Trouble Boys (White Lightning Book 5)

by Debra Dunbar

  “She’s not worth it,” Maria muttered.

  Betty’s eyes were wide. “Your guard dog is probably right. Whatever you’re dangling, here…keep it to yourself.”

  Hattie stared at Betty. Her words feigned disinterest, but the woman’s eyes were hungry for whatever secret Hattie had in store.

  “I do want a free pincher state,” Hattie said. “A place to live not just free, but equal. I’ll never get that done without the trust of my fellow pinchers.”

  Hattie waved a hand over the front of her body, disassembling the Brigid O’Toole illusion. The light snapped back into clear focus around Hattie to reveal her true form. Grimy overalls snapped over a working shirt. Boots. Shoulder-bobbed hair of straight red. Freckles. No glamor, just Hattie.

  Betty’s jaw slackened a little as she took in the woman suddenly standing before her.

  “This is who I really am,” Hattie said with her softer, American-toned accent. “My name is Hattie Malloy, and I’m a light pincher.”

  Betty’s eyes drifted from Hattie’s chin to her boots and back again.

  Maria balled a fist, ready for Betty to snap.

  “I’m no gangster,” Hattie added. “I’m one of you.”

  The glass pincher nodded to herself as she looked away, staring at one of her figurines on display. The silence hung like a lead blanket for a full minute.

  Finally, Hattie muttered, “Say something, will you?”

  “I knew,” Betty whispered. “I knew there was something wrong with you.” She looked back at Hattie. “Something about the way you held yourself. I couldn’t figure it out until now.”

  “Held myself?” Hattie asked.

  Betty reached for her glass, pounded it, then stood to refresh her drink.

  “I’ve been around bloodthirsty bastards my whole life, Miss O’Toole.” She winced. “Wait, what was it?”

  “Malloy.”

  “Men absolutely stand in line to treat me like garbage. I’m a collector. Connoisseur, maybe?” She poured a finger of clear hooch, then lifted it to stare at it. “You didn’t have that look. Even with your…whatever you do. You never pulled it off. You’re not a killer.”

  Hattie glanced at Maria, who simply shrugged.

  Betty huffed, then set down the glass. “This rotgut won’t do. Come on.”

  “Come on…where?” Hattie asked.

  “There’s a speakeasy just a few blocks from here. They keep some Canadian liquor under the deck and they’re all terrified of me.”

  “You want to go drinking?” Maria grumbled.

  “Hey,” Betty asked with a whip of her head. “Can you pinch up some good steppin’ out dresses?”

  The speakeasy was dark and humid, a hole carved out of the dirt beneath a tenement. The door was little more than a few sheets of corrugated tin held together with screws. When Betty showed up, the doorman stepped aside instantly. It was clear she was a regular, and that the proprietor wasn’t too happy about that.

  Betty marched into the dank space, flourishing the illusionary gown Hattie had pinched around her. She was owning the illusion like a Long Island heiress, lifting her nose specifically to look down it.

  “Three whiskeys, Klaus,” Betty shouted to the thin, elderly man standing behind two barrels in the corner. “The reserve.”

  The man eyed the women, frozen in disbelief.

  Betty snapped her fingers. “Schnell!”

  The old man hopped to, reaching for the bottom of the barrel to produce a labeled bottle of Canadian whiskey.

  Betty muttered, “Most of the clientele are German immigrants. They’re accustomed to a certain quality of booze, but they don’t have two pennies to rub together. So, you get this little diamond in the rough.”

  The man poured whiskey into three shot glasses, handing them over before withdrawing like a whipped dog.

  Betty cackled at the old man before lifting her glass. “To three boozy broads on a bender!”

  Hattie and Maria exchanged patient glances before shooting the whiskey with Betty.

  “You’re in high spirits,” Hattie muttered. “Or is it just the spirits talking?”

  “Oh,” Betty harrumphed as she reached for the bottle on the barrel to carry it to the rear of the speakeasy. She dusted off the top of a shipping crate and sat cross-legged as she poured herself more whiskey.

  Maria held out her glass, glancing at Hattie as Betty filled it. “What? She’s buying.”

  “We’re here on business,” Hattie declared.

  “This is how I do business,” Betty replied. “So. Getting both of the big bosses in one room. That was you?”

  “It was a group effort,” Hattie admitted.

  With a squint, Betty muttered, “Yeah. You got your mitts on Calendo?”

  Maria nearly choked on her sip of whisky. She rubbed her nose with a wince as she avoided Hattie’s glare.

  Hattie grumbled, “He’s on the team.”

  Maria added, “Is he on top or bottom?”

  Betty blinked rapidly as Hattie gave Maria a shot to the ribs.

  “We have an arrangement,” Hattie said, “with Luciano.”

  “That snake?” Betty chuckled. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “What does that mean?” Hattie asked.

  “He’s a shifty one. Likes to pitch people against each other, let them hack each other off at the knees while he ends up on top.”

  Hattie nodded. “That’s the general plan, here.”

  “Well, that’s fine and good if you don’t give a rat’s ass about New York City. But whatever you get out of this deal, you’d better be ready for disappointment.”

  Hattie and Maria exchanged glances, then Hattie replied, “We’ll be ready, then.”

  Betty nodded and sighed wistfully. “I’ve been looking forward to killing Maranzano ever since he snatched me out of Ithaca.”

  “Well,” Hattie muttered, “I hope you don’t have your heart too set on that. I’ll need you on Masseria.”

  “Why can’t I kill Maranzano?”

  “We have to think long-term. When Luciano takes over, he’ll inherit whatever mess we leave him. If it’s true what you say and getting him to support us after this is over is a long shot at best, we’ll need to cinch up those odds best we can.”

  Betty scowled. “Then who’s greasing Maranzano?”

  Maria leaned back with a weary sniffle. “I think you know.”

  Hattie nodded. “Vincent.”

  Betty crossed her arms. “See, that right there’s the catch to this whole thing.”

  Hattie shook her head. “I’ve heard all about you and Vincent, and what they did to the two of you in Ithaca.”

  “Two of us? He got off easy. They practically gave him breakfast in bed while they—”

  “It’s possible your memory of the events has become clouded,” Hattie pressed. “Besides, the inequity of your suffering was their way of manipulating the two of you. Don’t saddle Vincent with the blame, here. You want to murder someone, then when we have our free pincher state, you can go find this bastard Sebastian yourself. Hell, I’ll even help.”

  Maria nodded. “We’ll all help.”

  Hattie pressed her finger into the top of the barrel. “But for right here, and right now? I need you. And I need to trust you around Vincent.”

  Betty eyed the two women with simmering resentment. She finally reached for the bottle and refreshed their glasses. “I could lie to you and tell you sure. Peachy keen. I’ll be a good little girl and play nice. But you came clean with me, so I’m going to come clean with you. There’s no world in which I’ll forgive Vincent Calendo. And I know myself. I’m in a chatty mood right now but come tomorrow I’ll be just as likely to get the storm clouds.”

  Hattie peered at Betty as she finished pouring and popped the cork back into the bottle.

  Betty concluded, “But, you did save my life on the bridge. That deserves something. So, best I can do? I’ll try. That’s a pledge, not a promise. Because I want these
sad sacks to pay for what they’ve done.” She lifted her glass. “If you can live with that, then I’m in.”

  Hattie sighed, staring at the glass.

  Maria lifted her glass. “That’s all I gave you, Hattie. And it’s all you’ve needed.”

  Hattie nodded, reached for her glass, then lifted it to clink against the others.

  “Right, then. To us gangster girls.”

  Chapter 25

  There was far more traffic on the street in front of the Julietta Club than Vincent felt comfortable with. The meeting was set late at night, partially to help sidestep the fuzz, but also to minimize any bystander injuries. Bullets would be flying and keeping the fight inside the club was a best-case scenario. But for a Thursday night closing in on the witching hour, there was a solid stream of cars and sporadic foot traffic flowing past the venue.

  “What is this, rush hour?” Vincent grumbled as Lefty shifted in the car seat beside him.

  “We’re close enough to downtown,” Lefty said. “This is gonna keep up.”

  Buddy peered between the two from the rear seat. “What’s the problem? This is just some meet, right?”

  Vincent held his tongue. Buddy was still under the impression that they were there as backup for the Masseria-O’Toole meeting, keeping an eye out for trouble. Unlike Vincent, Buddy was unaware that trouble was already on the way.

  “Can’t be too careful, kid,” Vincent muttered.

  “Is that her?” Buddy asked, pointing to a figure strolling up the lane for the front door of the social club.

  Vincent spotted Hattie. He wondered as she glanced up and down the street, what it was the others saw. A second figure joined her. Maria. She wore an evening gown, and her sinewy shoulders and arms seemed poised for a fight.

  “That’s the one,” Lefty answered. “And probably one of her pinchers to boot.”

  “Earth pincher,” Vincent muttered. “Keep your feet underneath you.”

  “You know her?” Buddy asked.

  “I do.” Vincent turned to scowl at Buddy. “She’s not trouble, so don’t get trigger-happy.”

  Buddy nodded. “I’m never trigger happy. Can’t afford to be.”

  “I hear you,” Vincent replied, turning back to the club.

  The two women entered, glancing over their shoulders as they filed inside.

  “And here we go,” Vincent declared, leaning back in his seat.

  Buddy eased back as well, shifting as he sighed. “I hate waiting.”

  Lefty offered, “If we’re lucky, that squeeze pincher with the hat will have found Maranzano by now. It’s just politics, now.”

  Buddy sniffled. “Even worse.”

  “Which means,” Lefty added, “we’re almost done here, and we can get back to Baltimore.”

  Vincent considered that notion as he kept an eye out for Maranzano’s troops. Going back to Baltimore. What would that be like? What would become of the Crew when Luciano took over? Would he follow through on his end of the deal? Or was this yet another scheme of Floresta’s?

  They sat for a while. Vincent checked his pocket watch for the time, giving it a wind to make sure he kept his bearings. Buddy became increasingly restless, as did Vincent as the midnight hour had passed without Maranzano. Something was wrong.

  Lefty lifted his chin. “You boys feel that?”

  Vincent glanced at Lefty, then to Buddy. “Feel what?”

  The suspension of the car began to rock. Vincent pressed his hands against the steering wheel.

  Buddy whispered, “Did you say earth pincher?”

  Vincent pushed open the car door. “Come on!”

  “You see them?” Hattie asked, keeping her eyes discreetly forward.

  “Vincent and his handler?” Maria replied. “I do. Alley across the street.”

  Hattie approached the storefront door for the Julietta Social Club, her Brigid O’Toole illusion firmly stitched around herself. “If they’re still staking the joint, that means Maranzano hasn’t shown his hand yet.”

  Maria lingered by the door. “You want me inside or out?”

  “Best come in,” Hattie said. “We want to show a greater force than we have.”

  “We’re faking it, is what you’re saying.”

  “Welcome to the last twenty years of my life.” Hattie took another look up the road for Maranzano’s men before stepping into the social club.

  The interior was nothing like her last visit when she’d plied Catena for interest. There was no music. Not even a puff of tobacco smoke. The tables had been cleared, most of which were pushed aside to create a space in the middle of the room. A single table remained, with Joe “the Boss” Masseria seated. A throng of guards stood along the perimeter of the room, hands crossed in front of them, jackets unbuttoned for easy access to weapons. Catena stood behind Masseria like a buzzard, watching with interest as Hattie approached.

  “Gentlemen,” she declared as she stepped into the room, offering a half-bow to Masseria. “Mister Masseria, I presume?”

  Masseria glared at her, his pudgy cheeks pushing his eyes into a squint.

  Catena cleared his throat. “Miss O’Toole.” He gestured for a seat at the table. “If you would? Your pincher may remain by the door.”

  Hattie nodded to Maria, then willed her feet forward to approach the table. Masseria shifted uncomfortably as she took a seat.

  “I understand you’re in need of my pincher assets?” she began.

  Masseria’s face soured as she spoke. He turned to nod over his shoulder at Catena.

  Catena replied, “An opportunity has presented itself, one which may benefit our organization.”

  Hattie nodded. “I’m aware of the state of things after your dust-up on the Brooklyn Bridge. More than half the city’s been on about’t.”

  Masseria cleared his throat. “Do you have stregone?”

  She straightened a little, validated now that Masseria had deigned to actually speak to her. “I do.”

  “How many? What is their witchcraft?”

  Hattie allowed herself a smile inside her illusion. The man was irrepressibly Old World. “Four in the city now, with access to four more if needed. For a price, of course.”

  Masseria waved a hand in front of his chest with a single swipe. “Money is no issue.”

  “And,” Hattie added, “this is not a sale of assets. This is a temporary loan, a limited partnership, yes?”

  Masseria nodded once more.

  “We’ve spoken at length regarding your plans in Baltimore,” Catena said. “Beyond the current deal, I wondered if we might open up the conversation to discuss a possible role you might have within our organization. That is, should you be dissuaded from wasting your talents in Baltimore.”

  “My assets, you mean?” Hattie said.

  “No. You. Your talent for misdirection, for weaving, as it were, a semblance of what you’d like us to see.”

  Hattie struggled to keep her breathing even. He couldn’t…there was no way he could know. Holding her illusion of O’Toole tight, she shook her head. “I don’t follow.”

  “Your abilities, my dear,” Catena added with a smirk. “Your…magical abilities.”

  Hattie eased back in her seat, desperately hoping he was fishing and that she could somehow bluff her way out of this.

  “I’m afraid you’ve taken a wild notion, Mister Catena,” she drawled.

  “Have I?” His smirk turned into a sneer, his eyes hard.

  Maria edged closer to the table, but four nearby gunmen drew weapons on her. Hattie lifted a hand behind her, keeping her eyes square on Catena. Out of the corner of her vision, she saw Maria lift her hands and step backward to press her back against the wall.

  Catena nodded toward Maria. “You’ll keep your ground-pounder on a leash, now?”

  Hattie clenched her teeth. “What are you on about?”

  Masseria spoke, “You are stregone.”

  “No,” she declared with a vigorous shake of her head. “You’re mistak
en.”

  Catena snickered, walking around the table. He pulled a red blossom from his own lapel, giving it a sniff as he paused in front of her. “Am I?”

  He reached down with the flower, slipping its stem directly through the button hole of her blouse. As he stepped away, the realization sank in. He’d seen through Hattie’s illusion to land the flower so perfectly. He had to, because Bridget O’Toole was wearing a fringed dress, with no buttons or buttonholes.

  “Why not show us your true face, Miss O’Toole. And your lovely red hair,” Catena said as he returned to the other side of the table.

  Hattie sucked in panicked breaths. He knew! How long could he see through her illusions? How had he done it?

  She peered over her shoulder at Maria, whose face was calm. Almost meditative. The woman’s fingers tapped against the wall behind her in tiny rhythms.

  Hattie set her jaw, turned back to face Catena and his master, and dropped her illusion. “Right, then,” she grumbled. “I suppose the jig’s up.”

  Vincent and Buddy rushed across the street. Lefty lingered behind, eyes to the north. A line of cars approached, swerving recklessly as they skidded to a halt in front of the Julietta. Lefty lunged for the street, dropping into a roll as gunmen poured out of the cars. Maranzano had arrived.

  Vincent braced, pulling Buddy behind him as guns whipped into the air. One gunman lifted a pistol at Lefty, pulling back the hammer.

  Vincent pinched time, plowing through the time bubble for the gunman. He snatched the gun from his hand, twisting him around to face the others as he pressed the pistol against the back of his head and released the time pinch.

  The gunman staggered, then stiffened as he got his bearings.

  Vincent shouted, “You boys need to take a breath.”

  A lean figure stepped from the last car, white coat draped over his shoulders, crepe-paper eyes wrinkled in a disapproving squint.

  Maranzano.

  Polizzi stepped up alongside him, shoving arms down. “Easy, now.”

  Vincent took a breath, then released his grip of his hostage as guns began to drift to the ground.