I dug my nails into my palms to keep myself from breaking the equipment and wasting money on damage compensation. “Who the hell are you and how the hell do you know who I am?”
“Simone Morane of WAR Radio, and this is my audio-jockey —”
“I don’t care.” She didn’t seem offended by my interruption. “You didn’t answer my other question.”
“The police pass out your phone number like they’re giving out parking tickets. I’m surprised they never let your real name slip. But I managed to figure it out, Mr. Nightcaller.”
“Are you the one responsible for that ridiculous nickname?”
“Oh, no, you can thank the officers with no imagination for that.”
I clenched my jaw. I wasn’t going to play these games. “Regarding the crime scene here, all you need to know is that the Maranzano Mafia is overstepping its bounds, and I need to reel them in.”
“Are you talking about the 5th Precinct, or just yourself?”
“Audio off,” I said. I glared at her until she signalled her jockey to cut the feed and stowed the microphone in her coat pocket. “Expensive coat you’re wearing. Didn’t think radio reporters made enough for something this nice. What brand? Lanvin?”
“I could ask the same of you, with that Talbot I’ve heard so much about, though I don’t see it with you. Trying to stay under the radar? Must have cost a fortune to get something that cutting edge.” I clammed up. “I’ve been waiting months to see you in action. You’re a slippery one.”
“I try my damnedest.”
“You’re the biggest thing on the news now, you know that, right? Well, the Nightcaller is, anyway. RCA has made you into a radio show — the marketing is everywhere — and there are rumours MGM is already interested in adapting it for film. You’re a star!”
I’m a what? “Hold the phone … How am I the biggest thing on the news?”
I was halfway to reaching for my Diamondback. I felt like I was being pushed into a corner.
“You don’t listen to the radio?”
“Can’t really listen when I’m always on the move.”
“Stories of the Nightcaller have been coming in since mid-’30, and you’ve only gotten busier since then,” she said. “An old lady called a news station an hour ago saying you’d gone to save her son. I knew if you were going to turn up anywhere after that, it would be here. You’re at the fore-front of every major investigation. I mean, for three years, this mysterious hero has been popping in and cleaning up the streets of Lower Manhattan, and now … here you are!”
I’d always known that taking these jobs on the side was going to bite me in the ass. But a radio series? A movie deal? They had to be fucking with me.
“You’re saying there have been advertisements for this?”
“They’re all over the radio. There’s even a TV commercial! You sure you haven’t heard any?”
“Like I said, I don’t care for the media.”
“What about the billboards in Times Square?”
“I don’t like looking up.”
She frowned. “None of your friends told you about it? How about that Automatic sitting in your car?”
I turned to look at Allen, who looked back at me, perplexed. “It doesn’t listen to the radio, either. At least, I don’t think it does.”
“You’d better start catching up on things, huh, Nightcaller?” She smirked. “Debut episode is in a few days. Don’t miss it.”
That dumb name again.
“Let me make something clear, Miss …”
“Morane.”
“I’m not the Nightcaller, I’m not a hero, and I’m not a star. I’m just doing my job to protect the people of New York, as all cops should be doing —”
“But instead, they relegate such issues to you,” she interjected with a grin.
“If you want an official statement, Maranzano was behind the attack. His enforcers took out some Mafia bigwigs belonging to Gould’s gang of spooks, end of story.”
“Gould, the CEO of GE? Owner of the Plate?”
“Yes, of course that Gould, who else would I be talking about?”
Simone nodded. “We can work with that.”
“Get that show off the air. I don’t condone my likeness being used in a radio show.”
“But you just said you weren’t the Nightcaller.” Goddamn it. “If you are, I could tell that to RCA, and they might pull the plug. But if you aren’t, you shouldn’t mind the show airing one bit.”
I sniffed. The cold was freezing my nose, the air stinging my throat. “You’re just the most insufferable of all reporters, aren’t you? I know the Upper City gets its kicks hearing about the crazy shit we do down here in the mud, and I’m sure you get enough time up there as it is, but this crime is far more important than a radio show or one of your goddamn stories. So do me a favour, because I know for a fact you didn’t turn this off” — I grabbed the microphone out of her coat pocket — “and tell RCA to fuck off.”
She was grinning the entire time, seeing how easily she’d pushed my buttons. I sucked in air to calm myself before things got messy.
“Well, if you have any more complaints, please call me.” She slipped me a card with the radio station’s number on it. “I’m open for an interview whenever you are. Be seeing you, Nightcaller.”
“Don’t call me that!”
She strutted off back into her milieu, proud to have gotten a comment about the freshest corpses in the Lower City. The moment the other reporters saw her victorious expression, they began clamouring for my attention, too. I tuned them out easily and headed to my car.
When I got in, I noticed Allen peering over at me, but trying to be subtle about it.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Simone Morane? I can read lips. That name sounds familiar. Perhaps she has relatives in law enforcement?”
“Hopefully no one important. I’ve already pissed off too many people in the city.”
“What was it she called you?”
“The Nightcaller,” I said with a grimace. “The same stupid name the civilians have been calling me on the phone. I suppose it’s more poetic than making an R call. She said she’s been following stories about me for years, waiting for me to ‘appear.’ And now there’s a damn radio show about me.”
Allen’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “That’s fantastic!”
“No, it isn’t, Allen. I don’t like being noticed. Having a stupid radio show attached to me means regular people talking about me. If some camera-happy kid gets a picture of me, next thing you know people start bugging me where I work, live, relax. I’d rather keep a low profile. We have a job to do. We don’t need to be bogged down by this bullshit. That was the reason I stopped doing civvy Night Calls for a while — I didn’t want something like this to happen. Too late now.”
Allen nodded and reached into its pocket. “So, shall we pursue this, Detective?”
“I don’t know. There’s no real evidence we can use to track down the killer. No way to tell which rifles were used, no way to tell who he is, nothing we can go off. Maybe we can muscle some of the local goons for information, but I doubt it was any of the Mobs that pulled this. It feels too sloppy to be a Mafia hit.”
“No, I meant this.” Allen handed me a folded slip of paper smaller than a business card. “It was under one of your windshield wipers. I thought one of the commissioners might have left it for you.”
I unfolded it and read the neat cursive letters: Kips Bay shipments. Deal with it.
The Eye was calling on me again. This was either an olive branch or a gun against my head. Or, knowing her, both.
“Yeah, Allen. Just a side job I need to clear up. It shouldn’t take more than an hour. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone this way.”
We arrived at Maranzano’s footprint in Lower Manhattan, the Kips Kompound, as he called it, a string of warehouses refurbished and gutted to create a veritable barracks in the heart of New York, much to the chagrin of the
city’s higher-ups. The front entrance was built to look like the front of a prison, with watchtowers and barbed wire running along the walls, and the only way in or out a large sliding gate on wheels. A half-dozen mobsters stood out front, eyeing us the moment we drove up. Two spotlights came down from the watchtowers and centred on my car, leaving us nowhere to hide.
No one could touch Maranzano in here. No one but me.
Allen was rubbing its hands together nervously. You’ll get used to this in time, partner.
I stepped out first, not bothering to lock the door after me. Allen followed close behind, babbling.
“Detective Roche, this place feels … I believe it’s inappropriate for officers to be here alone.”
“Relax, Allen. These are my people. I’ll do the talking.”
Allen stayed back as I continued walking forward. The first Bruno at the gate held up a hand and told me to stop. His other hand was holding a Thompson. I got in his personal space before he could react. A sharp jab in the gut made him double over, and I quickly pressed my weapon against his crown. The other five mobsters trained their weapons on me, and still more standing on the wall above pointed barrels in my direction. The clicks and slams of bolts placing bullets in chambers echoed through the air for a few seconds. Allen stumbled back, putting more distance between itself and the killing floor.
“I got a message for ’Zano. You going to open up, or should I knock?” I asked.
The show of force was enough. Seconds later, the gates were opened, the guns were all pointed down, and the fellow balancing on my Diamondback’s barrel was on the ground, clutching his stomach. Eyes wide with fascination and fear, Allen chased after me, too afraid to ask questions. The mobsters at the gate backed away, allowing us into the Kompound, though their faces curled into sneers and snarls.
The interior of Maranzano’s headquarters was a mess of alcohol and Automatic parts, the two most valuable materials for a bootlegger. Wheelbarrows, car trunks, and crates were filled to the brim with both types of paraphernalia. Passing through this space was like walking through a graveyard for robots, and unsurprisingly, Allen looked terrified. It stayed right on my heels, perhaps afraid that if it strayed too far, a Bruno might nab it and strip it down to its circuits.
The conversations around us were disturbing, to say the least. These punks were more animals than men.
“’Ey, Roche! How’s the life of a lapdog treatin’ ya?” screamed one.
“Got a few shipments from up north. Damn, the Grotto boys know how to strip Autos efficiently …”
“Hey, I bet ten bucks Roche won’t notice if we nab his fancy new Blue-eye.”
That last comment almost made me stop. No, don’t take it personally, they’re just assholes.
Pale theatre footlights lit up the face of an impressive stone building ahead of us, as if it was some red carpet deal. The sliding barn doors on the front were parted by two guards as we approached. Walking through them was like stepping into another world. The welding and grinding and sawing was replaced by pleasant music, gold chandeliers, and marble pillars. Mobsters in dirty garb replaced by people in lavish dresses and fitted suits. Everyone stared at us, the guards warily, the partygoers with disgust.
Maranzano loved hosting his fellow public enemies. While they waited for the heat to die down elsewhere in the States, they’d come to the Lower City, since most of it was controlled by ’Zano himself. I spotted faces that had been featured on posters dotting the walls of the 5th. There was “the Owl” Banghart, fresh off an armed robbery in Detroit. Lord, he was an ugly bastard, especially when he sneered. The Barker-Karpis gang, in all their glory, leaned on the western wall of the place, though they were one member short, thanks to me.
The band performing at the far end of the hall didn’t miss a beat upon our entrance. Above us was a second floor with stone railings where the even richer criminals stood looking down at the stage. Bonnie and Clyde were hiding out up there, the former with a fat cigar between her teeth, the latter eyeing me up for a fight. Noticeably absent was the Dillinger gang, though from what I’d heard, ’Zano wasn’t stupid enough to let a group with a bounty that high into his inner sanctum. I guessed that those I didn’t recognize were former members of the Five Families, or something similar.
I nabbed a shrimp and a bottle from the buffet table and implored Allen to grab a glass of alcohol to calm his nerves. We walked over toward the stage and sat down in some large red cushioned chairs in the front row. No one was stupid enough to stop us, luckily for them.
Then the man himself appeared, blocking my view of the stage. Leaning on a cane, he was flanked by guards who served to make him look bigger. With bulldog cheeks and a pointed hairline, Salvatore Maranzano was built like a brick shithouse. No one of sound mind would have willingly gone toe-to-toe against him, limp or no limp. On his right was man with a flat-top and a handlebar moustache: Santoni, which meant “Uncle Tony” in Italian. I had yet to meet a man more unpleasant, though I did try. So far, no one matched him for sheer bitterness and rudeness.
“You disrespect me by walking into my house with that thing in tow.” Maranzano jabbed a finger at Allen, who was wide-eyed, gripping its champagne glass in panic. He sounded like he smoked two packs a day, and a faint Italian accent was noticeable, as well.
“I don’t decide when the conversations need to happen.” I bit into the shrimp and threw the tail on the carpet. “I just get told to show up.”
“You are a villain, an absolute villain!”
“That’s rich coming from you, Sal.” I reclined in my seat, propping one knee against a chair arm and sinking into the cushions. People started moving away from us.
“What happened to honour among thieves?”
“It died a while ago. I think I might have killed it.” I winked and sipped at my drink.
“Luciano, Gagliano, Mangano, Profaci — those men, they were men of honour and respect, as am I. They should be here tonight. Instead, I host the mad lapdog that killed them and his metal chew toy. I should have you shot and that thing stripped apart, its parts sold to the highest bidder!”
His intimidation tactics didn’t work on me anymore. He was scary to the common street thug, but he only ever spoke like this when he couldn’t touch whoever was offending him.
“Look,” I said, “she wants you to pull out of Chelsea Piers completely. She staked a claim a few weeks back in a few warehouses, and she just wants them to herself. She’s offering you a place in North Jersey as recompense.”
The warehouses she wanted were the ones I’d nearly died in. She’d gone in and picked up the parts I’d offered her, and now she wanted the whole damn building, too. Why did Masters have to set up shop in Maranzano territory?
Maranzano’s hands shook, and his face went red. The band kept playing, but the wavering voice of the lead singer reflected how heated things were getting. “You walk in here and demand one of the greatest avenues of our business in exchange for a box off-island?”
“It’s not like you were using those warehouses, anyway. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“I’ve done so before, and I will again! Your harlot does not scare me, nor do her advances upon what is mine. She and I made a deal, Roche! We made a deal, and you spit on it with this request. Gramercy to Midtown is mine, anything south is hers. She has the gall to walk into the centre of our territory and demand we give it to her? Tell that bitch that I will kill, maim, and dismantle any man or machine that walks into Chelsea, and send them back in pieces. I’d rather burn the docks down than let her have them under these circumstances!”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose and then stood to face Maranzano, stopping within inches of him. The crowd held their breath, and the music stopped.
I spoke as calmly as I could, almost in a whisper. “You have two options. The first is to refuse and do what you said. Kill them, maim them, dismantle them. Next thing you know, there will be a trail of blood and gore running from Jersey to Chelsea, with you
r men feeding it. Your ships burned, your cars wrecked, and your lieutenants dead. I know it’ll happen that way, because I’ll be the one to do it. I’ll kill every single one with my bare hands, then send them and a cinderblock down to the bottom of the Hudson, or splatter their innards onto the streets. Or, you can take the second option: give up the docks, head to Jersey, and make up for lost profits with some land shipping, using vehicles she will provide. I know which option I would take, and which one you’re going to take, too. You want to know why?”
The short man didn’t answer, but he did listen. I leaned in closer.
“Because Luciano, Gagliano, Mangano, Profaci, even Morello — they were men of honour. Best remember why they ain’t here tonight.”
I grabbed Allen’s champagne and gulped it down, then placed the glass in Maranzano’s hand before backing up. He was hesitant, not wanting to be humiliated in front of his guests, but not willing to push it, either.
“You have three days. Get packing,” I said.
“This isn’t your turf, boy. Mind your tongue,” he snarled.
I nodded. “I’ll consider that for the next time I drop in.”
We departed. The moment we were through the barn doors, the music started up again. We could let Maranzano have his fun. He needed the chance to relax. He was getting old, after all.
The car doors slammed shut, and Allen and I settled in. I heaved out a heavy breath, my heart rate slowing. Allen was tense as a board and didn’t make a peep. A few miles away from the Kompound, it finally spoke.
“I didn’t think …” It stopped to organize its thoughts. “I didn’t think you were playing both sides of the law.”
Shit. I hadn’t warned it beforehand. And I hadn’t intended to let it know like this.
“I have to keep the peace, no matter the method.”
“Who is ‘she,’ Detective? Another mobster to take orders from?”
“No. A dangerous woman with her claws in everything in this city except the Plate.”
“And you carry messages to the other crime families?”
“You could say that, yeah.” Morello had been the first to get a “message,” but that had been the result of rage. The other four had taken patience and planning, organization. I’d sent a message, all right. “I’m a courier of sorts. It pays the bills.”
Midnight Page 4
