King of the Bootleggers Read online

  The man flipped through the pages, paused at one, shook his head no and moved on. "Ah, here we are," glasses man said finally. His finger thumped on the page and then slid down it as he read the information it contained,"Yes, yes. This is the one you're asking about. I remember this one. Property had several buildings on it."

  "Several?" asked Besha.

  "Yes, that's what it says here," the man answered as he swept his hand across the book page. "First concession, Lot 721, Owner had apparently died. Another man wanted to buy it–"

  "Do you know who the man was?" a surprised Maria asked. She glanced at Besha.

  "Yes, we have all the particulars." He opened up one of two pieces of paper that were sitting between the pages and looked it over. He had trouble pronouncing the name, "Genesio Marino–"

  "Marino? He tried to buy it?" Maria asked.

  The man looked at her over his glasses, "I think that's what I said." His eyes went back to the book.

  Maria leaned her head closer to Besha's and whispered, "He must've been trying to make it legal after Rocco told him he could have the Paradise Club."

  The man glanced back up, "What's that?"

  Maria shook her head, "Nothing."

  The man returned his eyes to the book, "As I said, he wanted to buy the property. But before he could do that, he had to prove that there were no heirs to the property. That's right, that's why it couldn't close. There was no documentation."

  Besha and Maria looked at each other, now worried their plans were going to fail.

  "But...if I remember correctly...," the man said slowly. He opened up the second piece of paper. "Ah yes. Mr. Marino did come back and supply us with the required legal documentation. There were no heirs...including back in Italy...it's all right here." The man looked up at Besha and Maria, "Which means Mr. Marino will be able to buy the property."

  "But we're here now," Besha said.

  Glasses-man shrugged, "All he had to do is bring the money to finalize the deal. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do ladies–"

  "He's dead," Besha said promptly.

  Startled, glasses-man raised his eyebrows, "Pardon?"

  Maria leaned closer to glasses-man and whispered, "He was one of those two men shot at the courthouse."

  The man blinked, staring at Maria for a moment. Then he looked down at his folded newspaper, "You're right. I do remember a particular name sounding familiar when I was reading my newspaper this morning. It had another article on that recent shooting." He leaned his head closer to the two women, "Terrible business that. What's the world coming to when a man...when two men can be shot in the middle of our city?"

  Besha and Maria agreed with the man on the terrible atrocity that was being committed in such a modern city. Then Besha leaned in and whispered, "I don't mean to be crass...but does that mean we can buy the property? I mean...if he's dead...?"

  The man looked startled again and then he looked down at the property book, "Well...yes...I guess you can. It will probably be put up at auction eventually...."

  "How much?" Maria asked anxiously.

  The man adjusted his glasses and ran his finger over the page, "Well...we have 119 acres–"

  It was Besha's turned to be startled, "How much did you say? 119 acres?"

  The man looked up and nodded, "Yes. Yes, I did. Many of the lots on the outside of town consist of very large plots of land. Many of the farmers who first came to this country received a hundred or two hundred acres–"

  "How much?" Maria asked again slowly, dreading the answer.

  The man returned his eyes to the book, "Let's see...it was valued at...let's see...$15,000."

  Maria was startled, "$15,000?"

  Besha acted quickly. She wasn't going to pass up the opportunity and dug into her purse eagerly, pulling out a roll of cash. Her mouthed moved as she silently counted off the bills and then she handed a thick wad over to the startled clerk.

  The man took the cash in hand, counted it and then looked at Besha over his glasses, a surprised look on his face. He leaned closer and whispered, "Do you think it really wise to carry that much cash around with you?"

  Besha shrugged, "You never know when you go shopping and find a bargain and you just have to have it. Right?"

  RECEIPT FOR THE PROPERTY in hand, Besha and Maria left the land office and scurried down the street towards the streetcar.

  "I can't believe you had all that money on you," an astonished Maria said.

  Besha had a worried look on her face, "It's the money to pay the bill for the supplies to make the whiskey. The salesman will be in bright and early to collect. I have no idea what we're going to do now."

  "You'll think of something, you always do," Maria said encouragingly.

  Besha brightened, her eyes glittering, "I have an idea. When that young salesman comes calling, while I talk to him, you get on your knees...."

  Maria looked at her, wondering what she was talking about. Then she got a look of shock on her face and slapped Besha playfully on the arm, "You've got such a dirty mind."

  Besha laughed.

  Maria made her a counter offer, "How about I talk to him and you get on your knees in front of him."

  Besha shrugged, "I just heard you were better at it and I think he should have the best. It is a lot of money...."

  A look of shock crossed Maria's face again and she slapped Besha playfully on the arm.

  Chapter 41

  Town of Hespeler

  THE HIRAM BROTHERS DISTILLERY was contained inside a large and sturdy stone building in a long line of stone buildings along the picturesque Speed River. Snow two feet deep covered the entrance roadway and the surrounding open ground between the bare trees. A snow drift four feet high had been piled by the wind against the front entrance.

  Rocco and Bruno struggled through the snow to get to the line of windows on this side of the building. The windows were frosted over and Rocco used the side of his fist to apply body heat to melt a spot and he peered inside. "It looks like the equipment is still inside. At least, I think that's what's under those sheets."

  Bruno struggled in the snow to look through the peephole Rocco had made in the frost, "I think so too."

  Rocco rubbed his hands together vigorously to warm them, "Any idea where we can find the owner."

  "When I was waiting for a load one time, I asked one of the men about these stone buildings. He told me how they used stone because there was a lot of it around the fields here. He said the boss had a house of stone as well. He pointed in that direction."

  Rocco looked at where he was pointing, "Bruno, I see a whole line of stone buildings going around the bend in the road. That's a needle in a haystack."

  Bruno looked down the road, considering what Rocco was saying. Then he shook his head, "Those aren't houses. He said a house."

  "Right. Like that still helps. C'mon, let's go see if we can find the needle."

  THEY FOUND A LARGE stone house a mile around the bend beyond the other buildings. The driveway off the main road wasn't plowed but there was a faint light in one of the front windows. Rocco knocked at the front door and waited. His nose was running from the numbing cold that had descended and he wiped his sleeve under it, "I should have worn a heavier coat but I don't have one."

  "Some of your whiskey would have been better," Bruno said as he stamped his feet to keep warm.

  "True," Rocco agreed with a shivering smile. He knocked again but there was still no answer. Turning to the right, Rocco trudged through the snow to look towards the back of the house. There was a large wooden barn and several outbuildings spread out around the back of the house. The snowdrifts were untouched and there was no mark of human activity anywhere.

  Bruno stepped to the door and pounded hard and loud and then stepped back away as Rocco came back around.

  A few minutes later, a man in his seventies, wearing heavy black-wool pants held up by wide red braces over a thick woolen shirt, opened the door.

  "That's him," Bruno
said from behind Rocco.

  The man narrowed his eyes and then pointed a crooked finger at Bruno, "You're the fella used to come up from down Hamilton way. What are you doing here? Didn't your boss tell you we closed? Have a nice trip home."

  Rocco placed a hand on the edge of the door as the man tried to close it, "Mr. Hiram, I'd like to talk to you about buying the equipment in your distillery–"

  "Not for sale."

  Rocco held firm on the door, "How about selling the whole place then?"

  "Not for sale," Hiram said.

  "But...if you're not using it...?"

  Hiram gave an apologetic shrug, "I have a son. He may want to run the place someday. He's a gadfly right now...artist type over in Europe. I guess I made a lot of money and spoiled him the way I support what he wants to do on account of his late mother, God rest her soul...."

  Rocco was too cold and too impatient to put up with the man's meandering take, "How about if I pay you to use the place, to make whiskey–?"

  "Why? You can't sell it. Most every where's gone dry or ain't you heard? And even if you have a place where you can sell it, those damn–" He bit his tongue but there was no mistaking his bitterness.

  "Let me worry about that. Can we step inside and talk? It's cold out here...."

  Hiram scratched the stubble on his face and then moved away, leaving the door open.

  Rocco and Bruno were inside in a flash, closing the door against the cold and following the old man across to a roaring stone fireplace.

  Hiram took a seat in a large chair and indicated three others fanned around the warmth of the fire.

  Bruno sat down.

  Rocco stood near the fireplace and held his hands towards the fire "Thanks for letting us in. This has been one cold winter."

  Hiram nodded his head as he reached for a pipe sitting on the small table beside him. He picked up a stick and began to clean the pipe bowl out, dropping the ashes on the floor beside him.

  Rocco broached the subject again, "As I said, Mr. Hiram, if you're not willing to sell the business or the equipment then I can pay you plenty to rent the place–"

  "Still not interested. I don't want to get into an argument, trying to get you out when my son comes home," the old man said. He picked up a pouch of tobacco and began stuffing tobacco into the pipe bowl, "Besides, I don't need all those ladies again coming around here bothering me." He jabbed the pipe up towards Rocco, "And they will bother me, if I let you use the place." He cursed under his breath and reached for a match sitting on the table. Sliding the match head roughly across the top of the table, it flared into flame and he put it to his pipe.

  Rocco rubbed his hands together and tried to figure out some tactic he could use.

  Hiram looked at Bruno as he puffed away on his pipe, "You don't talk much do you?"

  "Only when I have something to say," Bruno answered.

  The old man grunted and gave a wry smile as he clenched the pipe between his teeth, "If you ask me, more people would be better off being like you."

  Rocco needed help and he had an idea, "Mr. Hiram, you have a telephone?"

  Hiram looked up at Rocco, "Telephone?" He gestured to an archway, "Wife put one in the sitting room before she died. Not sure why since we never called anybody."

  "Do you mind if I use it?" The man gestured his okay and Rocco reached into his pocket as he headed into the sitting room. He had the number for the distillery and he was quickly connected.

  "Hello?"

  Before Rocco could speak person on the other end started talking to someone else.

  "What? Oh, right...Glen Gael Distillery."

  "Put Besha on."

  "May I ask who's calling?"

  Rocco was losing his patience, "Just put Besha on the damn telephone."

  There was a fumbling and then, "Hello?"

  "Besha? It's Rocco."

  "What's wrong? You sound agitated."

  "No kidding. Look, I found the place up here, just like Bruno said. All the equipment is inside under white sheets. The problem is old man Hiram won't sell me the equipment or the place. He wants to keep it, in case his son wants to run the place. He's an artist over in Europe somewhere–"

  "How about renting it?"

  "No. Tried that. Didn't work."

  Besha swore, "Cipriano's man was in here two hours ago. Rocco...he brought the money."

  "He did? Cipriano didn't wire it–?"

  "No. It's in three big suitcases sitting here in the office. Rocco...I've never seen that kind of money."

  Rocco was surprised. The man had kept his word.

  "We've got money now, Rocco. Maybe if you offered Hiram more...."

  "Dammit, Besha. How can I offer him more when he won't talk price in the first place?"

  Besha swore. "Well, we have to do something, Rocco. Little Jack called again. I told him I'd start shipping again–"

  "How the hell are you going to do that?"

  "I talked to old man Kippen. He said some people cut the whiskey with water–"

  Rocco swore, "You can't do that, Besha. That's what they're doing down there once they get it. The taste will be so watered down once they do it, they'll know."

  "Kippen says they'll cut it three or four times, so what's one more?" Besha countered.

  "We can't take the chance and screw up the business," Rocco said firmly.

  "So we just do it until we get the equipment then. We have to do something or someone else steps in."

  Rocco grudgingly agreed they had no choice. He glanced over to the other room and lowered his voice, "Why don't you send some of the boys up in the trucks and we'll just take the equipment–"

  "Can't. They're tied up. Cipriano's man is working with us right now to take all the cases Cuba hijacked to the train yard. They're going to work through the night. Cipriano's man is sending it all to Toronto by boxcar."

  "Boxcar? That's slick, I never thought of that...."

  "And if you steal all that man's stuff up there, who do you think the police go looking for first? The two men who showed up on Mr. Hiram's doorstep trying to buy it, that's who. It's too risky."

  Rocco nodded, "Yeah. I thought of that. I just thought you might see some way around it." Rocco clenched his jaw, "All that money and we still can't buy what we need."

  "Why did he close? The law or....?"

  "Those temperance ladies hounded him from the sound of it." Rocco lowered his voice, "Maybe...maybe I just bury his body somewhere...."

  "Let me talk to him first. Maybe I can figure something out. Let me try."

  Rocco thought about it for a minute and then set the telephone down. He stepped into the archway, "Mr. Hiram? My wife would like to talk to you on the telephone."

  "Me?" The old man puffed on his pipe for a moment and then got up. He walked past Rocco and picked up the telephone with his left hand as he puffed on this pipe using his right, "Yeah?"

  "Mr. Hiram. I'm Besha, Rocco's wife–"

  "What you want to talk to me for? I already told your man I ain't selling...or renting."

  Besha was hesitant, "Rocco...my husband...tells me your son is in Europe. He's an artist, is that right?"

  Hiram hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Then he realized she couldn't see him, "Yes, yes he is."

  "You must've been worried about him through the war."

  Hiram took a deep breath, "Yeah, he's all I got left."

  "I was worried when Rocco was serving in the Army, wondering if he was ever going to come back." Besha was trying to find some common ground. Something she could work from.

  Hiram glanced towards Rocco, "He served?"

  "Yes."

  Puffing on his pipe, Hiram kept his eyes on Rocco, "I wanted to serve. Too old though, you know...."

  "Mr. Hiram, this is Rocco's opportunity. He came back after serving and found it tough to get a job. A lot of young men came back and found the same thing. And we have a place where we can sell the whiskey we make. We just need to expand."

 
; Hiram listened as he puffed on his pipe, "But I like I told your man, if...when my son wants to come back and–"

  "–if your son does come back...and he does want to take over the business...how does he do that if the Women's Christian Temperance Union made you stop? Do you think they'll be any different towards your son, Mr. Hiram? What then?"

  The old man blinked as he puffed slowly on the pipe. It was obviously something he had never thought about. His voice was quiet as he spoke, "I was so intent on passing the business on to my son...I never thought...."

  "I can understand. A man wants to pass something he built on to his son, I understand that. But with the way things are...." She let that sink in. "Mr. Hiram, if we just buy the equipment from you, you will still have the building. Your son will have the money to start whatever he wants. Something that he won't be bothered over."

  Hiram nodded, more to himself than to anyone else.

  "Perhaps we could work out a price. How much whiskey were you making?"

  "Oh, about 200 bottles a day."

  "That's all?" The disappointment was evident in Besha's tone.

  Rocco also heard the figure and his own disappointment felt like a stone in his stomach. 200 bottles?

  Hiram puffed on his pipe vigorously, "Yeah, the government stopped all alcohol production during the war. And then when we started up again after...well...that temperance movement was quite active up here. I just wanted to keep the equipment primed and in good running shape."

  "I see."

  Wiping the back of his hand across his nose, Hiram looked up, thinking, "Way back when my brother was still alive we brought in lots of rye, a crop easy to get round these parts...and we used to turn out 4,000 cases every day."

  That startled Besha, "Really? So...you have equipment for 4,000 cases–?"

  Rocco felt his elation rise. He took a step across the floor.

  "Oh no," Hiram interjected. He puffed on his pipe looking down at the floor, "Me and Clarence were ambitious. We never set it all up and most of it is still in storage. But we have the equipment to turn out...oh...12,000 cases of prime rye whiskey a day."