King of the Bootleggers Read online

  The man sensed Rocco's concern and he slowly withdrew his hands from his pockets and let them slowly drop down to show he wasn't looking for a fight. "I work for Mr. Guido Vitale. He wants to know if he can come in for a visit."

  Rocco was surprised but kept his face passive. "Mr. Vitale...from Cherry Heights...."

  The man just stood there, waiting.

  Rocco nodded after a moment.

  The man turned, opened the door, whistled and signaled to someone.

  As the man's head was turned, Rocco smoothly slipped his Colt from inside his jacket and placed his hands behind his back.

  The man stepped back inside, leaving the door open and stepped to the side.

  Rocco heard a car approach the distillery. It stopped, two car doors opened and closed and a moment later a slim man in a winter coat stepped through the doorway, paused as he looked at Rocco and then stepped to the side.

  Behind him came Guido Vitale. He removed his fedora and held it in front with both hands in front of him. "Rocco, thanks for seeing me–"

  "Considering the situation the last time we met, why shouldn't I just kill you?"

  The two men reacted by lifting their hands towards their weapons–

  Vitale held a hand out to stop them.

  The two men stood still, hands halfway to their weapons.

  Vitale held his hat with both hands again, "I'm sure Mr. DeLuca has a weapon behind his back. Neither of you would get your guns out before he put bullets in all of us."

  Rocco waited as both men slowly lowered their hands to their sides before he relaxed. He slowly brought his hands from behind his back, letting the Colt hang by his side.

  Besha appeared in the office doorway again. She pulled her worn sweater closed and crossed her arms over her chest, watching.

  Vitale looked at her and then at Rocco, "Could we talk...alone?"

  "This is as alone as it gets," Rocco replied.

  Vitale nodded after a moment and then glanced to his men, "You can wait outside in the car."

  "You sure, boss?" the big man asked.

  "Yeah."

  The two men hesitated for a moment, considering Rocco. Then they glanced towards Besha suspiciously.

  "Go."

  Reluctantly they turned and headed out, closing the door behind them.

  Vitale kneaded the brim of his fedora with his fingers before speaking, "I was hoping we could make a deal."

  "What kind of a deal?" Rocco asked.

  "I need what you supply." He glanced at Besha and then said, "I require...1,000 of whiskey cases a month. I have a small territory, but I can move some down towards the Falls–"

  "Where are you getting it now?" Rocco asked harshly.

  "At present...I get a very limited supply through a man you're familiar with...Roman Provenzano."

  Rocco cocked his head, "Provenzano? Why aren't you buying direct from here? Or from another distillery? No, that doesn't make any sense."

  "Ah, well. Our late friend, Salvatore Russo, had this location all to himself. My organization was not quite as big as his and I couldn't see any advantage in going to war. Roman had the men but chose to bide his time. He made contact with someone in Toronto who agreed to supply him with all he needed. Roman was...is...building a war chest."

  Rocco glanced at Besha.

  Vitale continued, "With Russo out of the way, Roman is looking to...expand into areas he now feels are wide open and ripe for the picking."

  Rocco clenched his jaw.

  "I prefer to stay peaceful and make money," Vitale added. He shrugged, "I guess I'm just getting old."

  Rocco stood still, defiant, not saying a word.

  After a moment, Vitale turned towards the door, "I understand. Thank you for–"

  Besha stepped forward, "You get 1,000 cases a month...at $60 per case...that includes the export tax...you don't come here, we deliver direct to your place of choice after dark. And...you pay two months in advance to start."

  Vitale stood turned halfway to the door, looking back at Besha. He looked at Rocco for a moment. "Very well, you have a deal," he said finally. "I'll have Big Al deliver a check–"

  "–cash," Besha interjected.

  "Very well...cash...in the morning." Vitale nodded a goodbye and opened the door. He paused halfway through and looked back as he held the door open, "And Rocco...about someone knowing you were moving alcohol and where...the telephone operator on your floor hears things...."

  Rocco's brow furrowed. "Telephone op–? Old lady Maggio?" He looked at Besha who looked as skeptical as he felt. He looked back at Vitale, "Why would–?"

  "She's the sister of Provenzano's mother. Jacomina married outside the family, a man from Venice the family didn't approve of. Provenzano always liked her. He slips her a little money from time to time but keeps it a secret. To preserve peace in the family, you know–?"

  Rocco clenched his jaw, "Why would Provenzano's aunt be living in a run-down neighborhood if he gives her money?"

  Vitale shrugged, "She passes it all on to her children and grandchildren. Says she doesn't need anything. Italian grandmothers are like that. Provenzano passed the information on to the Toronto Outfit–"

  "Victor Cipriano?"

  "That's right. Cipriano was working to solidify a deal for his supply of alcohol with the Frenchies–"

  "The Frenchies?" Rocco cocked his head, thinking back to what Little Jack had said. "Why buy from these Frenchies? Don't they have places like this to make hootch in Toronto?"

  "I have no idea. I'm not privy to their inner dealings. But I do know the information about where you were selling your alcohol secured Cipriano's supply, which in turn helped Provenzano–"

  "And Provenzano just up and told you all this," Rocco scoffed.

  Vitale shook his head, an amused smile on his lips, "No. Let's just say I have a little bird inside his organization...just like you have one in your apartment building. Provenzano then had someone let Russo know you were the one selling the alcohol from this place. He hoped Russo would take you out. If not, he'd do it himself at some point." Vitale shrugged, "Believe what you want...or don't. It makes no difference to me. I have my deal." He nodded a goodbye to Besha and stepped through the doorway.

  Rocco felt his jaw clench hard as the door closed. He looked at Besha, wondering why she had made a deal with someone working with people who had tried to kill him.

  "With his advance payment we can buy some used equipment from a closed distillery Mr. Kippen told me about," Besha explained. "He knows the bankrupt owner and can get us a deal. We can double our production to 1,000 cases a day."

  Rocco nodded, "Okay, good. Cause I'm gonna need money for weapons and ammo."

  Chapter 24

  IT WAS LATE. Rocco climbed the squeaking and groaning stairs in his apartment building to the third-floor landing. Glancing in both directions, Rocco made sure no one was in the hallway. Somewhere, someone was playing a gramophone. The hit tune, I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles by Ben Selvin's Novelty Orchestra, drifted along the hallway, intermingling with the ever-present smell of cabbage, pork, and potatoes. Rocco had made sure Besha and Maria, as well as Gianni and Andrea Reppucci, were all occupied at the distillery. Tony was at the police station right now, getting ready to walk his beat. Tommy was making a whiskey run to Port Maitland and would be able to provide an alibi from Sam in the customs office down there.

  Waiting and listening for another moment, Rocco decided there wouldn't be a better time. Turning to the right, he walked down the hallway with a light step, listening for any indications someone was about to come out of one of the apartments he passed. He reached the wall phone on the left and stopped. Mrs. Maggio's apartment, with the faded 319 on the door, was on the right side. Glancing up and down the hallway again, Rocco took a step to the old lady's door and pressed his ear against it, listening. The light sound of Enrico Caruso, the famed Italian operatic tenor, singing Domine Deus from Rossini's Petite Messe Solennelle, drifted through the door. She's ho
me. Rocco readied himself and then knocked softly on the door. He heard a slight brushing sound from inside the apartment.

  A few moments later the door swung open and Mrs. Maggio appeared in the doorway, still dressed head to toe in black. Fitting. The short, old lady pulled the black shawl tighter around her shoulders and glared, "Mr. DeLuca. What do you want?"

  Rocco swung his weapon up, a .22 caliber pistol fitted with a Maxim silencer, and pointed it straight between her eyes. "I understand you told my business to your nephew." He didn't use any names, giving her the opportunity to prove Vitale was lying and setting him up.

  Instead, she took a deliberate step forward with a defiant look on her face, actually pressing her forehead against the end of the silencer, "You won't kill me. I'm a little old lady–"

  Pfffft.

  Jacomina Maggio's head jerked back hard, the bullet hole evident in her forehead. Her body went stiff as a board and a heartbeat later the woman who had interfered in Rocco's business fell backward to the floor with a soft thud.

  Rocco glanced both ways down the hallway, making sure no one had heard the sound and came out to investigate. He then took a step forward and walked over the body into the apartment. Setting the silenced pistol down on the floor, he reached down and grabbed the old lady by the shoulders, pulling the body away from the door so he could shut it. Grabbing the pistol, he stepped across to the bedroom and made sure no one else was at home. No one was under the bed. Checking the closet, he moved the clothing aside to make sure no one was hiding. Stripping the top blanket from the bed, he went back and spread it out on the floor beside old lady Maggio. Setting the pistol on the floor again, he knelt down and rolled her body onto the blanket. Wrapping the blanket around her, he hoisted the bundle over his shoulder, picked up his weapon and cracked the door open. I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles was still the only sound on the third floor and it accompanied him all the way back down the stairs.

  LITTLE RACALMUTO

  The neighborhood was named after Racalmuto in Southern Italy when the entire Sicilian village had emigrated and settled in Hamilton. They had left behind a tough life for the promises of a better future. Most only found a tough working-class life, little better than what they had left behind.

  The sun was just peeking over the houses on the other side of Murray Street West as fourteen-year-old Angela Provenzano and her twelve-year-old sister Sophia slipped out the front door of the two-story, wood-frame home. They carefully pulled the door closed, giggling as they did. Turning, they began to tiptoe across the wide veranda. Sophia froze and a second later began screaming. Angela looked at her sister and then turned to look at where she was pointing. She began screaming as well.

  Frantic footsteps began pounding down the stairs back inside the house.

  A moment later, Roman Provenzano ran out onto the veranda, dressed only in his underwear and carrying a handgun. He looked in a panic at his hysterical daughters, "What's wrong?"

  Both daughters continued screaming as they pointed at an angle upward.

  Provenzano spun in the direction they were pointing, bringing his weapon up to shoot...and froze.

  Provenzano's wife hurtled outside, her flannel nightgown swirling around her ankles as she grabbed her youngest daughter in fright. Her eyes followed her daughter's horrified gaze and pointing finger...and she brought her hands to her mouth in utter shock, "Oh mio Dio! Aunt Maggio!"

  Hanging from the wide, wooden support post on the right side of the verandah stairs was Jacomina Maggio, her hands nailed cross-like to the roof's inside cross beam.

  Mrs. Provenzano made the sign of the cross, "Who would do such a thing?" She turned her attention to her daughters who were now crying inconsolably. Wrapping her arms around the youngest, she turned her away from the sight.

  The youngster's legs were wooden and she stumbled on the doorstep as her mother tried to guide her back inside the house.

  Roman Provenzano ran down the front steps and into the street, looking both ways, hoping to find the culprit, wanting to find the culprit and kill him.

  Neighbors were beginning to run from their houses, looking for the source of the screams and cries.

  Mrs. Provenzano called to her husband from the doorway where she still struggled to get her stricken youngest daughter inside, "Roman. You're daughter Angela. Get her away from the sight."

  Provenzano looked to his oldest, crying hysterically as she stared at the body hanging high inside their veranda. He looked back down the street, his jaw grinding in anger as someone passed him, on their way to aid Angela. Someone spoke to Roman but he didn't really hear the words. Anger raged inside his brain. He kept looking for someone to kill for this atrocity to his family. His voice was low as he hissed, "No one does this to my family."

  Chapter 25

  ROCCO HELD BESHA'S HAND as he guided her up the front steps of an old apartment building a block away from their own apartment. The entire street was empty and quiet, the cold wind biting savagely through even heavy clothing and keeping everyone inside.

  Besha was puzzled as she pulled her coat collar up around her neck, "Where are we going? What're we doing here? I have work to do at the distillery, Rocco. We need the money."

  Rocco didn't answer as he pulled the front door open and led her inside. The lobby inside was old but the paint wasn't peeling like their own building. The smell of old wood was evident under the aroma of spaghetti sauce drifting from the hallway ahead. Rocco stomped the snow from his boots and then led her past the stairs heading upward to the six floors above.

  "Rocco? What...?" Besha's voice echoed down the dimly lit hallway as her husband pulled her by the hand behind him.

  Rocco stopped at the first door on the right, Apartment 2. He winked as he dug into a pocket, fished out a key and opened the door.

  Besha spoke in a hushed voice, "Where'd you get that key?" She glanced up and down the hallway.

  Rocco took her hand again and led her inside.

  Besha placed a hand on the door jamb and held on, "You're not taking me to rob a place are you?"

  Rocco laughed softly as he gently pulled her inside and closed the door behind her. Then he stood beside her and swept his hand across the apartment, "What do you think of it?'

  Besha looked around, puzzled. The bare apartment consisted of a small living room, a small kitchen off to the right and a short hallway dead ahead. The wallpaper was a floral design in shades of grays, greens, browns, pinks, yellow and creams on a pale blue-green background. The wooden floor-boards were faded and scuffed. The bare windows on the right wall looked out over the street in front of the apartment building.

  "Well...?"

  Besha shrugged slightly and whispered, afraid someone would hear her, "It's nice but–"

  Rocco took her hand and led her boldly into the kitchen area where he pointed at a large cast iron stove, "Look at the size of that thing. We'll be able to make tons of hot water in no time."

  Besha looked at him, "What do you mean we? Why would we do that? We came into someone's place to make hot water?"

  Rocco led her out of the kitchen area and into the short hall, "There's a bedroom at the end. And look at this tub."

  Besha looked through an open doorway on the right to see a large, cast iron tub sitting beside a toilet. "I don't understand...."

  "This is our new place."

  Besha looked at Rocco, "What do you mean...?"

  Rocco took her back to the living area and swept his hand around, "This is our new place. Angelo Controni's father is the building superintendent here–"

  "Angelo? The worker in our distillery...?"

  "Yeah. His father got the job last year. Angelo lives with him in Apartment 1 and when Apartment 2 came vacant, Angelo let me know."

  Besha looked around, "And...this whole thing is ours...?"

  "Yeah. Considering what's been happening, I feel safer getting out of our old place and moving here–"

  Besha threw her hands around Rocco's neck and gave him
a hug and then a kiss. Then she broke it off, "But...can we afford it...?"

  Rocco shrugged and looked into her eyes, "It's $45 a month. You tell me, you do the books."

  Besha blinked and then smiled, "Oh, yeah. Right. The distillery and...I'm so used to being without...." She turned and moved into the kitchen again, "When do we move the table and chairs in?"

  "We're not," Rocco said, "I don't want to go back there. We'll go to that store over on John Street. They have some nice, used-furniture there and I'll bring it here with the truck."

  "Really? Can I go and pick it out? We've never done that before, everything was given to us by friends."

  "Or what I found on the street," Rocco added. "And just to let you know, Gianni and Andrea are waiting down in Apartment 4. Mr. Controni's made a deal with the people to move upstairs to another vacant apartment."

  Besha was excited, "So they'll be living next door?"

  "Yeah, I didn't want to leave them on their own after they took care of us. Now let's go get them...so you can go buy some furniture."

  Besha put her hands to her mouth and jumped up and down like a little girl.

  ROCCO AND GIANNI WATCHED with delight as Besha and Andrea scurried away among the mass of used furniture as soon as they entered the large, used furniture store.

  Gianni shoved his hands into his dungarees as they walked, "Thanks for doing this, Rocco. I really appreciate it."

  "No problem. We'll probably have to make a couple of trips with the furniture if–"

  "No, I mean the whole thing. No one wants to hire a guy who spent the last two years in Kingston Pen. Without you and Besha and the job in the distillery...and now we get this big place....I don't know what me and Andrea would be doing."

  "I'm sure you would have done okay." He saw Besha talking to a man and tilted his head, "Besha doesn't look too happy with that guy."

  Gianni looked down the aisle of furniture and saw the women talking to a moon-faced man, "Uh-huh. I've seen Andrea with her arms crossed like that when she's mad at me. The guy's liable to lose his manhood if he's not careful."