by Debra Dunbar
Vincent caught his breath, hands balling into fists as he turned to face the woman who’d become his nemesis.
Betty Sharp’s eyes narrowed. With a snap, she thrust her hands upward. The sound of snapping glass filled the courtyard. Window panes cracked from their lintels, flying through the air like flocks of martins. The glass spiraled into a cone of jagged death as Betty snarled.
Vincent pinched time. The darkness eased inside the time bubble, sending his vision into the bleak monotone of frozen night. The glass shards hung in the air, their sides gleaming in the captured light of the time bubble, all twisting together into elegant spirals of death.
He stepped aside, fists still clenched. Polizzi’s face was frozen in a moment of slack-jawed disbelief. Vincent eyed Floresta. His face betrayed no surprise. Of course it wouldn’t. He knew exactly who Betty Sharp was, and what she meant to Vincent. That would be a conversation for another time. For now, this entire scheme was in danger of evaporating. Betty was a madwoman, hell bent on taking Vincent’s life. There was no way this could work.
Vincent stepped around Betty, pulling his revolver and slipping the barrel under her chin. Then he released the time pinch.
The flying daggers crashed into the spot where he had stood, filling the air with a cacophony of tortured glass. Floresta hopped to the side, covering his face as shards smashed into a pile beside him. Vincent lifted the gun, digging it into the soft skin of Betty’s jaw.
“You want to play nice?” Vincent asked her as he cocked his gun. “Or are we going to make this messy?”
Betty froze, her hands still stretched out in front of her.
A gun clicked next to Vincent’s ear.
Polizzi held a Colt up to Vincent’s temple. “Easy, Baltimore.”
Vincent grumbled, “She just tried to cut me into a million pieces. Or did you miss that?”
“No,” he grumbled. “I didn’t miss that. And I want some answers right now.”
Floresta stood cross-armed, staring at the ground.
“Betty and I have a history,” Vincent said.
Polizzi smirked. “What, did she love you then leave you?”
“Nothing like that,” Vincent replied. “She tried to kill me pretty much the first time we met.”
Polizzi glanced at Betty. “What’s your take on this?”
Her lips tightened, then she relaxed, dropping her clutched hands. “He murdered my husband,” she replied with a quavering note of false grief.
“Oh, please,” Vincent spat. “I don’t think you’re going to fool this man with mawkish sentiment.”
Betty glared. “Fine. Let’s talk. But take the iron out of my face.”
Polizzi said, “That’s a good idea all around.”
Vincent eased the gun from underneath Betty’s chin, stepping away. She turned slowly to face him, and Polizzi lowered his weapon.
“You had about as much love for Capstein as I did,” Vincent said. “The man damn near killed me twice over. If anything, I did you a favor. I handed you Richmond on a platter.”
Betty sneered. “Then you kidnapped me and brought me to your boss. And the two of us get shipped up to Ithaca, where you got the four-star treatment while I was tortured and humiliated.”
Polizzi shook his head. “So this is just a grudge?”
“It’s more than that,” Betty spat.
Polizzi holstered his piece. “Don’t sound that way to me. If this is personal, then you’re gonna have to let it go, Betty. We got business.”
“Not with him!” she shouted, turning to Polizzi.
Sirens sounded in the distance as residents began filing into the courtyard.
Floresta stepped forward, crunching over the glass. “I think our time’s up, folks. What say we continue this tomorrow? At which point, Betty, I hope you find a way to play ball. For your sake. And Maranzano’s.”
Polizzi stepped between them. “I’ll see you for breakfast, Sparks. We got some details to iron out before we mix these two in the same pot again.” Then he turned to Betty. “Come on, you hellcat. Let’s get scarce.”
Betty glared once more at Vincent. He watched her with caution as she backed away, finally turning to follow Polizzi.
Vincent and Floresta hurried up the pathway and out of the courtyard before the cops arrived. Once they were in the car and several blocks away, Vincent finally spoke up
“What the hell are you pulling?”
“It was a gamble,” Floresta replied.
“Gambling with my life.”
“Oh please. I knew you were a time pincher. I knew you’d see her and defend yourself.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Vincent tossed his hands in the air. “Fine, then!”
“She’s all we have to work with.”
“She’s vowed to kill me, Floresta! You know what they did to her. You were there. You were at the Ithaca auction. Didn’t it ever occur to you to warn me?”
“I figured you knew where she ended up. Maranzano’s men were at that auction, too.”
Vincent scowled. “I was too busy trying to save my own hide to think about who bought Betty.”
Floresta snorted. “DeBarre was the one who saved your hide. Fat lotta good it did him in the end.”
“You seriously expect me to go along with this now? Even if I was willing to work with Betty Sharp, there’s no way in hell she’d work with me.”
Floresta pulled over and put the car in park. “Now you listen to me, Betty Sharp is Maranzano’s problem. He wants this. He needs this. That’s all that matters.”
“You think he can control her?” Vincent snapped.
“He has so far.”
“Now that he’s down to two, though? I can tell you from experience. She doesn’t do well with power. She’s getting more and more important. Once she sniffs out that Maranzano’s leaning on her to make this happen, that’s when she’ll become the most volatile.”
Floresta lifted a hand to silence him. “This is the play, Calendo. We work with those two to take Masseria’s knees out from under him. There’s no backing out now.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You really want me to go back to Corbi and tell him you’re making his funeral arrangements?”
“And do you want me to go to Masseria and tell him that you and Luciano are doing the same?”
The two sat silent for a moment.
Floresta squinted. “Don’t get so righteous about this. I’m not the only one holding back, here.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Who the hell is this O’Toole dame?”
Caution slipped into Vincent’s anger, softening him enough to let him think.
“I told you.”
“No,” Floresta snapped with a lift of his finger. “First you said you never heard of her. Then you came up with this cockamamy story about some strangers descending from Heaven and saving your bacon. So, which is it?”
“Maybe I don’t feel like airing out all my laundry for you.”
“Maybe there’s more to this story than you want me to know.”
Vincent shook his head. “Now you’re being paranoid.”
“Am I? You got no love for the Baltimore Crew. I know that. If some broad with an army of pinchers comes sweeping into the city with her sights set on Vito Corbi, I figure you’d find a way to approach her. And if she is what she says she is, there’s no chance she’d let an insider slip outta her grasp.”
“Nice story.”
“You like it? Because it sounds good enough to be true.”
“It’s not.”
“What kills me about this is how Mancuso ain’t said a word about her. And that’s the giveaway.”
Floresta drove on while Vincent played out his next move. How would he spin this so Floresta would believe him? The man wasn’t simply paranoid. He was cautious. To play a triple cross the way he’d planned, he would have to be.
As they parked in front of the Monarch, Floresta turned
to Vincent. “Look. Do you want our help taking down Corbi, or not?”
Vincent nodded.
“Then we gotta trust each other. There’s no way this’ll work if we don’t. No more secrets.”
“Secrets like Betty Sharp?” Vincent asked.
Floresta looked down to the wheel, then muttered, “Yeah. Like that.”
“I get the feeling you’re not ready to believe me, no matter what I tell you about O’Toole. How’re we gonna get over this?”
Floresta killed the engine and stepped out. Vincent followed suit, panic washing through his stomach as Floresta moved for the entrance.
“Wait,” Vincent urged as he grabbed Floresta by the elbow. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Here’s the deal. I’m gonna go up there and knock on Mancuso’s door. And you’re gonna stand there with your trap shut while I ask him exactly what went down at that vineyard. If your stories don’t line up, then I know you’re playing your own angle. And we’re done. That sound reasonable to you?”
Vincent took slow, even breaths, trying to calm himself. “What if our stories do line up? Where do we go from there?”
“Then I have eggs with Pockets tomorrow and iron it out. First things first.”
Floresta pulled the door open and bustled up the stairs. Vincent followed, his brain racing for a way out of this. Lefty had been there. He knew it was the Charge who’d come to their aid, although Vincent was sure the other man didn’t know exactly what the Charge was. This might cut the entire scheme off at the base. Vincent would have to come clean to Lefty and probably to Buddy. Lefty would be disappointed, to be sure. It would most likely be the end of their relationship, but he wouldn’t sell Vincent out to Corbi.
Buddy, on the other hand…
Floresta paused at the trio of doors. “Which one is it?”
Vincent knocked on Lefty’s door himself, then stepped back behind Floresta.
It took a full minute before Lefty opened the door. He peered at the two with slow-blinking eyes.
“The hell the two of you want?” he mumbled. “You drunk?”
“We gotta talk. Won’t take but a minute,” Floresta stated in a clear, calm tone.
Lefty nodded for them to enter. Vincent glanced around Lefty’s room. It was immaculate. No clothes lying around. Everything was clean and orderly…almost Spartan. He’d even stopped to make the bed before he’d opened the door.
Lefty turned to face the others as Vincent closed the door behind him. “Alright, let’s talk. What’s the beef?”
Floresta glanced at Vincent with a warning lift of his brow, then replied, “I need to ask you about the day Jonas O’Donnell got scratched.”
Lefty shrugged. “Yeah?”
“Where was it?”
Lefty eyed Vincent, his brow creasing just a little in the middle. “Havre de Grace. Vito’s villa.”
“A villa, huh?”
“Yeah,” Lefty said, his patience already rubbing thin. “He’s got a vineyard on the hills up that direction.”
Floresta released a breath. “So, it was a vineyard.”
“What’s this about?” Lefty asked Vincent.
Vincent shook his head and kept his mouth shut.
Floresta said, “Everyone this direction heard it was the Crew who took down O’Donnell. Now, I’m gonna ask you a question. I’ll keep it simple, because I’m not trying to stick my nose into your business. Was it one of your people who killed Jonas O’Donnell?”
Lefty looked to Vincent, his eyes now wide awake. Vincent could tell Lefty was piecing together the nature of this conversation. Only, Lefty didn’t have enough information to get to the heart of it.
“No,” Lefty finally replied. “It wasn’t one of ours.”
Floresta lifted his chin. “That so?”
“It was a woman. A pincher.”
Floresta prodded, “A pincher working for that Irish dame?”
Lefty shot Vincent a semi-panicked look. “You told him about her?”
Floresta shook his head at Vincent with a laugh. “Well, son of a bitch. I guess you was shootin’ straight with me after all, Calendo.” Then he looked over to Lefty. “Would it surprise you to learn this O’Toole broad is in the city right now playing Maranzano for guns and foot soldiers?”
Lefty glared at Vincent. “I suppose nothing would surprise me, at this point.”
Floresta turned to Vincent with an outstretched hand. “Alright. We’re square. I’ll get my end sorted. You guys get ready for Maranzano.”
Floresta saluted them with his fingers and stepped into the hallway.
Buddy peered in through the open door as Floresta took his exit. “Everything okay?”
“Go to bed,” Lefty grumbled.
Buddy nodded, wide-eyed, then stepped away.
Vincent shut the door, slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. “I should explain.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Lefty snapped. “You brought Malloy along on this little outing? For what purpose? And what were you doing out on the town with Floresta?”
“I’ll tell you what we were doing,” Vincent said, once more gambling with a half portion of the truth. “First, we ran into Betty Sharp.”
Lefty scowled. “That lunatic? She’s here?”
“Maranzano bought her from Ithaca. I was there when it happened. Just didn’t piece it together until she nearly ripped me into chum.”
“Sounds like her. That makes this job a bit tougher than I’d like. Does she know you’re in town?”
Vincent nodded.
“Shit.” Lefty turned for the window. “What about Miss Malloy?”
“Okay, yeah. I brought her along.”
“Why in God’s name—?”
Vincent lifted his hands. “Because I got a farm-fresh pincher hanging around my neck. And I don’t trust him. I don’t trust Masseria. Floresta. None of them. These are the same goons who run the damn farm like their own personal pincher factory. You don’t think it stinks that they suddenly made good on their IOU to Corbi, just in time to march us back up to the city?”
Lefty smirked. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Right? You want to know what I was doing out and about with Floresta? I was getting the real megillah from the man before we got in too deep. Before we couldn’t get out.”
“And you ran into Sharp?”
“Yeah. Her and about a million shards of glass.”
“So, this O’Toole story. That was yours?”
“Hattie’s. She’s sniffing around Maranzano for us. Looks like she cooked up this Brigid O’Toole business to needle her way inside.” Vincent added with a shake of his head, “Knowing her, the story got bigger than she’d planned.”
Lefty smiled. “Sounds about right. Fine. Miss Malloy’s in play. I assume you want this on the down-low?”
“From Floresta, Masseria…and Buddy.”
Lefty turned to face Vincent. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong about Buddy. He’s a bit stiff, but he’s too bright-eyed to be playing two sides. Boy’s got a shit poker face.”
“Well, we got a deck of cards if you want to put that to the test.”
Lefty clapped Vincent’s arm. “You keep hiding these things from me, son. It’s gonna be a problem soon. Just remember something,” Lefty added as he moved for the door. “I’ve been at this longer than you. You get a notion, you’d do better to bring me in. I could’ve told you Floresta was a double-dealer.”
Vincent stiffened.
Lefty added, “And he’s angling to take out Masseria as well as Maranzano. I can’t work out if his true loyalty is with Catena or Luciano, but it’s one of them.”
“Luciano,” Vincent told him.
“Then I’m right?”
Vincent nodded.
“And your take from all this? The reason you’re scurrying around, ducking me and Buddy?”
“Luciano…he becomes Capo di tutti Capi.”
Lefty pa
used, hand on the door knob. “Why do you care about him?”
Vincent searched for the correct answer. It would have to be convincing. It would have to satisfy Lefty’s finely-honed suspicions. But it couldn’t be the truth.
“Ithaca,” Vincent replied. “Luciano’s pledged to close it up.”
Lefty released the door knob, returning to Vincent. “Why in all Hell would he do that?”
“Because he’s young,” Vincent replied. “He’s looking to the future. I think he knows there’s a day coming when the gangsters can’t control us pinchers anymore. He and Floresta have in mind a future that uses pinchers less like slaves and more like employees. It’s the only way he’ll keep the rogue pinchers out there from rising up. And as long as Ithaca’s open for business, there won’t be a pincher alive who’ll back him.”
Lefty sighed. “You’ve always been a dreamer.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
Lefty returned to the door, opening it and holding it for Vincent. “Only when those dreams cloud your vision. Get some sleep. We got a big day tomorrow.”
Vincent nodded and left the room.
As he retired to his own bed, pulling off his shoes and trousers and hanging his jacket up on the wardrobe door, Vincent wondered if he’d managed to navigate the evening without completely screwing up. Floresta was off his back. Lefty was off his back. Sure, he had a psychotic glass pincher to deal with, but if he wasn’t looking over his shoulder every other minute, that might work.
As Vincent stretched out over the covers of his bed, he grinned. Hattie had been busy. He looked forward to the next time they compared notes. With the swell of anticipation rising in his chest, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
Chapter 12
“Y-you want Carlo Catena,” the trembling man in grimy overalls sputtered.
Hattie smiled up at the man as he peered from the open door of his Ford, which was teetering on a column of basalt that had suddenly risen from the alleyway.
“Who’s he, then?” Hattie asked from behind her O’Toole illusion.
“Masseria’s consigliere,” he wheezed, reaching to balance himself as the car shifted on the stone pillar. “No one talks to Joe the Boss without going through him.”
