Trouble Boys (White Lightning Book 5) Page 2

  “Word is they sold the hootch to Pittsburgh. Just like the others last week.”

  Vincent set his jaw. “I heard the one last week was sold to Atlantic City.”

  Hattie had sold both shipments to Pittsburgh, but the notion that all of Vito’s men were jumping ship and running to any random family they could made for a more damaging story.

  “Oh,” Curley grunted. “What’s going on? This kinda thing makes us look bad. It makes us look weak.”

  “I know.” Vincent put a hand on Curley’s shoulder. “We have to expect some of the Crew are gonna shake out after what happened in Havre de Grace. People are worried. Can’t say I blame them either.”

  “But that’s four men in two weeks,” Curly protested. “It’s embarrassing. There’s talk Vito’s lost control.”

  Vincent sighed. “The Capo is doing his best. If that’s not good enough…” He let the statement drift into the ether.

  Curley shook his head. “They wouldn’t play like this in New York.”

  Vincent shrugged, then patted Curley on the arm. “I’m getting a drink.”

  And, shot fired. This was the plan he’d hammered out with Hattie, a slow game chipping away at the Crew’s confidence in Vito’s leadership. The hauls netted some coin for Hattie and the Charge, but the real payday was right here in this lounge. Of course, Vincent had to take care with how hard he pressed.

  Vincent reached the bar and ordered an egg cream, choosing to keep his wits about him rather than fuming them up with liquor. The men at the bar beside him grumbled to themselves.

  At length, one declared, “Trust the Capo.”

  Vincent lifted his glass. “Here, here.”

  They nodded with muted enthusiasm.

  Vincent added, “May he reign as long as Jim D’urso.”

  One of the men cocked a brow. “Huh?”

  His compatriot tossed a light punch into his chest. “Oh, come on. You wet behind the ears?”

  Vincent nodded. “You should know the Crew’s history, friend.”

  The two engaged in a lively conversation as Vincent stepped away. A conversation about the former leader of the Baltimore Crew, the founder—the one Vito had replaced. The man was a legend among the old guard. Drumming up a conversation about Vito’s predecessor, the very man who had forged the Baltimore Crew out of pig iron…it would remind everyone how good it was before Vito took over.

  A few words, and already the conversation in the room was folding itself into a castigation of Corbi’s ability to lead.

  The plan was going well.

  The only man in the Crew who might see through Vincent’s war of whispers hadn’t spoken two words to Vincent since the vineyard. And until that moment as Vincent spotted Lefty boring a hole through Vincent’s head from across the room, he didn’t think it would become a factor.

  Vincent sucked in a breath, muscled his shoulders square, then approached Lefty.

  “Vincent,” Lefty stated as if identifying a shrub.

  “Lefty. It’s been a hot second.”

  “You’re well?”

  Vincent nodded.

  “And Miss Malloy?”

  “Ship shape far as I know, Lefty.”

  “Good.” Lefty reached for a Collins glass on the wall rail and gave it a quick pull. “She’s keeping busy?”

  Vincent squinted. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Lefty asked through tight lips.

  “We’re not in regular contact.” Vincent shrugged. “And when we are, we don’t usually discuss business.”

  “Really?” Lefty set down his glass. “I heard someone talking about Atlantic City, and how we lost two shipments to them. Heard someone else say it was Pittsburgh. I wonder why are we losing shipments of booze and boatleggers all of a sudden?”

  Vincent shrugged. “It’s gossip.”

  “There’s two or three men in this hotel who know exactly what happened to those two shipments.” Lefty leaned in to lower his voice. “They both ended up in Pittsburgh.”

  Vincent forced his expression to remain nonchalant. “Take it up with Pittsburgh, then.”

  “I’m taking it up with you.”

  “If you think I had anything to do with those boys jumping ship—”

  “They were shanghaied.” He stepped closer. “And you know it as well as I do.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. “If you think Hattie Malloy is capable of horse-collaring four Baltimore Crew boys and booting them off their boats—”

  “I know she is.” Lefty checked the nearby company to make sure his voice hadn’t carried. “Because she’s not alone. She has a whole gang of free pinchers, now. I know because I’ve seen them. And I know that you”—he poked Vincent in the chest—“are either in league with that ragged crew, or at least are throwing Vito’s dogs off the scent.”

  “Would you listen to yourself?” Vincent scoffed. “You’re acting like you don’t know me.”

  “I do know you,” Lefty snapped. “And jacking two boats of hooch then selling them out from underneath Vito’s nose while poisoning the well here at home? That’s exactly the sort of crack-skulled, cock-feathered scheme you’d sign up for.”

  He bit back a grin. Even if Lefty had essentially sniffed him out, and thereby became a direct threat to the plan, it was good to have someone know him that well. “And you’re willing to risk embarrassing yourself in front of the Capo with this sort of wild-ass assumption?”

  Lefty’s face twisted with misery. “I’d rather save both of us a world of hurting and cut this off the branch before it turns into something deadly.”

  The man was clearly trying to save Vincent from himself—as usual. The task had grown more difficult as Vincent had put distance between him and Lefty, but that distance was important. When everything shook out, and when Vito Corbi found himself at the south end of Vincent’s reckoning, Lefty would have to make a difficult decision.

  “If I were that stupid, I’d thank you for getting my head square.” Vincent gave Lefty a smile. “Lucky for both of us, I’m not that stupid.”

  Lefty searched Vincent’s face, then turned away.

  A pang shot through Vincent’s guts as the other man slipped through the crowd without looking back. He’d shown too much of his hand at the vineyard. Lefty already knew he’d saved Hattie last year from the Capo. He knew Vincent had developed feelings for Hattie, and accepted that there was room in the Crew’s demands for loyalty for romance. But the Charge was something wholly different. This was a cultivated, organized group of free pinchers acting in the very same city as Vito Corbi. And Lefty knew Vincent was involved.

  He owed so much to Lefty. The man had taken him in after he was sold to the Crew. At first it was a begrudging obligation on Lefty’s part. Vito had chosen him as Vincent’s handler due to his past encounters with pinchers. It was the only qualification that seemed to matter at the time, though Lefty’s demeanor had left plenty to be desired. The first year under Lefty’s wing was abject misery. The curmudgeon hadn’t had the time or patience for a sheltered pincher, unfamiliar with the mechanics of the world. But as the years passed and Vincent became more comfortable as a tool for the gang, Lefty had become more and more protective.

  But Lefty’s loyalty never wandered far from Vito Corbi. He was a company man, dyed in the wool. How long would that protective bent last if Vincent continued down the path he was on?

  Cheers and salutations rippled through the crowd as Vito strode into the lounge, his broad forehead already speckled in perspiration, face flushed red. Ever since the vineyard, the Capo’s health had seemed fragile, as if the strain of losing his home had drawn him taut. So, too, had the pressure that Vincent and Hattie were applying. Hattie grumbled endlessly about how meaningless these strikes on Vito’s supply lines seemed to be, but she couldn’t see the effect their plan was having.

  Vito reached for a glass of water, gulping it like a man lost in the Sahara. Once he set the glass down, his lips lifted in an uncharacteristic
smile. With a clap of his hands, he captured the room’s attention.

  “My friends. My brothers. These are times that test our resolve. They command our fullest measure of focus. Our dedication to the purpose. Our dedication to our dignity. We are men, and we do not shrink from this task.”

  A meager applause spattered through the lounge. Too many of the Crew were already convinced that Vito was more talk and bravado than real results and Vincent took satisfaction in that.

  Vito continued, “The families wait and watch as we respond to this latest attack from New York. They expect us either to crumple, or to press our advance against Joe Masseria.”

  Sober nods around the room. That much was true.

  “I suspect that many of you are waiting and watching as well.” Vito’s grin sharpened. “The time for waiting is over. Tomorrow I want everyone here. You get your boys pulled up from the water and the roads. I have an announcement that everyone will want to hear.”

  Vito withdrew back to the lobby, ascending the stairs to the upper levels as the rest of the Crew slowly resumed their conversations. This was unexpected, to be sure—so soon after the battle that had ravaged the vineyard, a battle that had taken down Masseria’s lead pincher. Was Vito about to declare war on New York? Was this his last-ditch plan to regain the confidence of the Crew? If so, it would mean the death of the Crew and everyone he threw at Masseria.

  How would that fit into Vincent and Hattie’s plan? Vincent turned it over in his head but shook off the thoughts as he finished his egg cream. It was no good trying to get out in front of this when he didn’t have all the information.

  Besides, he had an important errand to run.

  Vincent made a discreet exit and trotted up the street to catch the trolley. He hopped off in Hampden and walked the few blocks to his destination. Hattie’s apartment building was well-lit from within, electric light pouring into the night sky from each window. Vincent reached into his pocket to caress the tiny felt box and crossed the street between chugging Model T’s.

  Rapping on the door to the Malloy residence, he stood with locked knees, trying to quell the nerves choking the breath out of his lungs. The door opened to reveal the silver-pated head of Alton Malloy.

  “Vincent, me boy!” Alton bellowed. “Top of the evening to ya!”

  “Good evening, Mister Malloy,” Vincent replied.

  “Oh, I’m afraid ’Attie’s out and about.”

  “I know. I’m actually here to speak with you and your wife. If you don’t mind?”

  Alton stepped aside and ushered Vincent inside.

  Branna stood from her chair, setting aside her knitting. “Why, Mister Calendo. What brings you about, then?”

  “Missus Malloy. I wondered if I might have a word with the two of you?”

  Branna’s face drew tight. “What’s happened?”

  Alton stiffened in alarm. “Aye, has something happened to my girl?”

  Vincent waved his hand. “Oh, no no. All’s fine. I just…hell’s bells this is awkward.”

  Alton screwed his white brows together. “Do you need a drink, son?”

  “I’d, uh…rather get this out first. May we sit?”

  Alton offered his own chair for Vincent and took a seat on the sofa. Branna withdrew to the corner of the room, remaining on her feet with arms crossed.

  Vincent nodded. “Yeah, this isn’t something I ever thought I’d be saying out loud. Not here. I mean, I suppose it would have to be here, but this wasn’t—”

  “Oh, spit it out ya daft man!” Branna snapped.

  Alton lifted a hand to Branna. “Now, let the man speak, woman.”

  “I would if he could,” she replied.

  Vincent reached into his pocket to produce the felt-lined box. He popped it open to reveal a silver filigree band with a small diamond nestled in the middle.

  Alton’s eyes went wide.

  Vincent said, “I…uh…I wanted to ask your permission for your daughter’s hand in…well, you, know.”

  “The word is marriage,” Branna looked toward the ceiling. “Matrimony, if you want to be an ass about’t.”

  Alton eased back onto the sofa, wide eyes on the ring.

  Vincent looked to Branna. “Your daughter means a lot to me. I think you know that. And I suspect there’s no two people in this world who’d have a harder time finding someone they could share a life with. It’s fate, maybe, that we found each other at all.”

  Branna stared at Vincent for a long moment, then looked to Alton. “Well, husband? What do you think? I know you like the boy enough. But do you have it in you to call him son-in-law?”

  Alton closed his mouth, then finally blinked. “Well. I, ah…”

  Branna chuckled. “Men can’t keep their mouths shut when there’s nothing to say, but when you need them to say something, they trip over their mouths.”

  Alton frowned at her. “I’m taking a moment here, woman. This is sudden.”

  “Honestly?” She laughed. “You didn’t know this was coming? You should have your eyes checked.”

  Alton reached for Vincent’s hand. “Well, m’boy. I’m not eager to see the girl leave. But you’re right. I’ve thought about how she’d ever find a husband, with her life being what it is. You’ve been there for her. You’ve proven we can trust you. I can’t see how I could say no to this.”

  Alton pulled Vincent off the chair into an embrace tight enough to make him grunt.

  Vincent pulled away and looked to Branna. “And you, Missus Malloy?”

  “What about me, then?”

  “What do you say?”

  Branna scowled. “I’m not her father.”

  “Perhaps not, but I want your approval just the same.”

  The woman eyed him long and hard. “You hurt her, and I’ll slit your throat—pincher or not.”

  Vincent swallowed. “I’d never hurt her, ma’am. Never.”

  It seemed like forever that Hattie’s mom stood there, her eyes boring into his.

  “Then I guess I approve.” She turned to cross the room, turning on the radio. As the tubes warmed and the tinny strains of the All-Star Orchestra poured from the speaker, Branna pointed to the kitchen.

  “I’m thinking it might be time for that drink.”

  Chapter 3

  Roscoe gave Vincent an accusatory meow as he stepped into the apartment.

  “Oh, hush. You’re not starving,” Vincent grumbled, snatching the cat’s food dish from the floor to set it on the counter.

  As he opened a can of mackerel, the black cat wound figure eights around Vincent’s ankles. He emptied the canned fish into the dish, then set the dinner on the ground.

  Once he saw the cat pounce on the food bowl, Vincent pulled off his jacket and tie, rolling up his sleeves. As the cat ate, he began tidying up the apartment. After he was satisfied, he started a pot boiling on the stove.

  There was a knock on the door, and Roscoe hopped over to rub his face on the casing.

  Vincent shook his head. “How do you know that’s not some goon looking to grease us both?”

  The cat peered up at Vincent with a slow blink and a whisker-rattling meow.

  “Yeah, I know,” Vincent said as he opened the door.

  Hattie smiled back at Vincent from the hallway, still dressed in her work clothes. “Who’re you talking to in there?”

  Vincent pointed to the cat, who was already rubbing the side of his face against Hattie’s leg.

  “Someone of equal intelligence, then?” she teased as she scooped up the cat in one hand, the other gripping a wine bottle.

  Vincent held the door open and Hattie stepped inside to deposit Roscoe onto the dinner table alongside the wine.

  “Not on the table,” Vincent told her. “We eat there.”

  She laughed. “I think Roscoe’s cleaner than either one of us.”

  “What, because he spends hours licking himself? Even more reason.” Vincent shooed the cat off the table.

  Hattie ran a hand along
her overalls. “Sorry about this. I didn’t have time to change. The day got away from me, and I…I couldn’t wait to see you.”

  The last was said with a shy glance down at the floor that never ceased to melt him. Vincent leaned forward and kissed her, tousling her red hair to break the tension. “You’re perfect, as always. Besides, I only just started dinner.”

  Hattie followed him into the kitchen, rummaging through his cabinets for a corkscrew. “Outstanding. I’m famished. What’s on the menu, good sir?”

  “Pierogis from the deli down the street.”

  “What’s a pierogi?”

  Vincent eyed the bundle on his countertop. “Not entirely sure. The owner’s Polish, and I thought we’d try something different.”

  His chest tightened at the thought that he might have screwed up. The few times he’d cooked for Hattie, it had been his usual Italian fare. He knew it wasn’t her sort of cuisine, and this seemed to be a good compromise. Hopefully they wouldn’t discover they both hated Polish food tonight of all nights.

  Hattie uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses.

  Vincent nodded to his glass as she handed it over. “Who’d you steal this from?”

  “Your boss, of course,” she replied with a smirk.

  They both took a sip. It was a dry red with fruit notes and a lingering essence of almond.

  “The man can make wine,” Vincent admitted as he turned back to the stove.

  “Aye, true enough. Less so now.”

  Vincent grimaced, remembering the devastation at Harve de Grace. “I suppose so. How did it go today?”

  Hattie wandered the few feet into the dining area and took a seat at the table, lifting her glass enough to allow Roscoe to jump into her lap. “Well enough.”

  “You don’t sound enthused.” Vincent dropped the pierogis into the water, sending up a rare prayer that they would be edible. “Anyone get hurt?”

  “Not even your own goons,” she replied. “Though I’m sure they won’t be thanking me for it anytime soon.”

  “I appreciate that. I know it puts pressure on you.”

  She tilted her head. “Why Polish food tonight? Why aren’t you making me pasta like you always do? You’re Italian, after all.”