Clip Joint

by Debra Dunbar

  Vincent sucked in a breath. “I do remember. But my goal is to get Betty before the lead starts flying, and the best way to do that is to sneak in and grab her.”

  “Didn’t work before. As I remember she nearly cut your head off last time you were down here presenting a recruitment speech.”

  “Last time I thought she’d be open to willingly joining the Crew. I’m not presenting a speech this time, I’m going in and hauling her out by force. I know what Betty’s organization looks like, what she’s like, and I feel this will work.”

  Lefty shook his head. “Still not convinced.”

  “She’s hired zealots. Not professionals. Bianco Fiore already have their mission. Lynching. She may be paying them, but they’re not in it for her. Which means they’re not focused. It’s easier for one or two men to enter Richmond on foot than by boat where Bianco Fiore is strong. And I get the feeling they’re not going to put up too much of a fuss if we grab her and run.”

  Lefty nodded. “You’re starting to make sense. But even if you get to her, who’s to say she won’t have one or two Upright Citizen loyalists left over from Capstein’s days?”

  Vincent smirked at Lefty. “That’s why I didn’t come alone. I fully expect you to haul my ass out of the fire if things go sideways.”

  “I’d rather have a war party if things go sideways.”

  “Yeah, well, if Vito gave you the impression he’d be willing to piss away more men into one of my wild goose chases…”

  “Even I can’t get an audience with the Capo—not after I told him what went down at the pincher moot.” The words hung in the air, sucking the oxygen from the car.

  After a while, Vincent said, “The next time Vito lays eyes on me, it’d better be with Betty Sharp in shackles. So, let’s not bungle this.”

  They proceeded into the outskirts of Richmond, encountering no armed resistance or sideward glances, just as Vincent had predicted. He pulled the car into an alley three blocks from the speakeasy in which he’d first met Betty, then killed the engine.

  “There it is,” Vincent whispered.

  “That gin-joint from before? In the basement? You think she’s really making her headquarters there?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s gonna be a trick watching your back while you’re in a basement.”

  Vincent nodded. “Well, time is on my side.”

  Lefty chuckled. “Seven years I’ve been in charge of your reckless hide, and that’s the first time you ran that one up the flagpole.”

  “I’ve been saving it. Might not get another chance.”

  Lefty reached over for Vincent’s arm, giving it a squeeze. “This isn’t a one-chance thing, Vincent. Something—anything—goes south on you, you pinch time and get outta there. We can fight this fight another day.”

  Vincent smiled. “Today’s the right day. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “That’s called rheumatism, you mook.”

  Vincent stepped out of the vehicle, handing his pistol to Lefty. Lefty scowled but took the piece anyway. Vincent nodded one last time and turned for the street. In a fight like this, a gun could only get Vincent killed. No, if Betty Sharp put up a fight, and she was sure to put up a fight, the only thing that would save Vincent would be his powers.

  He turned the collar of his coat up to his ears as a brisk wind flooded up the street. A pair of young men huddled inside a brownstone stoop, exchanging muttered pleasantries as Vincent approached. They ceased their gossip and eyed him with intent. Vincent saluted them with a tip of his fingers to his hat before turning up the cross street for the basement stairs leading down to Betty’s speakeasy. When he reached the stairs he checked the pair of gentlemen. They’d already descended the stoop and were on casual approach, hands in their pockets. They were probably old guard Upright Citizens, holdovers from Capstein’s crew. They had a professional look about them—unhurried, unharried.

  Vincent simply took note, then descended the stairs for the thick oak door.

  He gave it a couple knocks. The eye hole slid open after a full minute.

  Vincent glared at the enormous, deep-set eyes watching him.

  “I have business with Betty,” he declared.

  “Who’re you?” the doorman grunted through the oak between them.

  “Your neighbor to the north.”

  The doorman simply stared.

  Vincent lifted a hand and snapped his fingers several times. “Come on, let’s get moving. It’s freezing out here!”

  The eye hole slid shut, and Vincent was left waiting some more. The two forward guards lingered atop the stairs, unconvincing in their casual posture.

  Vincent saluted them again. “Either one of you got a belt of something on you? Can’t seem to get a drink in this town.”

  One of the two smiled, and the other gave him a shoulder-check before they both turned away.

  Finally, the deadbolt slammed like a rifle shot, and the door slipped open. An enormous brute with a thick, black beard ushered Vincent inside. It was the same doorman as the last time Vincent had been to this locale, though the months hadn’t been kind. His face was thinner, his clothes baggier. Life under Betty’s leadership seemed lean.

  Vincent squinted through the darkness within the speakeasy. Only a few of the gaslights were flickering. They ran along a far wall decked in mirrors, casting light with a sideways cant into the rest of the room.

  The same mahogany bar dominated the center of the room. A row of tapers burned in glass holders. Their flames blinked from the bar top below, also veneered in mirrored glass. Betty had certainly put her mark on the place.

  A lithe, blonde woman stood behind the bar, a cigarette burning in her white-gloved fingers. She regarded Vincent as he approached the bar stools, her gaze raking up and down his form while he unbuttoned his coat.

  The corner of her mouth lifted in a jagged smirk. “Vincent Calendo. Thought you’d be dead by now.”

  Vincent pulled off his hat and set it on top of the bar. “That makes two of us.”

  He opened his coat slowly, turning a circle for the security detail posted in the alcoves just behind the entry door. Pulling off his coat, he draped it over a bar stool then offered the same courtesy beneath his jacket, showing the entire room that he was unarmed.

  Hopefully that mattered.

  Betty cocked her hip and gestured with the tip of her cigarette. “You gonna keep going, or is this a business call?”

  Vincent took a seat. “Business.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Damn. I was hoping otherwise. Suppose I’ll need some gin for this business then.”

  Betty stabbed out her cigarette onto the mirrored bar top and turned for one of several absurdly ornate decanters organized in a stack of interlocking glass that formed a pyramid of liquor.

  Vincent nodded at the artwork. “That’s an impressive bit of handiwork.”

  She eyed him from the mirror wall behind the bar. “It’s a living.”

  “Still…you have a good eye.”

  She squinted at him, then continued pouring two glasses of gin. Vincent had to play this right. Keep things above-board lest she fly into a fit of suspicion. But keep things playful and flirtatious lest she fly into a fit of homicide.

  Betty spun around with the gin swirling in two rocks glasses. No ice. She set one onto the table, her fingers lingering on the rim as Vincent watched her.

  He asked, “Been busy these past couple months, huh?”

  She released the glass and stepped away from the bar. “No thanks to you.”

  Vincent reached for the gin and lifted it to his lips. He paused a moment, waiting for her to take a drink first.

  When she did, he took the barest sip, simply wetting his lips. “Well, that was business,” he said.

  “I can appreciate that. Business has taken me to such strange places. It’s been a bloody affair. I have no idea how Elmer coped with it.”

  Vincent eased back on his stool. Well, there it was. He’d hoped to avoi
d mentioning Capstein, but Betty seemed content to drag the dead man directly into the middle of the speakeasy.

  “How do you cope with it?” he asked. “I hear you’re forcing your southern neighbors to run through you to us, so it can’t be all rainy days here.”

  That jagged smile returned. “Yeah, but keeping it all under control is a struggle. It helps to think of it as overhead.”

  “Overhead?”

  “Murder. It’s just one of the costs of doing business in this town.”

  Vincent fought back a snicker. She spoke so grandly of Richmond, now that she was only a handful of months in control.

  “You’ve done well, though. Grabbed the reins. Kept the cart on the path.”

  “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  “Not really. I saw those Bianco Fiore goons out on the water.” He shook his head. “You think wrangling an army of froth-mouthed bigots is some sorta shortcut? It doesn’t reflect well.”

  Betty sipped more gin. “What would you have done, then?”

  “Reached out to Capstein’s men. Ensured a memory…” He gestured for the word. “What do they call it?”

  “Institutional memory, I think is what you’re grabbing at.”

  “Right.”

  She shot him a narrowed glance. “You think I didn’t try?”

  “They wouldn’t cotton to taking orders from a woman, I guess?”

  With an exaggerated shrug that caused the strap of her dress to fall off her shoulder, she asked, “Would you?”

  He thought of Hattie, how he’d always regarded her as an equal, a partner. Yes, she was hot-headed and rash, but many times she’d been the one whose wits had hauled his rear out of the fire. “I’d follow anyone I respected. And yes, that includes a woman.”

  She sneered. “That’s a load of bullshit. Could you ever really respect a woman, Calendo?”

  “Absolutely.” He cocked a brow. “Why not a woman? Power isn’t in who can wrestle a man to the ground. It’s not in who can fire a Tommy gun truer than another son of a bitch. Power is in reading the terrain and making the right call. Power is in the mind.” He tapped his temple. “And it’s in the heart. It’s about earning loyalty. A woman does that as well as any man, from my experience.”

  “Then why is that every single master of every single pincher, from here to time immemorial, has been a man?”

  Vincent thought it over, then reached for his gin. “Things change.”

  “Do they really? Because I’m stuck with these sheet-wearing morons, while the rest of the East Coast families are waging their sandbox wars against each other. From a woman’s perspective, it all looks childish.”

  “I suppose,” Vincent replied, lifting the glass to his lips. “But that’s the world we’ve chosen.” He took a good belt of the gin.

  “Hell with their world. I’m making my own destiny, starting right here in Richmond.”

  “Yeah. About that…there was a pincher moot last week. Demand has outpaced supply for pinchers among the families, and there were some changes in the rules.”

  She waved away the comment. “I don’t give two pennies what you Italians do.”

  “Well, you should. Your name came up. The families aren’t considering the Upright Citizens to be a legitimate partner. They’re upset that you’re not allowing the Carolinas to trade directly with Baltimore and up the coast.”

  Betty’s eyes lifted quickly, centering directly onto Vincent. “Don’t care what you or those idiots down south think. I got control of this group. It’s mine. And if something is passing through my waters, I want my cut.”

  “You’re gonna stand alone against six families? You’re gonna stand alone against New York?” He tapped on the top of the bar. “Capstein once told me to make a choice to be on a winning team. The Citizens isn’t a winning team. In fact, they’re about to lose big. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you need to jump ship and join with one of our families. Align yourself with a winner.”

  Betty turned away, reaching beneath the bar for another cigarette. As she busied herself fumbling with a match, she grumbled, “Never gonna happen, Calendo. This is my place, and I’m staying.”

  “Not according to the New York boys, you’re not.”

  Betty leaned her elbows on the bar top and cradled her chin atop her fingers. She pivoted at the hips, sending her dress out with a provocative bow of her back. “Anyone wants to tell me what I can and can’t do,” she almost sang, “can shove it up their ass.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. I’m telling you what’s going to happen, and you can either do this willingly or not.”

  Her eyes lifted in merriment. “All by yourself? You’re either much better at this than I gave you credit for, or you’re just…another man.”

  Vincent watched her carefully. “There’s a way we can do this without raising a fuss.”

  “I’m sure there is. That would involve me surrendering myself?”

  “It would save everyone a lotta grief.”

  She eased her elbows closer together, gathering the dip of her dress closer to produce more cleavage as she leaned in toward Vincent.

  And with a wry grin, she whispered, “How’s that gin?”

  Vincent stared at her, then dropped his attention to the glass.

  The clear liquid sat innocently in its glass. He took a quick tally of his inner workings. Stomach felt fine. His head wasn’t swimming in intoxication. There was a sudden rush of panic that was threatening to completely distract him from the task at hand, but nothing nefarious.

  And just then he realized that was the whole point. Betty slipped her fingers along the mirrored bar top to send the glass spilling like a breaking wave over his wrists. Before he could react, the glass hardened in a solid case around his hands.

  Vincent pinched time and took in his situation. Betty stood in mid-action, her hand already pinching the gin glass into the beginnings of a nasty blade she was surely intending to sink into Vincent’s neck. He peered over his shoulder at the doorman. He stood in repose, watching but not quite catching up to the split-second Vincent had frozen.

  Good. If he could get his arms free of this damned glass, he could play Betty off against her own man. He wrenched his arms up against the twisted mirror surface but couldn’t break loose.

  The glass was at least a quarter-inch thick around his wrists, and the shape of the wave provided no weak points. It was a smooth, uninterrupted thickness of impenetrable glass that Vincent couldn’t snap despite his best efforts.

  He stopped jerking against his bonds for a moment to think. The force of the time pinch tugged at his chest, but not as terribly as it had in the Amish country. He had time.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t come up with many options. Everything about this plan hinged upon Vincent using his time pinching ability to get the drop on Betty. Tie her up, drag her out of the speakeasy for Lefty to come collect them. He hadn’t figured on Betty distracting him long enough to put her own shackles on him.

  The force of his time pinch ate away at his guts, and the first signs of illness swept up his throat. He’d have to come up with a plan soon.

  The only option available, he finally deduced, was in real time. Vincent released his time pinch, eyes focused on Betty.

  She spun the rocks glass in her palm as it distorted under her ministrations into a long, terrifying blade. Her face contorted and she shrieked, raising the blade mid-air.

  Breathe in.

  Betty thrust the savage curve of her weapon at Vincent’s throat.

  Pinch time.

  Her hand extended just a fraction of an inch from his chin. He calculated the rest of her motion, then dipped his shoulder a few inches lower, his head a few inches to the right.

  Then he restored the flow of time.

  Betty’s hand sliced through the air over Vincent’s left shoulder. Her momentum carried her halfway over the bar top as her blade failed to sink into his flesh. Vincent brought his forehead back, then swung it fo
rward in perfect timing, his skull connecting with the bridge of Betty’s nose. With a wet crack, her head snapped back, then dropped, her chin landing against the thinner glass of the bar top, her blade dropped over Vincent’s shoulder to shatter on the floor.

  A spider web of cracks formed on the surface of the bar top where Betty had made contact. Vincent wrenched his hands up against their bonds. The veins of cracked glass lengthened by a half-inch, but not enough to free him.

  The doorman finally responded to the commotion and pulled his weapon from inside his jacket. Vincent pinched time. With a pivot of his hips, he kicked the gun clear of the doorman’s hand, sending it inches into the air before he restored the flow of time. The piece sailed into the air over Vincent’s head.

  Another time pinch.

  Twisting to plant his elbow against the edge of the bar, he spun and kicked his foot into the air, hooking the tip of the gun with the toe of his shoe, arresting its forward motion. With a quick glance he checked Betty, who was struggling to grab at the back-bar service, her nose bleeding from Vincent’s head butt.

  Restoring time once again, Vincent struggled against the nausea. Gravity tugged at the gun sending it for the mirror surface of the bar a full foot away from him.

  He pinched time once again, digging deep, swallowing hard against the churn of magic within his frame, and gave his body one more acrobatic twist. This time, he nudged the gun several inches to the right, eyeing it as he gazed up and down from the suspended hunk of iron and the glass encapsulating his wrists.

  This better work because it was the last instance he’d be able to pinch time before he threw up and passed out.

  Vincent released his pinch. The gun landed hard on top of his left wrist and the glass broke with a loud snap. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Vincent shot his left foot out, catching the doorman in his solar plexus.

  The beefy fellow released a loud cough and doubled over.

  Vincent jerked his left arm up hard at the elbow to free it from the glass while Betty’s arms flailed against her masterpiece of decanters, sending three of them clear of the sculpture to shatter against the floor.

  One more jerk. Then two. Taking a deep breath, Vincent clamped his eyes shut, then jerked as hard as he could against the glass. The glass shattered, freeing him and slicing a line across the top of his wrist.