by Debra Dunbar
Vincent winced. “The hell did we do to run him off like that?”
“Nothing. Hassam was here lying in wait of the Hell Pincher, and he hasn’t shown. So now Hassam has gone hunting for the bastard.”
Vincent nodded as he thought it over. “Well, okay then. Never appreciate what you got until it’s gone, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“You, uh…you got someone at the Charge you’d trust to bring with you? Charley, maybe?”
Hattie frowned. “Not with his girls here. He’s spent enough time away from them. Besides, I’d like him to be close to help Raymond out with the business.”
“Well, maybe think it over. I’m gonna be on a train for a day, and in the clutches of whoever Floresta’s handing me over to. I have to figure out how I can run off without raising everyone’s suspicion. Let’s say we meet in two days at Union Station. There’s a fish market in Red Hook. Meet me there at sunrise.”
Hattie nodded. “I will.”
Vincent reached for her, pulling her in for a kiss.
“I want you to be safe,” he ordered.
“And you, boy-o. You get so much as a scratch, and we’re having words.”
Hattie left Vincent to his packing, regretting that she’d sent Blake back to the Charge with the car. She’d figured on needing a long walk to sort her misery once Vincent had given her the business. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, they were possibly on the cusp of their endgame. The final stab at the mob. The first step toward freedom.
She took advantage of the walk to weigh her options for a traveling companion. Charley was good at getting in and out of spaces, though large forest creatures would draw a considerable amount of attention in the middle of New York City. He was the sort to take orders and fulfill them. But he wasn’t all that good at thinking on his feet, or hooves, or whatever. Besides, there were the girls.
What of Blake? He had no family ties to worry about. And Blake was decent with a rifle. His powers could come in handy in a crowded urban environment. But if anything, Blake was less able to make split-second decisions than Charley. And for all his virtues, Blake remained a country boy. The big city might rattle him to the point that he’d be more of a liability than an asset.
As Hattie stepped through the door of the Charge warehouse, her best option had become clear. She spotted Charley and Maria huddled over a tiny table, both sipping something warm. Hattie stopped abruptly, mouth agape as she took in Charley’s freshly shaven jawline and short hair. He had to have gone to a barber in the city for a good cleanup, as this seemed far beyond his usual kitchen-shears self-done haircut. The look had taken two decades off the man, and a smile flickered over his face as he spoke with Maria.
“Eh, you two,” Hattie called out as she moved for the stairs. “I need a word, please. In the office.”
The two exchanged alarmed glances, then set down their mugs to rush after Hattie, who closed the door behind them.
“Right,” Hattie said, sitting on the corner of the desk. “I’m leaving town for a space.”
“Where to?” Maria asked with a worried frown.
“New York City. I’m not sure for how long, either.”
“Is this Charge business?” Maria pressed.
“No,” Hattie replied. “But depending on how things go, this could be the thing we’ve dreamt of. Our chance for a free state for pinchers. But it’ll take work, and a lot of luck.” Hattie looked to Charley. “I’m putting you in charge of the headquarters until I’m back.”
Charley nodded.
“Have Blake with Raymond, and help him anytime he needs.” Hattie then glanced at Maria. “And you… Do you fancy a trip to, oh what are they calling it now, the Big Apple?”
“Me?” Maria squeaked.
“Aye.” Hattie hopped off the desk. “You’re smart, strong, loyal, and you can think on your feet. You’re used to coordinating and taking part in complex plans.”
“So…you want me there as backup?”
Hattie shook her head. “As my right hand. This is the big league, Maria. I need someone I can trust at my side.”
Maria peered at Hattie with a mix of confusion and amusement. “You trust me? Really?”
“I do.”
“Not sure what I’ve done to deserve that. We were enemies not long ago.”
“Well, you’re one of us now, and you’ve proven yourself to be loyal so far.”
Maria turned and glanced at the ceiling, eyes moving with thought.
Hattie pressed, “What do you say? Want to get your hands on these goons? Work side-by-side with me to bring about change?”
Maria straightened then turned to Hattie. “Yes.”
“Right, brilliant. Go pack for a month, at least.”
Charley moaned, “A month?”
“Could be a week. I honestly have no idea, Charley.” Hattie patted his arm. “You got this in the meantime?”
“I’m not sure you got me figured square,” he muttered. “But I’ve got it.”
As she exited the office, Hattie turned to take in the surroundings. If things went well, they’d finally be able to strip the paint off the windows.
And if it went poorly, she’d never see this place again.
Chapter 8
Vincent steadied himself against the arm of one of the first-class railcar seats as the train took a bend somewhere north of Philadelphia. The seat was upholstered in a reddish-pink velvet, a wingback facing the aisle at an angle as it shared a table with its counterpart. Vincent tapped his fingers along the arm of the chair, balancing a napkin-wrapped pastry in his left hand.
“Hungry?” Vincent offered the pastry to Lefty with a half-shrug.
Lefty examined it with begrudging interest. “Is that almond crème?”
“Yeah.”
“You remembered.” Lefty reached for the pastry.
Vincent grinned. “After all the hell you gave me last time we made this trip? Sure, I remembered.”
Buddy blinked at them with curiosity from the opposite chair.
Lefty took a bite, then mumbled around the pastry, “We had business a few years back up by Bensonhurst.”
Vincent added, “He got this damn almond crème pastry on the train and wouldn’t shut up about it for a full year. I think he went to three different bakeries in Baltimore trying to see if they could make the same exact thing.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Lefty grumbled. “It was just the one.”
Buddy’s face twisted in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why is this important?”
“Because it’s a really good pastry,” Left told him.
Vincent turned to the back of the car, giving Lefty’s chair a light bump with the fat of his fist. Floresta sat in the back corner, consuming half of the long velvet bench. The window above his head revealed the track retreating behind them.
Vincent leaned against the table just in front of the bench. “You hungry?”
“Can’t you make a four-hour train trip without eating?” Floresta grumbled.
“Sure, but it’s bad luck not to eat on a train.”
“That’s bushwa.”
“Yeah. Probably.” Vincent took a seat next to Floresta and lowered his volume. “You ready to shoot straight with me about this trip?”
“Can they hear us?” Floresta asked with a nod to Lefty and Buddy.
Vincent shook his head. “Lefty’s about to launch into one of his stories. I can tell. He’s doing that thing with his hands.”
“Good,” Floresta replied. “How much have you pieced together on your own?”
“That you and Luciano are making a play on Masseria. Just can’t figure out how, or why.”
“The why should be obvious.”
“I suppose,” Vincent grumbled. “But it’s the risk versus reward that don’t make sense to me. This goes sideways, and we’re all dead. Please tell me this isn’t just Luciano gunning for glory.”
Floresta shrugged. “If you ask him, that’ll be
about the long and short of it.”
“But I didn’t ask him; I asked you.”
Floresta lifted his finger and thumb. A tiny blue line of electricity danced between fingertips. “Once was a time people like us were considered gods. Then witches. Now we’re weapons. This used to be just lightning.” He snapped his fingers, and a puff of ozone lifted from his palm. “Now, it’s the future. We’ve wired our cities up to grids. Telephones and telegraphs. Radio waves. You’re a time pincher, Vincent. Surely you can see how these times we live in have such potential.”
Vincent stared at Floresta, waiting to find out where all this was going.
“No one’s thought about where us pinchers are gonna fit into this new world that’s being born right before our eyes.” Floresta stared back through the window. “Everyone’s just looking backwards.”
“You and Luciano. You’re looking forwards?”
“You think we’ll see pinchers free in our lifetime?” Floresta asked him.
“I’d like to think so.” Vincent leaned back into his seat.
“Then you’re looking forwards, too.”
“What’s the play, Floresta? How are we supposed to take down Masseria?”
Floresta pulled his eyes away from the window, then leaned closer, “I have contacts inside Maranzano’s organization. I’ve given them just enough to believe I’m double-dealing on the Boss. They don’t trust our pinchers any farther than they can throw them. But you two? You’re not from New York. You’re riding in on a train with me. Not Catena.”
“Who’s Catena?” Vincent asked.
“Masseria’s consigliere. He’s basically his Number Two.”
“That makes Luciano Number Three?”
“Something like that. Anyways, my people on Maranzano’s side are expecting backup. You’re it. You and the kid.”
Vincent turned to look at Buddy, who appeared befuddled and a little bored at Lefty’s story. “Is the kid one of your people?” he asked.
“Nah, he’s fresh off the farm. Like I said.”
“Surprises me. Figured you’d want an ace in the hole with this triple-cross.”
“I couldn’t use one of my people,” Floresta stated. “Corbi would sniff it out.”
Vincent snorted. “Fat chance of that.”
“That right there’s the difference between you and me, Calendo. You love to underestimate Vito Corbi. I’m completely unwilling to do that, especially when the stakes are this high.”
“Fine. You sneak us into Maranzano’s crew as backup. What then?”
“Maranzano’s pincher has a plan. A quick game to knock over Masseria’s money pot and his enforcement in one swoop.”
Vincent squinted. “Then we go for the throat?”
“No. Then you lead them to Masseria, and they get slaughtered.”
Vincent nodded, finally understanding. “Once Maranzano’s down, you take out a weakened Masseria. And the last man standing is ‘Lucky’ Luciano.”
Floresta grinned with satisfaction. “Now you see how delicate this has to be. Any of this airs out before the endgame, and it’s curtains.”
“So, here’s the part where I ask you what I get outta this.”
“What do you mean?”
Vincent looked out the window. “I ain’t helping you out of the goodness of my goddamn heart, Sparks. Masseria can hang. It’s Baltimore that I want.”
“You might find Luciano open to negotiation.” Floresta lifted a brow. “He’s eager to shape the future for his empire. Get in early, and you can be part of that.”
Vincent turned back to the other man, “It’s time, Sparks. Time for Corbi to go away. That’s what I want. If I make this happen for you, and by some miracle we don’t all get ventilated doing it, I want Corbi retired and not replaced.”
Floresta stared at him. “You got a preference for alive or dead?”
Vincent shook his head. “Either one.”
“I can’t make that sorta agreement,” Floresta told him. “You’ll have to talk to Luciano, himself.”
“Fine. But until I do, I’m not signing onto this bag-of-cats scheme of yours.”
Floresta sighed, then nodded. “I’ll set up a meet when we get to the city. Meanwhile, we’re putting you up at the Monarch.”
“That’s in Brooklyn?”
“That’s Masseria’s turf. Maranzano’s held on to the Bronx and part of Harlem, but we’re keeping the new guy well away from that.”
“Suits me.” Vincent stood up. “I need a drink.”
He wound his way past Lefty and Buddy. Lefty was halfway through his art heist story, right about the part where the Serbian face man blew their cover. Vincent reached for the door, sliding it open as the rushing noise of the tracks filled his ears.
Could it work?
Maybe.
But first, he’d have to secure a promise of a free Baltimore.
Chapter 9
Long shadows stretched over Red Hook as the sun warmed the early morning sapphire. Hattie crossed her arms, stroking them in the early chill. It was mid-May, and she’d already grown accustomed to warm afternoons on the Chesapeake. But standing on a rocky pier jutting into the Upper Bay between a fish market and a grimy, soot-covered brick warehouse, Hattie wished she’d brought a jacket at the very least.
“Ain’t that something?” a voice called behind her.
Hattie turned to smile at Vincent. “What?”
He nodded to the water. A tiny silhouette jutted from the horizon, the top third gleaming in bright green patina. It reached up with one hand declaring liberty for all, though at this distance it looked a bit like a child’s soldier toy.
“Ever been to New York before?” Vincent asked.
“Once,” Hattie replied. “When I was young. Twice, actually if you count when my parents came to America when I was two. I can’t imagine trying to keep an eye on a toddler while working my way through Ellis Island.”
Vincent put an arm around her and she leaned into him. “Give me that jacket of yours, will you.”
He smirked. “What, not used to Atlantic wind?”
“Hand it over, boy-o.”
He unbuttoned his jacket and held it for her. She wove her arms into the sleeves, feeling the leftover warmth from him, inhaling the scent of talc and aftershave on the collar.
“We have a room at the Monarch in Brooklyn,” he told her. “What about you? Where are you staying?”
“We’ve rented a third-story room in Cobble Hill from a widow from the Old Country. Just up the way.”
Vincent wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest as she snuggled into him. “I think you’re living finer than I am. Who’d you bring? I’m guessing it was Maria.”
“Now, how’d you come to that conclusion?” She glanced up at his face.
“Probably the same way you did.” He smirked down at her, then looked out over the bay. “I have a meeting with Masseria today. The big introduction. I got Floresta’s plan out of him, by the way. He wants us to play the part of moles. Convince Maranzano we’re setting Masseria up for a fall. Bring them all together and let the Boss’s gang do the heavy lifting. Then Luciano greases Masseria, and we’re back home to deal with Corbi.”
“What’s our take, then?”
“Luciano helps us with Corbi—at least, in theory. Floresta couldn’t give me a bond on that. I’ll have to go to Luciano myself to see what he says on the matter.”
“So, you haven’t met with Luciano yet?”
Vincent shook his head.
“Still feel this is a good idea?”
He shook his head again.
“Right. Well, we’re committed now. If Luciano welshes, we can still come up with a plan. I intend on nosing around Brooklyn today with Maria to see where the borders are between the families. I’ll be just another Irish girl. I’m practically invisible already.”
“I know the feeling,” Vincent commented dryly. “I’m not sure when I can break away to meet with you again. We nee
d a system of communication. In the meantime, mornings are best. These mooks don’t seem to haul their carcasses out of bed before eleven.”
“Shall we meet in two days, then?” She pulled a slip of paper with pencil scratches on it, handing it to Vincent. “Here’s where we’re staying. Come for breakfast and we’ll compare notes.”
He looked down at the paper and tucked it into his pants pocket. “What’re you cooking me for breakfast?”
“Cook?” she laughed. “We’ll be eating whatever you bring, boy-o!”
She shimmied out of his jacket, handing it back to him. Then she kissed him and turned to trot along the fish market on her way to the room she’d rented. The widow stood on the stoop of the red-stoned row house, running a broom over the steps. Hattie pinched light over her body, draping herself in an upper-middle class traveling ensemble, shading her hair brunette.
“Top o’ the morning, Miss O’Toole,” the old lady croaked in a tobacco-stained brogue.
“Morning, Mrs. Dunne.”
Before Hattie could reach the top of the stoop, Mrs. Dunne called out, “You know…”
Hattie paused with her hand on the door latch, stifled a sigh, then turned to the old woman. She seemed nice. Harmless. She could barely open her eyes, and Hattie suspected there was very little interest in the old woman’s mind for gangster intrigue, much less any predisposition to rat her out to the Sicilians should she see or hear too much. But what Hattie and Maria had discovered shortly after handing over two weeks’ worth of rent, was that the woman wasn’t just talkative. Someone had beaten her with the Blarney Stone, knocking out all of her teeth and replacing them with tiny elves that never shut their gobs.
“Yes, Mrs. Dunne?” Hattie said with a magic-enforced smile.
The old woman leaned against her broom. “My sister never married. She’d tell me, Oh Margaret, men are good for two things, and I can get one of them from the vegetable stand.”
Hattie snickered. “What’s the other, then?”
“Their money, child. But she couldn’t stand the sight or smell of them. She took her dowry and traveled with’t, you know that? Went to Burma and India. Didn’t hear from her for nigh on fifteen years. Postcards, though. My late husband and I would keep them in a book.”
