by Debra Dunbar
The old woman lifted a foot to climb the stairs. Hattie trotted down to offer an arm, guiding her up step by painful step.
“Well, come to find out, she didn’t go it alone after all. She had a traveling companion. A spinster from Cork whom she’d met on the boat to Calais. Spent the better part of her life traveling with this woman, seeing the other side of the world. And no one thought twice about it, especially since there were no men to kick up a fuss. And no one talked about’t. We let it be.”
Hattie squinted at the woman as she gripped her arm.
“So, you and your companion are welcome to stay as long as you like. Thought you should know.”
Hattie smiled. “Well, Mrs. Dunne, that’s much appreciated.”
The widow patted Hattie’s arm then stepped inside.
Hattie followed into the building, climbing the stairs and keying open the door to the room.
Maria glanced up from a chair, a cup of coffee in her hand. “How’d it go?”
Hattie dropped her light pinch with a sigh. “He’s meeting Masseria today. Also, Widow Dunne thinks we’re a couple.”
The other woman snickered. “I could do worse.”
“You could do much better, as well.” Hattie went over and sat in the other chair. “Once the goons are up and about, I want to get the lay of the land.”
Maria set down her coffee. “Are we starting in Brooklyn?”
Hattie thought for a moment. “Either Brooklyn or the Bronx. We’ll need to get the skinny on the speakeasies and do it quietly. This isn’t Maryland. They enforce prohibition here.”
Maria nodded. “I’ve been around the block a few times with Galloway. Maybe you should let me take the lead?”
“That suits me just fine. Let’s start after lunch.” Hattie pulled off her boots and jumped onto the bed, bouncing on the loud springs. “I’m lying right here until then.”
“You don’t want to go see the sights?” Maria teased.
“I’d rather catch up on sleep.”
Hattie did her best, but sleep couldn’t find her. Her insomnia had returned along with the nightmares that plagued her once she managed to close her eyes. And although she knew it was the proximity of the demon trap in her pocket that disturbed her sleep, she was terrified to let the thing out of her grasp.
What if it fell into the wrong hands? If someone set the demon loose and it killed people, she’d never forgiver herself. And if the Hell Pincher managed to find it…that would be the worst nightmare of all.
After a couple hours of tossing and turning, Hattie gave up. She and Maria dressed in city wear and stepped out around noon. Maria guided them north to the Bronx, where they found a handful of Irish delivery boys whose information was easily pried loose with a few coins. They pointed the women to a basement room speakeasy near Belmont.
Once they reached the alley and the stairs leading below the street, Maria turned to Hattie. “Okay, now. You’re going to have to decide who you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to be the red-head? Or the brunette? Because once we step down those stairs, we’re in the open.”
Hattie nodded, then glanced to Maria. “You’re right. And you should stay on the street.”
Maria scowled. “You’re not thinking of going down there alone?”
Hattie pinched Brigid O’Toole back over herself. “Not me. Brigid.”
“That’s fine and all, but what happens when someone gets handsy? Or if your magic starts pulling too hard?”
Hattie gave one of her earrings a tap with her fingernail. “I’ve got a little help. You’re of greater value as an unknown in all this. Watch the street. If it looks like a gang is coming with their business faces on, give the ground a couple good thumps. I’ll pinch myself invisible and come running.”
Maria nodded. “Okay. Be careful.”
Hattie gathered herself, double-checked her illusion, then descended to the speakeasy door. Per the delivery boys’ instructions, which she hoped were bonafide, she gave the door three knocks, one, then three again.
A voice boomed from inside, “We’re closed.”
“Delivery for Chester,” Hattie replied with the code phrase for entry.
“Chester ain’t here.”
“I’ll leave it on the counter.”
The bolt slid with a snap and the door slipped open just enough for Hattie to squeeze through. Inside she found an innocuous room with a pegboard wall behind a counter. Various hair creams and pomades sat in neat rows. For a half-second, she wondered if she hadn’t been put on.
The man guarding the door, a gentleman with shoulders as wide as a Ford, stepped up to the counter. “You from outta town?”
“You could say that,” Hattie replied. “What gave me away?”
“You’re a little early for the crowd.” He reached for the peg board, fingers slipping behind the display to trigger a latch. Half the display wall hinged open to reveal a pair of heavy curtains. “Ain’t no music yet.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’m here on business.”
The man chuckled, a sound that was more like a hacking cough than mirth. “Then you’re right on time.”
She stepped through the curtains and into a squat room cloaked in tobacco smoke. The lights were so dim she had to pause a moment for her eyes to adjust. A bandstand of sorts, more like lengths of sheet tin held a few inches off the ground by construction lumber, sat direct ahead against a grimy brick wall. Tables ran left and right, still littered with glassware and cigarette butts from the previous evening.
One man stood behind a rail, a series of amber bottles behind him. He held a bottle in one hand, carefully pouring its contents into another. As Hattie approached, he jerked with a start, spilling a splash of gin onto the rail.
“Jesus! You scared me.”
“Sorry about that.” She nodded at the bottles. “Giving the inventory a good watering down?”
He scowled. “Nah. Nothing like that. Just combining half-empties. You want weak gin, you go to Jersey. Here we take care of the customers.” He finished and straightened up, extending a hand. “I’m Pauly.”
“O’Toole,” she replied, shaking his hand carefully. “Brigid O’Toole.”
“Yeah, okay. Nice. I think they’ll like you here. You got some spit-polish to you, so that’s good. A word of advice, though?”
She cocked a brow at him.
“See what you can do about that Irish jangle you got.” He gestured at his mouth. “Most of the fellas here are either old school white bread or paisans in business suits.”
“I don’t follow,” she said.
“How long you been in America?”
“Most of my life, if that matters.”
Pauly held up his hands. “Hey, I got no beef. I got a girl I see on the regular who’s off the boat. I’m just saying you’ll get more business if you get your way around the white bread accent. Just tryin’ to help, is all.”
“Who do you think I am?” she asked with a tilt of her head.
“You a new girl? Or…”
“I’m not a call girl. I’m a customer.”
Pauly stiffened, then pulled the bottles off the rail. “Oh. Oh! Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. Sorry about that, lady!” he blurted. “It’s just you comin’ in so early, I figured you was one of Salvatore’s girls.”
“Who’s Salvatore, again?”
Pauly clamped his jaw shut, a bead of sweat popping up on his forehead. “Uh, yeah. Can I get you a drink? First is on the house on account of me bein’ rude and all.”
Hattie smiled. “Some of that gin. Fresh bottle, if you please.”
Pauly smiled. “Yeah, I suppose that’s fair.”
“On ice, if you have any.”
He chuckled. “Hey, this is a fine establishment here. We got ice. We got bourbon. We got jazz after nine.”
He poured Hattie’s drink and set it in front of her.
“And, you have working girls as well?”
“Ye
ah, we do. But if that’s your thing, you’ll have to go somewhere else. Owners are upstanding Christians, so they don’t square with lavenders.”
“Well, it’s good to hear I’m in the hands of Christians.” She sipped her gin. “Salvatore…he owns this place?”
Pauly shrugged.
“It’s a secret, then?”
“Not much of a secret. Just not polite to discuss it, is all.”
“Does he ever come around?”
Pauly chuckled. “Yeah, you’re off the boat. No, lady. They don’t ever come to bars or speakeasies.”
“Who?”
He leaned in. “The famiglia. You know. Italians?”
Hattie feigned ignorance. “I don’t follow.”
“Jesus, lady. Yeah, the gangsters own everything ’round here. They’re tight like family. And they got rules. One of which, you never go drinkin’ in a speakeasy.”
“That a fact?”
“Least that’s what I heard. Ain’t never seen one of them who weren’t here to collect. Suits me, too. I’d rather the customers not get spooked off.” He stepped around the rail and began gathering glasses from the tables. “So, because I’ve been at this a while and I’m no spring chicken myself, might I ask you a question?”
“If you like.”
“You in the business? What I mean is, you in with the Irish gang?”
Hattie turned, leaned against the rail, and lifted the glass to her face. “Now, whatever led you to that conclusion?”
“You’re a dame. You’re here at one in the afternoon. You’re sizing up the joint like you’re planning to move in. And you’re asking about Salvatore Maranzano like you didn’t have a care in the world. I figure either you’re loopy on poppies, or you’re in the business.”
“And if I were?”
He paused over a stack of glasses, glancing over to Hattie. “Then I’d encourage you to get lost. Maranzano ain’t no friend of Killer Madden.” He held his gaze. “And I’m sure you’re about to tell me you ain’t never heard of him, either.”
“I’m new to town.”
“Boston?”
“Baltimore.”
Pauly laughed. “Well, ain’t that a peach? You’re fightin’ an uphill battle, lady. Dwyer’s in the poke and his boys are dukin’ it out over in Hell’s Kitchen. These boroughs here belong to Maranzano. I suggest you turn around and go back to Baltimore, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I have some experience with these matters.” She took a sip of the gin. “I’ve no intentions of either running, or hiding. I’m in the city to do some business.” She set her glass on the rail, and walked around the table.
He shrugged. “Okay, but you don’t want to mess with these guys. They’ve got weapons, and I’m not just talking about Tommy guns, if you know what I mean.”
Hattie smirked, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Pinchers? Yeah, I know pinchers. You know what happened to Jonas O’Donnell down in Baltimore?”
Pauly looked around, then whispered, “I heard Corbi’s men took him down.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” She sat on the corner of the table. “I’m no dame. I am motivated, and I have resources. Pincher resources.”
Pauly stepped away and moved for the rails. “Okay, lady. Your funeral. Step on down to Piscatori’s. It’s on Westchester. You get there right before dinner, or right after. Look for a fella by the name of Polizzi. ‘Pockets’ Polizzi.”
Hattie smiled. “Thanks for the drink.” Then she turned diving through the curtains and giving the secret door a knock.
Maria nodded to Hattie once she reached street level. “That was fast.”
“It was empty, short of one bartender.” Hattie told her. “Happily, he was a well-informed bartender. We should have dinner out tonight. Do you like Italian food?”
The rush of the Bronx during the change in work shifts was both alarming and awe-inspiring. Hattie and Maria pressed against a wall beside a stoop of concrete steps as a river of men with five o’clock shadows filed past, hats pulled tight over weary eyes. Cars weaved past one another in an ordered chaos. The din from the street was oppressive, as was the sooty fume that filled the air.
Hattie leaned in to shout, “I think that’s it.” She nodded to a red awning across the avenue and two doors down.
Maria nodded. “Good. But how are we getting across this street?”
They found a clump of grimy men ready to muscle their way between Fords. The women slipped into their wake as drivers gave them the business. Once they were clear on the other side, Hattie checked her shoes.
“Does this damned city ever dry out?”
“It’s a filthy mess, isn’t it?” Maria stared at the restaurant. “How will you know which one is him?”
“Not sure. I’ll go on intuition.”
“You mean we’ll go.”
Hattie winced. “Well, about that.”
Maria crossed her arms. “I skipped lunch getting ready for this.”
“Sorry. I’ve been piecing together my plan of attack, and I’ll need you out of sight again.”
“Are you serious? I’m starving.”
“It’s not like I’ll be eating, either. We’ll grab something after.”
Maria huffed.
“Look,” Hattie said, giving Maria’s arm a pat, “I need you to keep an eye on me. I need these bastards to think I’m the next Vito Corbi. Brigid O’Toole has her sights on Baltimore, and she’ll need support from New York.”
“What?”
“I realized back at that speakeasy that these people are prepared to accept anything if I sell it well enough.”
Maria’s eyebrows shot up. “But you’re a woman.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “You really think they’ll buy that a woman is edging Vito Corbi out of his own territory?”
“I know enough of the Crew and their business to sell it. If I tell them I’ve come to town with one of my pinchers? That’ll get me an audience at the least.”
Maria shook her head. “You’re insane.”
“The thought’s crossed my mind. I’ll give you a signal. When I do, give the table a good thump from below.”
Maria glanced at the ground. “There’s basements and sewers under our feet. I can’t be so precise.”
“Right. Well, give the building a rattle, then. Just so I prove my point. It’s all in the theatrics.”
Maria nodded. “You sure about going in alone again? If I’m your pincher, then why am I not at your elbow?”
“On one hand,” Hattie said, pulling her out of the way of another rush of workers on their way home, “Brigid is here to start a conversation. Not a fight. It’d be indelicate to bring her muscle before she’s even met the first gangster. A second, well…I don’t have enough magic to cover us both in illusion while we’re in there.”
Maria examined her clothes. “What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s fine for Baltimore. These New York City mobsters expect women to be in their Sunday best.”
“Fine. What’s the signal I should be looking for?”
Hattie stared into the sky for a second. “I’ll light a cigarette.”
“You smoke?”
“No, but men love to share their tobacco with strange women.”
Maria grinned. “Alright, then. Good luck.”
She gave Hattie’s arms a quick shake, then wandered toward the corner of the restaurant’s masonry front.
Hattie reached out with her powers to knit the illusion of Brigid back over herself. The smell of garlic hammered her in the face. Tiny square tables covered in red-and-white gingham ran at odd angles across the smoke-filled room. An elderly couple sat at one table. The woman was still slowly working at a bowl of pasta, while the old man seemed to have fallen asleep in his chair. A short space near the kitchen housed a longer table, bare wood exposed, covered in the remains of someone’s lunch. A squat man with a full, black mustache sat cross-arme
d as he leaned against the wall. His eyes bobbed in slow jerks. The man looked drunk, though there was no evidence of booze on the table.
A thin boy with a towel over his shoulder stepped up to Hattie.
“One for dinner?” he asked with a cracking voice.
“Aye,” Hattie replied. “Near the back, if possible.”
“Sure.” He led her to a table beside the mustachioed gentleman and held the chair for her.
“Ya want some water and bread?” the boy asked.
“I’m waiting for someone. If you could give me a few minutes?”
The boy shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.
Hattie sat with full, regal posture, making a demonstration of not looking at the man at the table beside her.
After a space of pregnant silence, the man asked, “Who ya waitin’ for?”
She glanced slowly over, putting on the air of only having just noticed him. “Beg your pardon?”
The man pulled himself off the wall, leaning over the table with a grunt.
“You, uh…you one of Dwyer’s girls?”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. I’m waiting for a business acquaintance.”
He grinned. “Sorry.”
After a pause, she added, “His name is Polizzi.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “That so?”
“Aye. I’m here to discuss certain opportunities that may prove advantageous for his employer.” She turned to give him a coy smirk. “If you see him, you’ll let me know?”
He stared for a long moment before his eyes wrinkled at the edges, his mustache fluttered, and he released a roaring laugh. With considerable effort, he lifted himself off his chair. Once he was standing upright, Hattie realized he wasn’t so much portly as he was brawny. His forearms were almost as thick as his biceps. The man wound around the long table to pull a chair across from Hattie. As he dropped into the seat, she worried it would crash into pieces under the strain.
“You got a way of talking, miss…” He bobbed his head for her to fill in the blank.
“O’Toole. Brigid O’Toole.”
“Sure you’re not part of Dwyer’s old gang? I mean, not that there’s much left.”
Hattie searched her recent memory for a name Pauly had dropped. “I’m not in league with Madden, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
