King of the Bootleggers Read online

  Ox knew what was happening and he reached for his weapon. "Look out," he yelled.

  Men poured from both cars, armed with handguns and shotguns.

  Gino was half turned as he reached for the handgun underneath his suit jacket. He never made it. His body jerked as bullets ripped into him.

  Ox got his weapon out and fired. Two of the men in the street went down before bullets tore into Ox, knocking him backward.

  Rosa screamed and turned, stretching her hands out to her brother. Her head exploded in blood and gore from two shotgun blasts.

  Roberto moved in front of his wife Dorothea and took .32, .45 and .455 caliber bullets to the chest and stomach. Pearl buttons on his suit coat and vest shattered and blood stained the material.

  Dorothea screamed and fell backward as her husband's body toppled against her.

  Cesare Tiepolo went to his wife's aid, "Rosa–!" Bullets ripped through his body as he bent over her and he collapsed in a bloody heap on top of her.

  Ox rolled over on the plank sidewalk and found himself looking into the open, surprised eyes of his sister. Little else was left of her head. He spun around and scrambled for the door of the restaurant as bullets tore into his buttocks and legs. Knowing he wasn't going to have time to pull the door open, Ox took a painful step to the side and ran hard, launching himself forward and crashing through one of the restaurant's windows. His body landed on a table decorated for Christmas and the tablecloth beneath him slid as he pulled everything off when he crashed to the floor on the other side. He became aware of people screaming around him as bullets tore into the restaurant, looking for him. He raised an arm and aimed his handgun towards the street, pulling the trigger again and again. Bullets continued to rain through the broken window as the men in the street advanced. Ox heard the door to the restaurant bang back against the wall and he spun around on the floor, aiming his weapon in that direction.

  A woman hiding behind a table twenty feet to his right, stood up with her hands at her face, screaming. Her screams were cut off abruptly as a shotgun blast tore her in two.

  Ox pulled the trigger and his bullet tore into the eye of the first man he saw. Then his gun clicked. It clicked again. Ox swore as he desperately searched in his pockets for more bullets.

  Several more armed men came crashing through the door, turned and opened fire.

  Ox Moreschi yelled defiantly at the top of his lungs as bullets tore into his body. He found a handful of bullets and started to reload. A shotgun blast ended his fight.

  OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, one of the men approached Dorothea Tiepolo, desperately trying to get out from beneath her husband's body. She froze in absolute fear as the man stopped right beside her.

  The man reached down calmly, grabbed the bloody clothing of Roberto Tiepolo and rolled him off his wife.

  Dorothea Tiepolo held her hands up in fear, pushing the heels of her shoes against the bloody planks and desperately trying to push herself away. Her head bumped into the wall of the restaurant, stopping her.

  The man grabbed the bottom of Dorothea's ruffled dress and pushed it upwards, leaving it just above her knees.

  Dorothea cried out in horror, imagining the man was going to rape her right there in the street.

  The man straightened up and looked down, "Bring our personal season's greetings to Mr. DeLuca." He then lifted the handgun and placed a bullet in each of her knees.

  Chapter 32

  Gore Park Police Station

  "THIS IS NOT GOOD, GENTLEMEN." Chief Constable Denton Wherley threw the newspaper forcefully down on his desk. "We have another shooting, with eight dead and seven wounded at Adelardi Ristorante in the North End. And this massacre takes place on Christmas day no less. It's totally unacceptable."

  Inspector Rufford Crawley, from the James Street Police Station, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "According to my constables, witnesses said the shooting started when two couples waiting outside the restaurant were joined by a second couple. Two cars of gunmen appeared suddenly and gunned them down."

  Wherley moved aside the newspaper, picked up his copy of the report and leafed through it, "The attack included pursuing one of the men inside the restaurant, where they killed him. There was absolutely no regard for the lives of our good citizens in the way of their dastardly act."

  Crawley nodded as he looked over his own report, "The man they pursued was Alessandro Moreschi, also known as Ox. He took out three of the men with his own weapon before they killed him."

  Inspector Finn Moore, from the Barton Street Police Station, shook his head as he read one of the pages in the report, "Alessandro Moreschi and the other man he was with, Gino Crivelli, served three years in Kingston penitentiary for robbing a bank in Montréal. He was also carrying a weapon but never had the chance to use it."

  Wherley passed his hand over a page in the report, "The two couples who were waiting for them outside the restaurant, this Cesare Tiepolo and his wife Rosa, and this Roberto Tiepolo and his wife Dorothea. They all had no criminal records?"

  Crawley shook his head no, "Not a single encounter with the constabulary from what we can see. And they were life-long Hamiltonians. They are...were... law-abiding citizens."

  "I would say Moreschi and Crivelli were the intended targets," Moore said.

  "The fact Dorothea Tiepolo was shot in both knees and not killed tells me this whole thing was all about sending a message to someone," Crawley surmised.

  Wherley nodded his head, "I agree. Like the message of the little old lady nailed to that house."

  Inspector Finn Moore looked across at Crawley, "Looks like you have some kind of gang war going on in the North End–"

  "And what about you?" Wherley thundered. He grabbed an old newspaper from the corner of the desk and threw it across to Moore, "What about that headline, Inspector? Five men, six women and three children killed in a shooting at the Little Italy Club and Banquet Hall in Hess Village. That's your backyard." He thumped a finger heavily on the desk, "And once again, we have the report of a Thompson submachine gun being used."

  Moore looked down at the newspaper without a word.

  "It looks like we have some kind of gang war going on in two sections of the city," Wherley yelled. "Do we have anything? Any witness in either case?"

  "No one is talking," Crawley said. "These Italian neighborhoods are very closed-mouth. If anyone knows who did the shooting, they're not telling us."

  "He's right," Moore said. "The only two men who were outside the banquet hall were killed. Everyone else was inside."

  "Did they see anyone before they went inside the banquet hall?" Wherley asked.

  "Everyone we interviewed denied seeing anything."

  Wherley shook his head in frustration.

  "But the two men who were killed outside the banquet hall were known to several of our constables," Moore said. "They worked as bagmen in Hess Village for Roman Provenzano."

  Wherley perked up, "Isn't that the name connected to the Jacomina Maggio shooting?"

  "That's correct. It was his home that she was nailed to."

  "Now we're getting somewhere," Wherley said as he sat up straighter.

  "The problem is we've tried to find Mr. Provenzano, so we could talk to him."

  Wherley shook his head in frustration, "Why can't find him?"

  "His wife says she doesn't know where he is. And if anyone else knows, they're not talking."

  "Maybe we threaten to take the wife's children away. Make her talk," Wherley said.

  "I can try, but I doubt that's going to work," Moore answered reluctantly

  Wherley looked at Crawley, "Is there any connection between Provenzano and the two men who were targeted and killed at that restaurant? Or any of the others who were shot?"

  "Nothing we could find," Crawley answered. "We talked to their families but they also claim not to know anything."

  "Of course not." After a moment, he pulled a drawer open and pulled out a report containing half a dozen pages. H
e tossed it to the other side of the desk, "I reached out to the Canadian Army regarding the Thompson submachine gun that was used at the Marsala Ristorante shooting."

  Crawley reached out and picked up the report, "Did they have any information on it that could help?"

  Moore leaned over and read the pages as Crawley flipped through them.

  "The war ended before the project to okay that weapon for use by the troops was completed," Wherley said. "One of the weapons was being tested by a Sergeant Leonard Kevin Buxton. The army assumes he took the weapon with him because they can't find it in the armory where the tests took place."

  "Did they have an address for this Buxton?" Moore asked. "This is probably our guy. Or at least a connection to the shooter–"

  "He lived in Niagara Falls. But he was found dead on a farm in Apple Hill."

  Moore looked across at the Chief Constable, "Apple Hill? That's between here and the Falls. What happened?"

  "The farm was owned by the family of one of Buxton's old army buddies, Joe Kirkwood," Wherley explained. "Buxton was found near the barn at the back of the house. He was killed by a blow to the head. The barn was burned to the ground and Kirkwood and a dozen other men were shot to death."

  Moore and Crawley exchange glances.

  "It was late at night and no one in the small village saw anything. But the sounds of the gunfire they heard...."

  Crawley nodded his head in understanding, "Someone used the Thompson submachine gun, that Buxton took from the Army, to kill them all."

  Moore scratched his chin, "Did the constabulary investigators have any idea why Buxton and the others were killed?"

  Wherley shook his head no, "But they did say Buxton and Kirkwood were well known to the force in the area. They were into bootlegging, breaking legs...they'd do pretty well anything for a buck."

  "Sounds like they tried to break the wrong legs," Crawley said.

  "Maybe it was one of Buxton's crew who turned on him," Moore surmised. "And now he's operating in Hamilton."

  "That's a possibility," Wherley agreed, "I've asked for a list of Buxton's and Kirkwood's known associates. Once we have that, we'll have a good start on finding our shooter. I want this man taken off our streets and locked up for good, gentlemen."

  Chapter 33

  ROCCO, TONY, AND GIANNI stood at the back of the local hall where the mass wake was being held. The families, loved ones, and friends of the slain were crying and wailing. The bodies lay around the room in the wooden coffins the local handyman had quickly put together. Several priests moved among the mourning, offering comfort and condolences.

  "I can't believe they got both Gino and Ox," Gianni whispered as he looked over the scene. "I always thought those two were indestructible, especially when they were together."

  "The constables at the scene interviewed witnesses who say they saw them walking towards the restaurant with two women just before the shooting took place," said Tony in a low voice. "Carolers on the corner said Ox's sister and the others were standing in front of the restaurant in the cold for maybe ten minutes before it happened."

  "Those two broads were lucky to get away," Gianni reasoned.

  "No, there should've been eight bodies," Rocco said.

  "He's right," Tony agreed. "I heard the lead investigator on the case say the men attacked just as the two broads moved away. And they didn't just go after Ox and Gino and eliminate the others as witnesses. They went after them all at once. But they didn't go after the broads just a few doors down the street."

  "Maybe they ran out of bullets," Gianni offered.

  Tony looked at him sternly, "Don't be naïve. All the eyewitnesses say the shooter stood over Dorothea and could have shot her to death. Instead, he puts a bullet in each knee. Dorothea Tiepolo is gonna have trouble walking for the rest of her life. Provenzano was sending a message straight to us."

  Rocco clenched his jaw hard, "I'll have Besha visit her. We'll send her money every month to help out as long as we can...if she'll accept it."

  "She didn't have much good to say when the constables interviewed her," Tony added.

  "Are the coppers going to be talking to us?" Gianni asked.

  Tony shook his head no as he turned to look in the direction of a loud wail that arose on the other side of the room for a moment, "The constable investigating really doesn't have anything to go on. Dorothea is pissed at us but she kept her mouth shut. She only told that me the man told her to relay the message to Rocco DeLuca before he fired. The constable will eventually tie Ox and Gino to the neighborhood, but he won't get very far."

  "I can't wait to get my hands on Provenzano," Gianni hissed. He looked at Tony, "The coppers figure out the names of the ones who got away yet?"

  Tony shook his head no, "The dead guys didn't have anything on them to say who they were. And if any of the witnesses knew who the others were, no one is saying anything. The constables didn't push a lot, figuring they're all probably too scared to talk."

  "So we go talk to them and see what we can find out," Gianni said.

  Tony looked at Gianni, "Like your talking to them would help them help them feel safer. No, they probably didn't see any faces. I'm pretty sure once the gunfire started everyone was trying to hide their asses. They weren't interested in looking at who was doing the shooting; they just wanted to get the hell out of the way."

  "So we go after Provenzano and take him out," Gianni said harshly.

  "Provenzano's gone underground," Rocco said. "Nobody's seen him since old lady Maggio showed up at his door."

  Gianni laughed, "I couldn't believe it when I read in the newspaper what he found. It was a nice touch, Rocco."

  Rocco remained grim-faced and serious.

  After a few moments of silence, Tony asked Rocco, "Did you hear from Little Jack yet?"

  Rocco shook his head as he stared at the grieving people in the wake, "Cuba has taken seven boatloads of Greenshields whiskey headed for Buffalo since he started. Monterosso must be getting desperate by now because they were trying to get four boatloads through the last two days before Christmas. Still no calls, though."

  "How much did they have in each boat?" Gianni asked.

  "Cuba brought back 2,000 cases from each boat."

  Tony whistled, "At the fifty bucks per case that Monterosso was paying us, that's.... Shit. That's $700,000!"

  Gianni's jaw dropped, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

  "Problem is, it's piling up at the warehouse," Rocco revealed. "We've got more than enough to push into the bootleg market in the North End and to Vitale up in Cherry Heights. But without the Americans buying...."

  Both Tony and Gianni cursed. The profit possibilities were enormous. "So what do we do?" Gianni asked finally. "Maybe we find other American markets....?"

  "I thought of that, but I have no idea where to start," Rocco admitted.

  Tony shook his head, "Yeah, I guess you just don't cross over the river and start knocking on doors."

  "So we take over Provenzano's territory too," Gianni offered.

  "We gotta find him first," Rocco said angrily, "as long as the head is alive, the snake's body keeps coming after us."

  "I've got my ears open, Rocco," Tony said defensively.

  "I know," Rocco said. "But we can't just wait around. I'm gonna step up the operation against the Frenchies, convince them to back away."

  Gianni looked at Tony and then at Rocco, "How do we do that?"

  "For one thing, Cuba has put together a nice little navy for himself with all those boats he's hijacked from the Frenchies," Rocco said. "I'm thinking of sending Cuba up the St. Lawrence to see if we can intercept some more of Greenshields' whiskey heading to the United States."

  The entrance door behind them opened and closed.

  Rocco and the boys turned to look at who was walking in.

  It was Tommaso Giachetti.

  Gianni's face took on a look of puzzlement as he looked at what Tommy had in his hand, "What in the hell are you carrying?"<
br />
  Tommy smiled and held it up, "It's a violin case."

  Gianni exchanged surprised glances with Tony. "What? You're taking up the violin now? Are you nuts? At a time like this?"

  Rocco stepped over and put his hands around Tommy's shoulder, "The kind of music he plays with the instrument inside that violin case, will make the Frenchies sit up and take notice."

  Inside the violin case, the Thompson submachine gun was disassembled into its main components of receiver, stock, fore grip and magazine.

  Chapter 34

  Montreal, Quebec, Canada

  TWO WEEKS INTO JANUARY, Tommaso Giachetti was ready. Keith Greenshields III have proven to be a man of habit. And that offered Tommy the best opportunity to make a point for Rocco. The Greenshields & Sons Distillery had proven to be too much in the open. No matter how Tommy had tried to plan things, it was just too risky. The local constabulary had a station near the docks where the building sat, as did the Montréal Water Police. Easy escape by land or water would be difficult. But following Greenshields home a number of times set the perfect plan in motion. He had a stately house in the Westmount area, an affluent English section of Montréal. Greenshields had a wife, five daughters aged eleven to nineteen, a live-in maid and a live-in butler. More than enough people to scare silly and put pressure on the master of the house.

  TOMMY HAD FOUND A 1915 Oldsmobile Model 42 with a black engine hood, black top, and red doors. The doors were low and offered the perfect base of operations for his task. The old man who owned it was surprised when the would-be buyer never even haggled when he started the negotiations high. And it was cash on the barrel.

  TOMMY WAITED UNTIL midnight to be sure the streets would be clear and quiet. After a nice meal without any liquor to keep his head clear, Tommy drove the Oldsmobile into Westmount. The air was cold and a light snow drifted down. Stopping just down the street from his target on the left, Tommy reached over and opened the violin case that was sitting on the seat beside him. Taking out the components, He slowly and lovingly reassembled the Thompson. When he was finished, the weapon felt good in his hands. Very good. And very comfortable. He had taken it out in the bush in Cootes Paradise back home and practiced with it, learning to take short bursts to keep the weapon level and improving his accuracy. This would prove to be a great test of his new-found skills. He carefully lay the barrel of the submachine gun on the door, his right trigger finger ready while he drove the car forward, steering with his left. He slowly drifted along the cobblestone road towards the house, glancing around to be sure no one was walking nearby. He didn't want to have to kill any witnesses. It would be a waste of bullets needed for his task.