by Debra Dunbar
Maria lifted a hand. “No, let me. I’d like to.”
She stepped over to the kitchenette as Charley watched.
Hattie poked an elbow into Charley’s ribs. “Hmm, there. I do believe she’s taken a shine to you.”
He shrugged. “Thinking it’s more like she’s taken a shine to my daughters.” As he walked off, Hattie noted how he kept casting quick, furtive glances at Maria when he thought she wasn’t looking. With a shake of her head and a grin, Hattie marched up the stairs. She found Hassam al Ghasawi waiting for her at the top.
“Hassam,” she greeted the man.
“We must speak,” he stated, turning immediately for the office. Ghasawi held the office door for Hattie, closing it behind them as she took a seat at her desk. He stood in front of her in rigid formality.
“What’s on your mind, then?” she asked.
“Do you remember what my mission here has been?”
“You’re protecting me. And Vincent. The both of us.”
“Though I have come to appreciate your company,” he replied with an accented voice, “that is not my primary purpose.”
“Yes, I know. You’re here for the Hell Pincher.” She moved two chairs forward and sat in one of them.
“Indeed. It was my assumption that he would find the Bright Soul and would make plans to capture the both of you, but it has been nearly six months, and there has been no sign of infernal magics or demon activity. Neither here nor anywhere within a day’s journey.”
Hattie blinked at him in surprise. “So, you’re leaving?”
He nodded. “I must go in search of this Hell Pincher. He’s clearly not coming to us.”
“And leave us undefended?” she asked, incredulous.
Ghasawi smiled. “You are anything but defenseless. I’ve seen this firsthand. You and Mister Calendo share a powerful bond that will not prove to be such an easy target for a Hell Pincher were he to find you before I could arrive.”
Hattie eased back in her chair. “I don’t relish the thought of you leaving, Hassam.”
“Nor do I. As I’ve said, I’ve grown accustomed to your company.” He stared into the far corner of the office. “A Janissary’s life is solitary, by and large. I was fortunate to have a companion for some time. Prior, however, I plied my trade alone.” He smiled. “Perhaps I was at my best, then. No one ended up dead.”
Hattie sighed, pressing her palms against the desk. “I understand. I do. If you must leave, then go with my blessing. Just know that I worry the Hell Pincher might just be waiting for you to leave.”
“The thought had crossed my mind. However, I find I need to take action, to locate and pursue him rather than continue to wait.”
Hattie stood and reached across the desk to shake the man’s hand.
“Oh, I have something for you,” he added with a lift of his chin. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced two silver-and-spangle earrings and dropped them into Hattie’s hand.
“They’re lovely,” she said.
“They are more than simple accessories. I crafted these two nights ago during the new moon. They are charged with an obfuscation charm. These will bolster your powers, much like the talisman you employed in Ithaca.”
Hattie examined them in the electric light of the office. “Thank you.”
“They aren’t strong charms,” he warned. “So don’t expect much. You’ll be the force behind the magic, but these will help prolong the effect.” Ghasawi bowed his head. “And now, it is time that I bid you farewell.”
“You’ll stay in touch, though?” she asked.
“As I am able.”
“Right. Well, Godspeed, Hassam.”
“Inshallah,” Ghasawi replied with a folding of his hands into a prayer position.
Hattie remained behind her desk as Ghasawi turned to exit the office, and shortly thereafter the building.
Blake popped into the office, looking left and right. “Where’d the Arab fellow go?”
“His name is Hassam.” Hattie rolled her eyes.
Blake shrugged. “He left for good?”
“I hope not,” Hattie muttered.
“Alright. Well, that’s bad news. He was good in a fight.”
Hattie said nothing, simply rolling the earrings around in her palm.
Blake asked, “We got a job this week?”
“I haven’t heard from Richmond. That’s getting annoying, by the by.”
“Yeah, we lost all our contacts down the bay.”
Hattie sighed. Things in Charleston were heating up, and although there was no power structure in Richmond to hinder them, that unfortunately meant there was no power structure in Richmond to assist them either.
“We’ll have to deal with that. Any rate, we have an open week unless something happens.”
Blake nodded then blinked out of the room.
Hattie shouted, “What did I tell you about using doors?”
Blake’s muffled voice called, “Sorry” from downstairs.
Hattie shook her head, then stood to drop the earrings into the pocket of her overalls, freezing as she realized her pocket was empty. She patted herself down, listening for the crinkle of paper. Nothing.
“Oh, for the love of…”
That was what she’d been forgetting this morning. The envelope. It had slipped out at some point. But where? She knew it was in her pocket when she had dinner with Vincent the night before. It had to have fallen out when he put her to bed.
Or worse…he’d taken it out.
Hattie leapt for the office door, flinging it open as she bounded for the stairs.
“Blake!”
“Yeah?” he asked, turning with a piece of cheese in his hand.
“Get the car!”
“What’s up?”
She didn’t answer. She just ran out the door for the garage. Blake had already popped into the shelter, crank in hand ready to fire up the vehicle. Hattie jumped into the driver side as Blake got the car running.
“Where to?” He hopped into the seat beside Hattie as the car began rolling.
“Vincent’s.”
“Okay. Something’s going down?”
“I just… I need your abilities.”
Blake leaned back, then harrumphed. “Oh, yeah. Okay. A little burglary, huh?”
“It’s not like that,” she said, swinging the car onto the street.
She made quick time, stopping the car on the street in a manner that wasn’t exactly convenient for oncoming traffic. Horns burped at her as she and Blake left the car running, rushing for the building.
Hattie guided Blake to Vincent’s door, then held up a hand. She gave the door several hard raps.
“Vincent? Are you still home?”
There was no answer so she gave the door several more knocks. Still nothing. She tried the knob, but the door was locked as she’d expected.
“Okay,” she whispered. “He’s already gone. I need you to blink inside and open the door.”
“Is this kosher?”
“It’s an emergency.”
“I’ve never been inside that room. My powers are limited. If there’s a couch or a sofa or something where I blink, I could lose a leg or worse.”
“There’s a clear space just on the other side of the door. About four feet by four feet. No furniture.”
“It’s risky, is all I’m saying.”
Hattie reached for his arm. “This is important.”
Blake sighed, shrugged, then faced the door. He ran a hand along its surface and closed his eyes.
“Here goes,” he muttered before popping out of sight.
The door clicked and the knob twisted.
Hattie released a breath as Blake stared back at her from inside Vincent’s apartment.
“You’re okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Hattie brushed past him, searching the floor of the apartment for the envelope. Roscoe watched from the countertop, head darting back and forth as she wound her way throug
h the apartment.
“What are we looking for?” Blake asked.
Hattie froze as she glanced at the dinner table. The envelope sat opened, its contents unfolded and resting beside the envelope.
Chapter 5
Vincent sat at his dinner table rolling the ring box around in his fingers. His lips pulled tight in a thin frown as he pondered the moment that had come and gone. She’d said she wanted to spend the night here more often, if they could find a way to make that happen. That had been his moment, but for the life of him, Vincent simply couldn’t muster the courage to pull the box from his pocket. He’d slept on the damn thing all night with the sharp corners digging into his leg. The morning had been rushed, sure. But proposing had been on his mind constantly for months now, and Hattie had given him clear indications she wanted a future with him.
So why didn’t he give her the ring? He shook his head as he set the box on the table. Everything inside him wanted to, but there was some phantom hand keeping him from actually asking her the question.
Was he frightened she’d say no? Or was it marriage itself that scared him stiff?
He stood up to shake off the self-torture and wash up for the big meeting at the hotel. Whatever Vito had in store, it would be a big announcement. Vincent hoped that Vito had been pushed into some half-brained declaration which would only serve to drive a wider wedge between him and his own famiglia, but he admitted to himself as he washed his face that Vito was skilled at adapting to change. He was a survivor. Wasn’t that what Vincent had always admired about the man?
Clean, he changed his shirt in his bedroom. As he buttoned it up, he wondered if this plan of his and Hattie’s was virtuous after all. Vito had caused Vincent so much suffering these past few years, but what would a Baltimore without Vito, what would freedom really look like? Without a strong leader Vincent and every other pincher in the Mid-Atlantic would fall prey to the strongmen lurking in the shadows. It would mean constant vigilance, a never-ending struggle just to keep themselves free.
But he wasn’t doing this just for himself—this was for the Charge, for the families of pinchers yearning to stay together and not be torn apart and sold piecemeal to the mob, for the children born with gifts, these splinters of bright souls they never asked for.
Most of all, he was doing it for Hattie.
Vincent reached for his jacket and spotted the envelope on the nightstand. He sucked in a breath and reached for it, realizing this must have been what she’d forgotten. Hattie was long gone, but he knew where she was. Charge headquarters. Vincent checked the time. It was close to eleven o’clock. He wanted to be at the hotel before most of the Crew arrived so that he could get a jump on the gossip, perhaps divining what Vito’s big announcement was about ahead of schedule.
But the Charge wasn’t all that far from his apartment. He could make a quick detour and drop off the envelope with Hattie and still be early for the meeting. It would only take a few minutes.
On the other hand, Lefty was sniffing around Vincent more than usual. It was clear from the previous afternoon’s conversation that Lefty was onto Vincent, at least on some level. He knew Lefty. The man would be watching Vincent’s every move. It wasn’t the best time for him to make casual visits to the Charge.
Stepping into the kitchen, Vincent held the envelope up to the sunlight. How important was this? If it was some simple water bill, then that wouldn’t merit endangering Hattie’s operation.
But this was no bill. New York State Vital Records. What the hell would Hattie have to do with Vital Records up in New York? He reached for a knife and slid it into the envelope, breaking the seal. It was better to apologize for snooping than potentially lead the Crew to discover the free pinchers.
Vincent opened the envelope and pulled a slip of paper free, unfolding it to the light. He searched for meaning in the jumble of paragraphs, sentences, names, and dates. It wasn’t until he found one name in particular that the importance of this document dawned on him.
Vincenzo Giovanni Calendo. Born December 19th, 1899.
Parents Paolo and Chiara Calendo, late of Brooklyn, New York. Deceased May 7th, 1902.
Vincent reached for the chair at the table, but missed as he took a seat, knees failing him. He crashed to the floor, letter still in hand. Roscoe hopped up to him with a questioning mew.
Vincent shook his head as he read the names and dates over and over again.
Paolo and Chiara. Their faces wouldn’t come into focus, but he remembered a faint smell of roses and tobacco.
Tears streamed from Vincent’s eyes as he tried to remember their faces, their voices, the house they’d lived in. But nothing came. He’d been too young—he’d been too young when they’d died, too young when he was taken from them.
As he sucked in panicked breaths, a swirl of emotions pounded him in the guts.
This was it. This was the answer to the question he’d asked himself for as long as he could remember. What happened to his parents? Had the gangsters paid them a hefty sum for their child?
He’d always imagined them living in some well-appointed estate upstate, perhaps even in the Hamptons. They’d be wealthy, clothed in finery, driving fancy cars, perhaps even with children who had grown and attended private school. They might be sad from time to time thinking about the boy they’d sold to the mob. But that would fade as their lives marched on.
But their lives hadn’t marched on. They’d been snuffed out the day the gangsters came for him. They hadn’t paid his family, after all. Perhaps an offer was made, and they’d refused like the proper parents they were, and that refusal wasn’t accepted.
That was that. Vincent had no family, now. No parents. No unmet siblings. He was truly alone. At length, he pulled himself together and stood, placing the envelope and letter neatly on the tabletop. This wasn’t unexpected. It was always a possibility, a dark notion that nagged him. But now he knew.
He withdrew to the sink to splash cold water on his face. He had to push all of this down deep inside before the meeting. Show no weakness—especially in the face of the organization that had murdered his family.
Pulling on his jacket, Vincent adjusted his tie, staring hard at himself in the mirror. There was no longer any reason for him to feel guilty about what he was doing, no reason for him to have any loyalty at all to the famiglia. They were not his family; they’d snuffed out Vincent’s family and raised him to be a weapon. Vito Corbi would go down. Alive, dead, it didn’t matter anymore.
His time had come.
And maybe with that small bit of vengeance, he’d finally be free.
Chapter 6
By the time Vincent arrived at the Old Moravia lobby lounge, a staggering number of Crew members had already gathered. This was double the typical Friday night crowd, and it wasn’t even a weekend. Unlike the day prior, Vincent felt compelled to grab a drink to even out his nerves. There was no way he could do anything productive with his current state of mind.
The barkeep poured Vincent some gin with a lime and stepped away without collecting a nickel. It seemed Vito had opened up the bar for the Crew. Well, that would explain the stellar attendance.
Vincent spotted Lefty near the broad masonry columns separating the lobby from the lounge. The man was deep in his thoughts, not even searching the crowd. Vincent was grateful he didn’t have to weather another barrage of questions from Lefty since the man would have picked up on Vincent’s rattled state.
The Capo came down the stairs just after noon. His face was considerably less flushed. His suit looked new, a shade of charcoal with pinstriping. He sported a fresh shave and his skin glowed. This newfound demeanor of healthy command worried Vincent.
Vito Corbi raised his arms, and soon the entire room was quiet.
With a clearing of his throat, the Capo announced, “We’ve struggled for some time now. All of us. The five families of New York have dominated our lives for far too long. We were targeted by Joe Masseria, not two months ago. A nightmare laid waste to
my home. All in the name of keeping us beaten. In our place. No. This is not the way.”
Vincent sipped his gin, interested to hear the rest. What wild scheme would Vito commit the Crew to now?
Corbi smiled. “Many asked how we would respond to this attack. Would we strike back? Would we curl up like a whipped dog? Everyone asked. They had their opinions. Yes, Capo. We strike back!” He shook his head. “What no one had suspected is that Masseria would reach out to us, that he would recognize the violence at Havre de Grace for what it was—a rogue element that had been goaded into foolish, brash action.”
Vincent squinted and crossed his arms. Conflict with New York was vital to his and Hattie’s plan. This conciliatory language twisted his chest into a knot.
Vito gestured for the lobby, where two men in light gray suits waited. Vincent peered around shoulders and heads for a glimpse of the newcomers.
“To make things right,” Corbi declared, “a representative from Masseria has arrived with a peace offering.”
Vincent finally pushed aside a beefy gangster to spot this representative and stifled a profanity under his breath. Angelo “Sparks” Floresta smiled at the room, eyes working hard to pinpoint someone in particular. As they landed on Vincent, they stopped.
The second man, a youth who looked to be barely out of secondary school, stood stiff-armed, hat still on his head. He was lean, almost alarmingly so. His face was dappled with pimples, freckles, and razor nicks. He was bland to the eyes overall. Small frame. Stubby nose. But his eyes…his eyes were sharp, excited, almost hawklike.
Floresta offered a half bow to the room, though his eyes were planted firmly on Vincent.
Vito said, “Allow me to introduce Angelo Floresta. I think one or two of you know him by reputation.”
Floresta lifted his hands and snapped his fingers in rapid fire, sending tiny blue sparks into the air to the applause of the room. Vincent, for his part, did not clap.
Vito wound around Floresta to lay meaty hands on the youth’s shoulders. “And here…allow me to introduce you all to Joel Seiler.” He leaned in. “They call you Buddy, yes?”
