
Dominguez’s words stirred a round of reactions that required a minute to quell. As the last of the handlers on the dais, primarily the ones from smaller families, had ceased their protests, Dominguez whipped a finger into the air.
“We realize that not all of the families are capable of competing in an open market scenario. Thus, auctions will be limited to invitation-only bidders based on evaluated need.”
“Which means no one except New York and maybe Chicago will be receiving an invitation,” one of the Pittsburgh handlers spat out. “You’re banding together to freeze us out of the market.”
Sparks Floresta shrugged, “So? What’re you suggesting instead? We draw straws?”
The Pittsburgh handler’s face turned an alarming shade of red, but he kept his mouth shut. It was a wise decision. No one wanted to ruffle New York feathers, even though every person in this room knew how unfair this new policy was going to be.
Dominguez nodded. “It’s a change in policy that we hope will only be temporary. And towards that end, there will be an enforced allocation of any free pinchers. Any family who brings in a free pincher is now required to relinquish them directly to Ithaca in return for a marker for two available pinchers at a future time—pinchers of their choosing.”
“Future time when? Next century?” One of the handlers on the dais called out.
Dominguez shook his head. “When the demand smooths out and we can return to a bid system, which we are anticipating will happen in the next two to three years.”
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat. Free pinchers had always been considered the property of whomever brought them in. Now that was changing. Which meant the pincher he had Cooper hunting down for him would be snatched out of Vito’s hands and most likely given to New York on a silver platter.
The Cleveland pincher jumped to his feet. “Three years? We’re not going to be able to buy a new pincher for three years? And we can’t keep any free pinchers we find? Like Campbell said, you’re trying to freeze us out.”
Vincent checked the faces of the handlers. Most seemed unsettled by the proceedings. Lefty, for his part, simply made regular eye contact with Vincent, and seemed calm and unaffected. The pinchers seemed upset, aside from the guy from Chicago who was inspecting his fingernails and the smug men from New York.
And then there was Floresta. The man sat unfazed and confident, head neither shaking nor nodding. As Vincent watched the man, his eyes lifted.
Vincent looked away quickly, knowing he’d been caught staring.
DeBarre made his way over toward Vincent. “This might work to your advantage, you know.”
“Not really,” Vincent muttered. Yeah, Vito would be less willing to sell him knowing that he’d not be able to buy another pincher for three years, and with a moratorium, it would be unlikely another family would be willing to trade for Vincent. But it also meant all the work he’d been putting in to regain Vito’s trust by brin
ging in a free pincher was for nothing. The Capo would hardly be appeased by a couple of markers he wouldn’t be able to redeem for years.
“Can you believe this?” DeBarre whispered, inching closer. “New York is going to be getting every pincher coming out of Ithaca unless Capone decides he needs an extra or two. Their power grows while ours dwindles. It won’t be as bad for those families that have paired pinchers with babies, but the rest of us are screwed.”
Vincent thought of Capstein’s twisted plan for a breeding program, and narrowed his eyes, turning a glare toward DeBarre. “If you’re thinking that Hattie—”
“Better bite your tongue, Calendo, before you end up stuck to the ceiling.” DeBarre shot him a hurt look. “You know me better than that. Stop thinking with your pecker and start worrying about how we’re going to keep our families from getting steamrolled by a bunch of power-mad New Yorkers.”
“Sorry.” What was wrong with him? He’d always liked DeBarre, always considered him an honorable, stand-up guy. Vincent shook his head to clear it, double-checking Floresta as he did. The man was still watching him. Great.
Floresta rapped his knuckles on the table and stood with a smirk. “I’ve got an idea that might get us a few more pinchers on the market fast. Help ease the demand a bit, you know?”
Vincent again peered over to the line of handlers behind the bar. One of them, the portly fellow beside Lefty, nodded.
“You.” Floresta pointed to Vincent. “This dapper son-of-a-bitch here. What’s your name?”
Vincent squinted, and remained silent.
Floresta maintained his gaze, and when it became clear that Vincent was in the spotlight, and Floresta had no interest in cutting him loose, Vincent replied, “Calendo. Vincent Calendo.”
Floresta nodded. “Where you from, Vinnie?”
“Baltimore. And, it’s Vincent.”
Floresta turned to address the rest of the gathering. “Tell me, Vincent…with a T…how are things going south of your border?”
Vincent sucked in a breath as every eye turned to him. “I…haven’t been given latitude to—”
