by Debra Dunbar
The door cracked open, and the familiar face of Lefty Mancuso glared out at Tony.
“What?”
Before Tony could answer, Lefty’s eyes shifted to Hattie. He called over his shoulder, “Max? We’re done for the day.”
Feet shuffled behind Lefty, who only stood aside enough to let a young blond-haired man step past Hattie and Tony. He paused at the bottom of the stoop to ask, “Same time next week?”
“I’ll let you know,” Lefty replied.
The young man proceeded down the walk, turning up the street with hands in his pockets. Lefty sighed, then pulled the door open. He turned to step inside, leaving them to let themselves in.
Hattie walked through the foyer to follow Lefty into a side room. Her boots padded against the well-oiled floor boards. A pair of wingbacks sat near the front window facing inward to a grand piano. Diffuse winter light spilled through the drapery nearby, glinting off the black lacquer of the instrument.
Lefty gestured to the piano then went to pour himself some clear liquid from a decanter in the corner. “Lessons, if you were wondering.”
Tony asked, “So, you’re taking lessons?”
“Giving.” Lefty’s face twisted as he sipped his booze. “I played before the war. Having a student gives me a chance to…” He made a fluttering motion with the three fingers not gripping his glass. “Not so much with the melodies anymore, but it’s something.”
Hattie felt small, suddenly. What sort of man had Lefty been in his youth? Before the war, which seemed to have taken more than just his arm?
Lefty took a seat in one of the chairs and nodded for Hattie to join. “You’re looking for Vincent. Right?”
She sat down and nodded.
Lefty took another belt of the liquor, exhaling hard. “I’m afraid he’s temporarily out of reach.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it sounds like,” he replied with a strident snap. His shook the tension from his face. “Sorry. It’s been hard few days.”
“Please tell me what happened,” she said worrying her coat in her hands. “You went to Richmond?”
“We did. Vincent had his finger on Sharp’s pulse, and for once he had it figured dead-on correct. We drove right into the city. He marched right into her headquarters and snatched her up. We delivered her straight to the Capo.”
Hattie looked down at her hands. She had no love for Betty Sharp. From her experience with Capstein and tales Vincent told of her psychotic streak, she felt Richmond might have become a far safer place to live. And it was the white whale for Vincent, securing another pincher for the Crew. The task had dogged him and brought him low, yet he never surrendered hope that he could find some way to fulfill that charge without becoming a monster. Hattie had promised to help him in this, said she’d understood and didn’t judge him, but now that it had happened, all she could think about was how another pincher was living as a slave, forced to exchange one master for another.
She looked up from her hands. “It sounds successful. So why is Vincent out of reach?”
“The Capo felt he lacked the proper loyalty and respect, and had lost sight of his priorities,” Lefty said, eyes absent in thought. “The snipe-hunt to bring you in, the Russians. Him getting set up at the pincher moot was just the cherry on top.”
Hattie looked over to Tony, who seemed just as confused. Had Vincent been traded? Sold? Lefty said his absence was only temporary, so that must mean…
“Where is he right now?” she asked dread settling into her stomach.
“Ithaca,” Lefty replied, then finished his drink.
Hattie lifted a slow hand to cover her mouth.
Tony shrugged. “New York, right? Upstate?”
Hattie cleared her throat, then explained to Tony, “It’s where they torture and brainwash the pinchers they abduct as a sort of training. It’s where they auction them off.”
Tony frowned. “Huh? Yeah, okay. He’s taking this Richmond pincher in for a sale?”
Lefty stood up to pour himself more booze. “No. He’s being sent for reeducation.”
“Vincent has done everything that man wanted,” Hattie protested.
Lefty raised an eyebrow and she squirmed in her chair. Vincent hadn’t done everything Vito wanted. He’d not brought her in and turned her over to the Crew, and when it came time in the Old Moravia to pick loyalties, Vincent had defied his boss and gone with her to rescue her mother.
“Vincent isn’t what Vito needs. Or wants,” Lefty told her. “He’s a decent human being, and Vito wants neither. He wants a wizard who can make the rest of the East Coast families respect him. He wants a dyed-in-the-wool killer with a heart of iron. And if Vincent spends long enough in Ithaca, that’s exactly what the Capo will get.”
Hattie shook her head. “I don’t believe that could happen.”
Lefty leaned back with a sad smile. “Trust me, Miss Malloy, Vincent has it in him to become that. Most men do. Bleach away his sense of right and wrong, instill in him a blind obedience, and he could give Vito everything he wants.”
“Not Vincent,” she protested. “He’s not like that. He’ll never be like that. He’s proven that to me.”
Lefty shook his head. “I’ve seen these people’s handiwork. When it comes to honing your kind into soulless killing machines, these bastards are artists.”
Hattie eyes stung with tears. “Then…then we have to save him. We have to go up there and break him out. He and I can go west. I know people that can help us. And you…you both can come too if you’d be in danger.”
Lefty waved a stern finger at her. “No. Stop that thinking right now. There is no escape from that place. Vito doesn’t intend for him to rot there. He’ll probably be back in a few weeks.”
“After they break him?” Hattie shot back. “We need to get him out of there now. You think I can’t raise enough resources? Because I’ll do it! If we move fast, we can be there by—”
“Vincent went willingly,” Lefty interrupted.
Hattie gaped at the other man. “How could he go to that place willingly?”
“Because this is his life, Miss Malloy. If he refused, they would have shot him and me and dumped both our bodies in the river.”
Tony took a few steps forward. “What? Why’s the Capo blaming you for this?”
Lefty dangled his glass in front of him. “I’m his handler. In the end, I’m responsible for what Vincent does or doesn’t do.” He turned to Hattie. “If you insist on making a play for Vincent, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but you’ll only get yourself killed.” He took a heavy gulp of gin. “Even if you manage to pull it off, he won’t thank you for it. The punishment for escape when they catch him will be far worse than what he’s probably going through now. And they will catch him.”
“I agree,” Tony added. “Vincent’s a smart cookie. Let him ride this out, handle it on his own. If I know anything about the guy, he’ll be back in a few weeks.”
But what sort of man would he be after a few weeks of Ithaca? Hattie imagined the torture, the brainwashing and thought about Lefty’s assertion that Vincent could be broken, made into Vito’s perfect, obedient weapon.
They were going to kill him. Maybe not physically, but surely what they were doing to him in Ithaca would kill the Vincent she knew. Bile surged in her throat and tears stung her eyes as Hattie stood in a rush, flying through the foyer and out the front door. Tony trotted after her, catching her as she cleared the stoop.
“Hey. Hang on.”
She brushed away his hand as he reached for her. “I’m fine. I’m…I’m just going to go back home now.”
“Don’t go doing anything rash, Hattie,” Tony warned, giving her one last look as he headed to his car.
As she climbed in the passenger side of the Runabout, Raymond put a hand on her back. “You okay, baby girl?”
She shook her head.
“Is he…is he dead?”
Hattie took a moment to compose herself. �
�No. Vito sent him up to some torture-place to punish him and make him more obedient.”
Raymond sucked in a breath. “Can’t say I’m not surprised, though. That man’s been grinding your boy since before you met him, from what I hear.”
Hattie stared bleakly out the window. “I’m scared, Raymond. I feel sick thinking what they might be doing to him. I’m scared I won’t recognize the man who comes back from this. And I’m angry—furious at that disgusting monster who did this to him. I swear if Vito Corbi were here right now…”
“Oh, baby girl, don’t cry. Here. Take this here.” Raymond handed her an old rag that looked like it had been used to clean the oil cap.
Hattie sucked in cleansing breath and wiped her eyes with a corner of the rag.
Raymond patted her arm. “If he’s been sent away, then it won’t be forever, will it? The boy’s a gangster. I’m sure he’s been through worse than this place can put on his plate. Hell, he’s probably been shot, and stabbed, and beaten, and who knows what else. He’ll be okay. Before you know it, the holidays will be over, and he’ll be back here.” Raymond peered at her with a gentle smile. “Gotta have faith, baby girl.”
She understood what he was trying to say, but none of those words made the worry and fear go away. And they certainly didn’t dampen the anger that was beginning to catch flame inside her the more she thought about Vito Corbi.
Raymond gave Hattie’s shoulder a quick rub. “Come on. I think it’s time we got goin’.”
Hattie nodded, brooding as Raymond started the truck and pulled away from the curb.
What could she really do? Break him out of Ithaca? Not likely from what Lefty said. She’d have to wait for Vincent to return and hope they didn’t manage to break him, but in the meantime…
The anger burned, and an idea crystallized in her mind as Raymond headed home. So far, she’d only taken pot-shots at the Baltimore Crew. A case here, a barrel there. It was more for her satisfaction than to deal any real damage.
But Hattie’s real enemy had finally crossed a line she couldn’t forgive. No more small-timing it. Vincent had purchased more than his friend’s safety by giving himself over to Ithaca. He’d bought Vito a war.
And Hattie would see that war through to the bitter, bloody end.
Chapter 13
Vincent opened his eyes, blinking them a few times to clear the grogginess. Metal jingled from his arms as he reached with his fingers to rub his face. A wide steel shackle clamped around his forearm, chains running from his wrists to the wall behind the creaking, spindle-legged chair he’d been deposited in the night of his arrival. As he shifted in his chair, the rattling of steel continued up the wall behind him. Stretching his stiff neck Vincent looked upward to follow the chains, which slung into a large eye bolt just above his head to slide along the ceiling toward a pulley block beside the door.
Well. This method of restraint seemed to be…thorough if not excessive. It wasn’t like he was a circus strong man. He didn’t have his powers, and there wasn’t much a time pincher could do against these chains even with them. All he could imagine was that those in charge of this facility didn’t like to take chances.
Vincent cleared his parched and scratchy throat. The air inside the dimly lit room was dank, rife with the malodor of mold and something dead. The floor boards were worn and dark. Several large, round stains hinted at locations of bygone pools of blood. The walls were of a mottled gray clapboard. The entire building seemed to have been constructed out of random pieces of lumber, and with no tools for measuring, squaring or plumbing.
Spending the night in that uncomfortable chair had been its own minor sort of torture. There was no true sleep to be found, though he wondered whether the power-sapping elixir he’d taken at Havre de Grace, and then once again as they’d arrived, offered a sedative effect. He and Betty had been driven in the back of a jalopy for countless hours. When they’d reached their destination, the sun had long set. All he could see of the compound once they’d taken off his blindfold and led him in were seemingly endless hillocks of moonlit snow, several dark, squat buildings, and a pool of light to the distance. Without a word, he’d been given the elixir, then manhandled into the shackles and deposited into the chair without food or drink.
Was it morning? Still night? The place was deathly quiet and without any sort of window or even crack in the walls, he couldn’t tell.
Deciding to explore his surroundings as best he could, Vincent gave standing up a shot, hoping they’d given him enough slack in the chains to get out of the chair. The steel links rattled through the eye ring mounted to the ceiling, and he managed his way to an awkward crouch before his bonds pulled taut. He couldn’t hold the position for long and dropped back into the chair with a loud rattle.
So much for exploring. Shifting awkwardly on the hard chair, he looked around to take in what he could of the room. A pathetic cot sat in the far corner of his cell. Presumably, he’d be upgraded from sitting through the night in chains at some point. And hopefully soon they’d decide to give him some water.
A door elsewhere opened and closed with a loud, hammering thud. He straightened a bit in his chair as footfalls approached. Keys jingled, then clicked inside the enormous iron padlock securing his room. After metal slammed open and the lock pulled free, the cell door creaked against worn hinges to reveal a tall blonde woman with a triangular build stepping into the room. Light from some source behind her flooded the room, and Vincent squinted. The woman’s hair was pulled high into an updo with no frills or fashion. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, but the icy blue irises glaring at him from beneath her white-blonde lashes were filled with as much chill as the outside air. As she stepped into the room, she said nothing. The only noise was that of her key ring, and the brushing sound of a large iron device slung over her neck. It was two hinged metal pieces resembling the top portion of a clapperboard with wide, flattened cylinders at the ends of the tines. The steel apparatus clanged against tools slung in a leather belt high around her waist.
She tested the chains near the door before giving them a firm tug. The main line rolled against the pulley block, spinning some manner of gear that caused the smaller chains to hurtle through their eye bolt in the ceiling. Vincent’s bonds shortened, jerking him up and out of his chair.
The woman approached with languid disinterest, her metal clapperboard chiming as it hit the end of the hand sledge dangling in her belt, and kicked the chair from behind Vincent’s legs. Then she crouched down to unlock the ankle shackles, deftly slipping her key into his wrist restraints. The cuffs edged toward the ceiling under the weight of the counterbalanced chains by the door.
Vincent rubbed his wrists, peering at the woman but remaining silent.
Her hand whipped out to clamp onto Vincent’s arm, pulling him toward the door with nearly enough force to slip his shoulder out of joint. He grunted as she dragged him into the narrow corridor beyond. One door stood across the hall, and another a little farther down on the same side as his own cell. He noticed that door was already open.
The woman opened the opposite door to reveal a room about the same size as Vincent’s cell. In the center sat a metal table with three chairs. Vincent squinted at the individual already seated at the table, her wrists manacled to its legs.
Betty Sharp spotted Vincent, and immediately launched into a spate of profanities even Vincent couldn’t follow.
The blonde paused only a second. Vincent thought he caught a glimmer of a smirk on the woman’s face, but he could have imagined it. Reaching for the back of Vincent’s neck, she steered him into the chair beside Betty, then reached for the table leg and snapped irons around Vincent’s arms as well. He barely had enough length in his chains to raise his hands to the table top. Happily there wasn’t enough length for Betty to physically assault him. She certainly tried.
The woman hung her key ring onto a tiny L-shaped hook on her belt, then lifted the giant clapperboard off her neck. She stretched her neck, bones popping in re
lease as she swung her chin in a lazy circle, then resting the steel apparatus on the table, she placed her hands on her hips to consider the two. Those glacier-blue eyes slid left and right between Vincent and Betty. Finally, after some silent decision had been reached behind those eyes, she turned toward Betty and stretched a hand out for her arm.
Betty jerked away, spitting on the woman before unleashing her profane invective once again.
With a quick, sharp jab, the blonde woman punched Betty right in the nose.
Betty grunted as her head flew back. She coughed and blubbered for a moment as a trickle of blood eased from a nostril, dazed from the blow.
The blonde pulled the clapperboard toward the edge of the table and fed Betty’s right hand between the cylinder ends of the device, checking its alignment according to some mysterious calculus. With a nod, the woman reached for her tool belt to draw the hand sledge.
Betty’s eyes focused on the woman just as the sledge dropped with a loud CLANG onto the end of the clapperboard. Bones crunched audibly, and Vincent clamped his eyes shut. He felt the lack of magical response hanging over his skin. Usually he would have pinched time out of reflex from such a brutal scene, but the elixir’s effect held.
Betty sucked in a quick, stunned breath. A tiny wheezing noise emanated from her throat. She was trying to scream, but the pain had strangled her throat closed.
The woman pulled the device’s tines apart, sliding it higher up the same arm.
Betty gasped as she realized the woman was setting up for another blow. “Don’t! No, don’t!”
The woman’s hand rose into the air, then swung down with another merciless strike.
This time, Betty’s screams found their voice. Sucking in breath, she renewed the cry as it warbled with sobs.
The blonde pulled the tines apart, easing it away from Betty’s ruined arm. With an easy turn of her wrist, the clapperboard spun a full turn, coming to a rest pointing to Vincent.
