King of the Bootleggers Read online

  King of the Bootleggers

  Whiskey Empire, Volume 1

  Eugene Lloyd MacRae

  Published by Eugene Lloyd MacRae, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  KING OF THE BOOTLEGGERS

  First edition. May 24, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Eugene Lloyd MacRae.

  ISBN: 978-1927767467

  Written by Eugene Lloyd MacRae.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

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  Chapter 1

  November, 1919

  The North Side, Hamilton, Ontario Canada

  BLOODY TEETH ROLLED across the planked sidewalk and fell over into the muddy street. The shop-owner was bent over, his hand over his mouth, blood running through his fingers as he tried to reason with his assailant, "I told you, Rocco, I don't got enough money to pay you this week. I had to pay–"

  "Did I ask you for an excuse?" Rocco DeLuca stated firmly. "Or did I ask you for my money?"

  The shop-owner painfully straightened up; at six-foot-five, he now towered over the five-foot-ten DeLuca. But it didn't matter. Despite the black, wavy hair and movie-idol good looks that made him look like a choir boy, Rocco DeLuca was scary. It was the eyes. The dark eyes burned with a fierce anger. Everyone in the neighborhood knew. The shop-owner cast his eyes down to the plank sidewalk. Eye contact might only increase the anger. "I...I'll get the money," he mumbled through his fingers.

  Rocco DeLuca patted the man on the side of his arm, "That's more like it, Mr. Davidson. I've liked you ever since I was a little kid and we moved into this neighborhood from Italy." DeLuca gestured to the old, dilapidated store behind the man, "My mother used to send me to your store to buy things all the time. I'd hate to see it burned down."

  Davidson nodded as he held onto his jaw and continued to avoid eye contact.

  "All right," DeLuca said, "I'll see you next week." He held up two fingers, "That means two payments. Don't disappoint me."

  "No, Rocco. I won't."

  DeLuca slapped the man on the shoulder amiably again, turned and stepped into the mud of Allison Street. Crossing to the other side he stepped onto the plank sidewalk and looked into the open door of the hardware store.

  The store owner's wife blanched in fear when she recognized who was standing outside. She swept the old board floor faster as she whispered urgently to her husband. A few moments later the husband came hustling towards the front door, "Mr. Rocco, so sorry I keep you wait." He pulled a few bills from the side pocket of his work coveralls and extended it towards his visitor.

  Rocco DeLuca pocketed the cash, "It's 'waiting' Mr. Carluccio. That's how you say it"

  Carluccio flashed an awkward smile, not sure what DeLuca was talking about, "Sorry."

  "No problem Mr. Carluccio. I had the same problem with the language when my parents brought me to this country. Now look at me, I talk very well."

  Carluccio nodded repeatedly, the awkward smile frozen on his face.

  DeLuca turned and continued his visit to several more of his customers along the street.

  THE OLD FLOORS ON THE third floor of the apartment building squeaked and groaned as Rocco DeLuca headed for his apartment. The smell of cabbage, pork and potatoes was strong in the hallway. Always the same thing. Always the same smells here. Stepping into the tiny, apartment, he closed the door behind him. The apartment only depressed him more. All it consisted of was a kitchen area and a small bedroom off to the left. That was it. No running hot water and only a coal stove used to heat the space and cook on. Like all the men in the neighborhood who had returned after fighting in World War 1, he had expected better. Even a job. Instead, it was a return to the same soul crushing poverty.

  Besha Margit DeLuca, his wife was at the sink. She had started to use the name Bobbi Goldman as a young teenager after the death of her parents. Getting any type of job to support herself had been difficult because of the every-day anti-Jewish attitudes she had encountered. But after they met, Rocco had encouraged her not to give in. So Besha it was. Grabbing a worn tea-towel to dry her hands, she turned, "You're home just in time. Supper is ready. How did it go today?"

  DeLuca shrugged as he placed his worn flat-cap on the wall hook behind the door. Sitting on one of the four old wooden chairs around the small kitchen table, he slumped back, "Only one had any money today. It's getting worse."

  Besha nodded sadly, "It's the same for everyone in the neighborhood. People just don't have money."

  Rocco noted her demeanor. His blonde beauty was usually upbeat no matter what. That's not my Besha. He watched her place a plate in front of him with the same meal everyone in the apartment building seemed to eat; cabbage, potatoes and a small amount of pork. He let her fill her plate and sit down at the kitchen table before he asked her, "Is something wrong? You look like somebody died."

  Besha shrugged noncommittally.

  Rocco reached over and placed a hand on hers, "Come on, tell me what it is."

  Besha stirred the potatoes around her plate for a moment and then said, "Mr. Starkman is cutting me back to three days."

  Rocco cursed, "Why? You were the one who straightened out his books and helped him grow through the war. Where
would he be without you?"

  Shrugging slightly in sadness, she said, "It's not against us. He's struggling too, Rocco. With the war over, his food export business had fallen a lot. The wheat prices have fallen because there's too much if it now...and the companies he was importing sugar from Cuba for are–"

  Loud banging came at their apartment door.

  Rocco DeLuca got up and answered the door.

  A tall, dusky-faced policeman stood in the hallway. The name tag on his chest read: A. Genovese.

  "What do you want?"

  "Mr. DeLuca," the policeman said in a very serious tone, "we've had reports that you've been causing trouble in the neighborhood."

  "Yeah? So shoot me."

  "I might have to."

  DeLuca turned, leaving the door wide open and walked back to the kitchen table.

  The policeman stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He took off his police cap, placing it on the hook beside DeLuca's flat cap and then strode across to the kitchen table.

  DeLuca dug into his pocket and pulled out the cash he had been given. He led several bills on the table and then sat down to eat again.

  The policeman picked up the cash, "This is it? This is all you got today?"

  DeLuca shrugged.

  "No one's got any money, Tony," Besha said. "You want to stay for supper?"

  "Yeah, thanks. Maria had to work and I'm doing a double and working the night shift," Tony said. He tapped the bills against the palm of his hand, glancing at Rocco as he walked around the kitchen table and sat in the other chair. Antonio Genovese and Rocco had been pals since childhood and he could see the frustration on his friend's face.

  Besha slid her plate over in front of the policeman and got up to get herself another plate.

  DeLuca gestured across at her, "Starkman is cutting her back to three days."

  "What? You gotta be kidding me?" He picked up a fork and dug into the meal, "Every since they laid off so many people down at the Welland Canal, it's like there's four people for every job."

  "At least you got on the constabulary," pointed out DeLuca.

  "Yeah, but it doesn't do me and Maria much good. Don't make much money–"

  "The protection racket ain't going so well, either," DeLuca interjected.

  "And all that information and inside knowledge we thought I'd get by being a copper ain't panned out either," Tony added.

  Rocco sat back and pushed his plate away.

  Besha sat down and looked across at the table, "You've hardly touched it, Rocco. Is it no good?" She picked up a fork full and tasted it.

  Rocco shrugged a shoulder, "No, it's fine."

  "He's right. In fact, it's great," Tony said as he shoveled another forkful into his mouth.

  "You have to eat Rocco," encouraged Besha. "You have to keep your strength up."

  "I know. It's just...this is all getting to me." He looked around at the dilapidated apartment.

  After a few moments of eating, Tony offered a suggestion, "Maybe you could get into bootlegging. There's money to be made at it. Despite the government banning alcohol, people still want to drink–"

  "That's Sal Russo's racket, you know that," Rocco said harshly.

  "I know, I know," Tony said. "But just a little, just to help yourself out."

  "Maybe you could work for him?" Besha suggested.

  Tony laughed, "Can't happen, won't happen."

  "Why not? You could always ask him," Besha said.

  "Salvatore Russo is Sicilian," Rocco said as he pressed the tips of his fingers together and gestured his annoyance, "he's Cosa Nostra."

  "And we are from Calabria, our family was 'Ndrangheta," Tony added.

  "But he's Italian, you're Italian, doesn't that count for something?" Besha said.

  Tony laughed, "That's not how it works." He pushed a fork-full of pork into his mouth and chewed. Then he gestured towards Rocco, "You know...the Sicilian's normally do the protection racket back in the old country. But Fat Sal hasn't said anything about you doing it here. Maybe he'd be okay with the bootlegging thing too–"

  "Look," Rocco said curtly, "I'm not getting into a beef with Fat Sal. He owns the North End. So drop it."

  Tony put his hands up in surrender, "Okay, okay. I'm just trying to help here."

  "Just eat, okay?" Rocco picked up his fork and dug into his meal again.

  Chapter 2

  ROCCO DELUCA WALKED along the plank sidewalk, headed for Piccolo's Deli to get a double payment there as well. He and Besha were just about out of food and the rent would be due in a week-and-a-half. He glanced into the bakery as he passed and his eyes met those of Mr. Dimesworth's son. The teenage boy's eyes flashed fear. Not today, paesano. Your pops already paid for the month. As he approached the deli he saw two men, both dressed in cheap, brown-wool suits, standing beside the entrance. They had their hands clasped together in front of them, their backs against the wall like they were waiting for something...or someone.

  As he drew closer, Rocco recognized both men. They were from the North Side, but he only knew the name of the tall one, Lauriano Achille, better known as Meatball. The shorter, husky man he knew only as Guppy. They're part of Fat Sal's muscle. What are they doing here? They usually stayed–

  Meatball turned his head and looked straight at Rocco. He then glanced at Guppy and gestured with his chin in Rocco's direction.

  Guppy's body went on alert and both men now focused a steely eye on DeLuca as he approached.

  Rocco stopped a few feet away from the entrance and nodded a wordless hello.

  Meatball and Guppy stepped out from the building and turned towards Rocco, standing firm in his path on the wooden sidewalk.

  Rocco didn't move a muscle; he recognized the bulge of a handgun underneath the suit jacket of both men.

  "It is highly suggested that you move on," Meatball said.

  "Why is that?"

  "Because we already done the collection here," Guppy said. "In fact, we already done the collecting for the neighborhood... last week."

  Rocco didn't blink an eye but he caught the meaning. That's why old Piccolo couldn't pay me. These two bozos had already took taken it. Rocco took an exaggerated breath and looked casually to the other side of the street before he spoke again. "I understood Fat Sal–"

  "Mr. Russo," Meatball interjected.

  They're trying to provoke me. Play it cool, Rocco. He took a breath again and looked into Meatball's eyes, "I understood Mr. Russo, wasn't interested in the protection–"

  "Mr. Russo is interested in everything," Meatball said. "This is his town. Not just the North End...all of it."

  Guppy rolled his hands in a dismissive gesture, "He just allowed the riff-raff to run their little games, you know, as a gesture of charity." Guppy clasped his hands back in front of him, "This is our route now. And now that you're aware of it, it's suggested you find a different line of work."

  With that, both of Fat Sal's men set their feet firmly apart, watching for the smallest movement of aggression.

  Rocco ground his teeth as he glanced across the dirt street, working to keep his temper under control. Bide your time, Rocco, bide your time. Without another word, he turned and walked back down the sidewalk, staring straight ahead, half expecting to get shot in the back. But it never came.

  ROCCO WAS SITTING ON the stoop, nursing his last beer. Right now he didn't care about the ban and getting pinched for having illegal alcohol in his possession. Screw the coppers. The sun was setting but his anger was rising. Kids played hop-scotch in the street two doors down but their laughter was subdued, almost sad. Like the sad, worn-down apartment buildings on the street. Everything about the North End was sad and worn-down. Even the people, all beaten down by a hard existence.

  Tony Genovese walked by the kids, whistling and twirling his police baton by the leather strap on the end. He stopped the whistling and twirling when he saw Rocco sitting on the stoop. As he approached, his face grew grim. He knew something was up. "I
take it old man Piccolo still didn't have the money?"

  Rocco didn't answer; he simply took another swig of his beer.

  Genovese took a seat on the stoop beside Rocco without saying a word.

  Rocco offered the half-empty bottle.

  Genovese took the bottle, swirled it around a little and took a drink.

  "Two of Fat Sal's men were waiting for me at Piccolo's," Rocco said as he stared ahead.

  Genovese stopped in mid-drink and glanced across at his pal. He lowered the beer and looked at Rocco, "What did they want?"

  Rocco didn't talk right away. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a book of matches.

  Genovese stayed silent. He knew something was wrong. His thumb worked gently at the label on the bottle of beer as he waited for his friend to open up.

  Rocco lit his cigarette, tossed the match away and blew out smoke, "They wanted me to know they were taking over the protection racket."

  Genovese blinked. "Why now?" he asked after a moment. "Why after all this time?"

  Rocco just took another drag on his cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke in anger. His jaw clenched. "It's bad enough they take my money," he said in a whisper. "But they embarrassed me in front of the entire neighborhood."

  Tony Genovese watched an older couple walking by on the other side of the street, tapping a finger against the visor of his police hat in greeting when they glanced this way. He saw the couple's fearful glance towards Rocco before they sped up their feet and hurried along. Tony watched the kids play for a moment and then turned to Rocco, "So...now what?"

  Rocco shrugged and flipped the cigarette into the street, "I got one more beer left upstairs. How's half a glass sound?"

  "Hey, I'm on duty," Tony complained.

  "That never stopped you before."

  "That's true." Tony slipped his baton into his police belt and followed Rocco into the old apartment building. Together they climbed the rickety stairs in silence to the third floor. Reaching the landing, they turned right and headed down the hallway. A short, old lady, dressed all in black, was banging on the door to Rocco's apartment at the far end.