Trouble Boys (White Lightning Book 5)

by Debra Dunbar

  Polizzi shook his head. “No one’s worried about Madden save for Madden himself.”

  He reached for his jacket pocket to produce a flask. With a single flip of his thumb, the cap unscrewed and flew away at its hinge. He took a swig, then offered it to Hattie across the table.

  She held up a hand and shook her head once.

  “You keeping your wits about you. This must be business.” He took another hit, then settled the flask back into his pocket. “You a pincher?”

  Hattie fought the impulse to set her jaw. “No, I’m on the other side of that dynamic.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m no pincher, Mr. Polizzi.”

  “Call me Pockets,” he mumbled. “Mr. Polizzi was my father.”

  “If this is, as I suspect, a safe space…might we speak directly?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you have access to Salvatore Maranzano?”

  Polizzi laughed again. “Lady, you don’t know who I am? You come looking for me, and you don’t know who I am?”

  She shook her head, wishing she had a better answer.

  Polizzi reached into his jacket to pull a revolver. Hattie stiffened for a second, then eased as he set it onto the table like a pile of lint. He reached into the pocket again to produce one flask, then a second. Then an adjustable wrench.

  She squinted at the wrench.

  “I was working on the boss’s jalopy last night. Forgot to put it away.” Polizzi continued reaching in the liner pocket of his jacket, producing a deck of cards, and then a roll of dollars. He eyed Hattie as she stared impassively.

  “Well, if that don’t impress you,” he grumbled, lifting the first third of a baseball bat from the liner of his jacket.

  Hattie held up a hand. “No need for that. And I can see why they call you Pockets. You’re a pincher, I take it.”

  He grinned, then began replacing all his bric-a-brac. “My point being… I have access.”

  She let him clean up his belongings before asking, “Might it be possible to arrange a meeting with Mr. Maranzano?”

  “Depends on what you’re meeting him for. He’s getting on in years, so I don’t think he’ll be interested in womanly attention.”

  “That’s not the sort of attention I’d like to give him.”

  “More business? What’re you so hot to trot over?”

  She shifted in her chair to cross her legs, twisting a little at the waist to put him at an angle. “You got a smoke in that magic pocket, big boy?” she asked.

  He smiled, then produced a cigarette case from his jacket. It was a shiny brass thing embossed with an ornate P. He flipped the case open and extended it to Hattie.

  She fished out a cigarette, keeping it between her fingers unlit as she gestured to him. “I hail from the Baltimore area. Are you familiar with any of the families south of New York?”

  He nodded. “I hear that used to be D’urso’s turf.”

  “It’s been in the hands of Vito Corbi for about eight years, now.”

  “You in his crew?”

  “No. His crew, for what it’s worth, is due for retirement.”

  Polizzi laughed again. “That’s not what I hear. I hear they took down Masseria’s nightmare boy.”

  “O’Donnell?” Hattie shook her head, looking heavenward. “Do you really think a fatuous bastard like Corbi with his feeble crew of rum-runners could possibly take down Jonas O’Donnell? The man’s only got one pincher to speak of. A bit of a joke, at that.”

  Polizzi squinted. “Word ’round the campfire is there was a dust up. Pinchers coming outta the woodwork.”

  “Aye,” she said with a sizzling grin. “And where do you think those pinchers came from?”

  Polizzi’s squint narrowed yet further.

  She leaned back in her chair. “For a woman to operate at this level, she must plan ahead. She must be careful. And she must be very, very good at what she does.”

  Polizzi nodded. “I suppose.”

  “So, as I said, Corbi’s time has come to a close. I intend to be the one to draw the curtain. I have the magical muscle to do it. What I lack is the hardware. And a woman cannot keep a city in line without gunpowder.”

  He crossed his arms, sizing her up. “Where’d you get all these pinchers, anyhow?”

  “Not to be impolite, Mr. Polizzi, but that’s the sort of conversation I’d rather have with Maranzano.”

  “Yeah, well if you don’t convince me, that ain’t happening.”

  “Am I not convincing?”

  “I think you went to grammar school. You know how to use your words well enough. But I’m more of a see it to believe it type.”

  Hattie nodded with a smile. “Got a light?”

  He paused for a second, then slowly reached into his jacket to produce a box of safety matches. Polizzi pulled one and struck it against the side of the box. Hattie leaned forward with the cigarette between her lips. She puffed the cigarette in quick bursts, just enough to light the end.

  As she leaned back, the dishes on the long table began to rattle. Polizzi turned to peer at the plates. The table began to clatter.

  The boy with the towel rushed out of the kitchen. “You two feel that?”

  Polizzi stood cautiously as the floor trembled. Hattie crossed her elbows, holding the cigarette close to her cheek as she kept a razor-sharp look on Polizzi.

  He noticed her look, then nodded. “Yeah, alright. I get it.”

  Hattie stabbed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray, and the trembling subsided.

  The boy stood slack jawed, staring at the walls.

  Polizzi gestured at him with a wave of his hand. “Get lost, Carlo.”

  The boy disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Polizzi remained standing. “And you’re saying that wasn’t you?”

  “It was one of mine. They’re watching us, now.”

  He spun on his heel, staring out the window. Hattie peered around him, hoping Maria knew enough not to stand in front of the window.

  Polizzi’s shoulders tensed. He turned back to Hattie with a weary expression. “Wish you’d pulled this before I had two flasks.”

  “So, you’ll arrange a meeting?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. You want hardware? He’s got hardware. You’d just better have some cabbage to go with those pinchers. It’s a seller’s market in this city.”

  Hattie stood. “I didn’t come to New York hat-in-hand, Mr. Polizzi. I’m here to do business. Now, can you give me a place and a time?”

  Polizzi glanced at the kitchen, then sighed. “I gotta make a call. Give me a minute, huh?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Polizzi.”

  He grumbled as he turned for the back, “Call me Pockets.”

  Chapter 10

  Lefty stepped into a deli, leaving Vincent and Buddy alone on the street. It was the first time they’d shared a private moment since Buddy had arrived and Vincent didn’t know what to do with it. He nodded to Buddy, who nodded back, neither saying a word. A car clattered by, backfiring as the driver mismanaged the clutch. Buddy’s eyes shot wide and he reached in his coat in instinct.

  Vincent pinched time, pulling the other pincher’s gun from his holster and pocketing it. He returned to his position on the sidewalk, then snapped his fingers.

  “Easy, kid,” Vincent told him. “It was just a backfire.”

  Buddy froze, then patted his empty holster before easing his hand out of his jacket. “Neat trick.”

  “Saved my bacon more than once.”

  The boy held out a hand. When the street was clear, Vincent handed it back.

  “Were you showing off, or trying to save someone from getting popped?” Buddy asked.

  Vincent shrugged. “A little of both, maybe.”

  “You don’t need to show me nothing,” Buddy grumbled, his face red as he holstered his gun. “I know who you are.”

  “I got a reputation up in Ithaca?”

  “More out of the farm than in. Floresta thinks you’re underutil
ized.”

  “That’s a good word.”

  “You like it?” Buddy frowned. “From what I can tell, it ain’t Vito who’s leaving you in the barn.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Lefty emerged from the deli with a paper-wrapped package.

  “You two playing nice?” he asked.

  “We’re peas and carrots, Lefty,” Vincent replied.

  “Good. Masseria don’t exactly have a sense of humor. You need to keep this professional.”

  Vincent lifted his hands. “I’m always professional.”

  “Says you. I’m serious, Vincent. Don’t get cute with Joe the Boss.”

  Vincent nodded as Lefty glared at him. “That goes for you too, Buddy,” he added, turning to the other pincher.

  Buddy didn’t reply.

  “I don’t think he has it in him to be cute,” Vincent drawled.

  Buddy reached down to pick up a bottle cap left on the sidewalk. He gripped it in the curve of his index finger, slinging it against the side of the building. The cap bounced off, angling back to smack Vincent on the chest.

  “Alright,” Lefty grumbled. “Knock it off. We got business.”

  They began their march from the deli toward the center of Brooklyn and Vincent nodded to Lefty. “What’s in the kit?”

  “Mortadella. Some salami. Can’t get decent meat in Baltimore.”

  “Taste of the Old World?”

  Lefty sighed. “You don’t gotta make small talk, you know.”

  “What else am I gonna do? I’m about to clam up for God knows how long while Floresta monologues for the next two hours.”

  “This is important, Vincent.” Lefty stopped at the corner to let another car pass before crossing. “Important for the Capo.”

  “It’s the job,” Buddy chimed in. “Whatever is important to the Capo is important to us.”

  They continued up the street until they reached the front of a four-story brown bricked building overlooking a grocer on one side and a suit shop on the other.

  Floresta stepped out of the building with a nod. “Gentlemen,” he announced. “You’re on time. I’m amazed.”

  None of them dignified the statement with comment.

  “Spirits are high, I see,” Floresta said. “Let’s step inside.”

  “What is this place?” Vincent asked as Floresta held open a glass door.

  “It’s one of three buildings Masseria owns in this part of Brooklyn. We use them for business, mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Got another down in Bensonhurst where we keep the cabbage.”

  Lefty eyed him. “No banks?”

  “They get knocked over.”

  “So do buildings in Bensonhurst.”

  Floresta snickered. “Yeah, and anyone who tries better hope they ain’t got family.”

  They stepped through a short hall into an open space surrounded by a mezzanine. The center of the space housed an arrangement of chairs and desks with tiny teller’s lamps. One old man sat hunched over a desk, his fingers tapping away at an adding machine.

  “I don’t know, Lefty,” Vincent mumbled. “Looks like a bank to me.”

  “It’s business,” Floresta declared with a wide gesture. “The business of the family is business.”

  Lefty leaned in to Vincent. “Tony usually takes care of the books for Vito.”

  “I’m thinking Masseria moves more merchandise than we do.”

  Floresta gestured toward a clutch of sofas underneath an open staircase. “You fellas have a seat. I’m gonna see if Catena’s home.”

  “What about Masseria?” Vincent asked.

  “You gotta see Catena first. That’s the deal. No one sees the Boss without Catena sayin’ it’s all good. You boys hold tight. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

  Floresta wound around the sofas to climb the stairs to the mezzanine. Buddy remained standing, arms crossed behind his back as he took in the space. Vincent sat next to Lefty, who shifted away a few inches.

  “What’s he doing, you think?” Vincent whispered, nodding toward Buddy.

  “Checking exits. Blind corners. Doors and windows,” Lefty replied.

  “For what?”

  Buddy answered without turning, “Angles of attack.”

  Lefty shot Vincent a challenging smirk that bordered on smug. “That’s professional, you mook.”

  “I can do that.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  Vincent chuckled, knowing that he’d proven over and over throughout the years how valuable quick reflexes and a time pinch could be.

  After a while, Floresta returned with a second pair of footsteps clacking down the stairs behind him. A willowy gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair greased straight back from a receding forehead peered at the men. His eyes were dark brown orbs that danced back and forth without stopping. Vincent shook his head a little, wondering if the man had a condition.

  “You’re Corbi’s men?” Catena asked with a quick, disapproving tone.

  Lefty and Vincent stood.

  “Vito sends his regards,” Lefty replied.

  “And you are?” Catena asked.

  “Alonzo Mancuso. I’m responsible for Vito’s assets.”

  Catena nodded, then glanced at Buddy and Vincent as he fidgeted with the ring on his left hand. “Sparks gave you the full picture?”

  “He has,” Lefty replied.

  Catena stepped past Lefty, looming just an inch closer than Vincent felt comfortable. He stood a couple inches taller than Vincent, glaring down at him like one of the priests at the old school. Finally, Catena moved on to Buddy. The kid nearly wilted under the man’s stare, which he kept short.

  “Right,” Catena said with a brisk turn. “Come on.”

  He set a ferocious pace up the stairs. The others bustled after him trying to keep up. At the top of the stairs a double door led to a business suite. Catena opened the doors and stepped inside, leaving the other to follow. The room sported dark wood paneling in the style of a Victorian parlor. Thick emerald carpeting ran from wall to wall. A gathering of men lingered near the walls, all decked in well-tailored suits, most carrying lit cigars. They spoke in hushed conversation with one another, tiny islands of conspiracy crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the room.

  Floresta tapped Vincent on the shoulder and pointed across the room to a man in a gray three-piece. His dark brows lifted in severe angles, his eyes drooped in continual disinterest. His nose was sharp, thrusting from his bronzed skin like a cast sculpture. The man didn’t look a day older than Vincent.

  “That Luciano?” Vincent whispered.

  Floresta nodded. “We’ll grab him later.”

  A man of average height and hefty girth stood in the midst of a clutch of gangsters. The man was broad-faced, jowls forming at the edges of his jawline. His visage possessed the same sort of blasé that Vito tended to cultivate, a sort of droopy-eyed disdain for everyone and everything in the room.

  Joe “the Boss” Masseria.

  He spotted Catena from the corner of his eye and turned, lifting a hand to silence the volume of the room. Catena spoke several quick sentences in Italian, less than a quarter of which Vincent could follow. Then he gestured to Lefty, who picked up the parlance in return. It was rapid fire, a manner of pronouncement or etiquette which seemed strange to Vincent. It was the native quality the words held in Lefty’s mouth. This was his birth language. He was born in Italy, even though around Vincent and the Baltimore Crew, he predominantly spoke in English.

  Lefty concluded his greeting, standing with arms at his sides.

  Masseria nodded, then spoke in deliberate, clumsy English. “Alonzo Mancuso. My father…knew your father.” The corners of his mouth dropped into a facial shrug. “He was a powerful man. A good man.”

  Lefty nodded. “Too good for this world.”

  Masseria peered over Lefty’s shoulder. “Who have you brought?”

  Lefty turned to Buddy and Vincent. “May I p
resent Vincent Calendo and Joel Seiler? Stregone from Baltimore.”

  Masseria stepped forward, all eyes in the room planted directly onto the two of them. “You are here to help?”

  Lefty responded, “We are.”

  “This is good. This kindness will be remembered.

  Lefty continued, “Vito sends his regards and hopes that cooperation between our families—”

  Masseria released a single dry chuckle. “Enough of that. We know why you are here.”

  He nodded to Catena with a grunt, a sort of verbal stamp of approval. With that cue, Catena reached for Lefty’s shoulder, guiding him into the others, corralling them back to the door.

  They all made their exit, lingering as Catena whispered something to Floresta. Floresta remained inside the room as Catena closed the doors behind them.

  “That went well,” Catena said.

  “You were expecting otherwise?” Lefty asked.

  “Seldom is the rival family who doesn’t create a problem when they visit, either by impudence or hostility. Then again, the Baltimore Crew presents little in the way of a threat. You have only to gain by this, and very little to contribute.”

  Lefty stood with a casual lean, allowing the insult to sail by without comment.

  Catena grinned. “Not so easily goaded, then?”

  “Is there anything else you’d like us to do before we get to business?” Lefty asked.

  “You have accommodations, yes?”

  Lefty nodded.

  “Then we shall meet in the evening. Return at nine.”

  Lefty checked his pocket watch, then nodded. “Nine.”

  Catena withdrew back into the room, leaving the three alone.

  “Come on,” Lefty grumbled as he turned for the stairs.

  Vincent lingered, staring at the door. Floresta and Luciano were still inside that room. Without the two of them, Vincent wasn’t sure what his play was. At the moment, he was in the employ of both Vito and Masseria. Gauging the energy in the room, Vincent figured there was very little room for unexpected gestures.

  “Vincent?” Lefty called from below.

  Vincent shook it off and trotted down the steps after the others.

  “You okay?” Lefty muttered.