King of the Bootleggers Read online

  "That looks like Mrs. Maggio," Tony said.

  "It is." Rocco called out as they walked, "Mrs. Maggio. What can I do for you? Besha's not home right now."

  The old lady turned and squinted down the hallway. Then she began walking towards the two men. She gestured as she drew closer, "No, no. You have a call, Mr. Rocco. A telephone call."

  Rocco realized she was pointing to the telephone on the wall that was just outside her apartment. It was the only telephone on the entire third floor since people here couldn't afford one of their own. And Mrs. Maggio acted very much like the operator for the people on the third, letting anyone knowing if a call came through for them.

  "Who would be calling you?" Tony asked as he glanced at the handset sitting on top of the black box on the wall.

  Rocco shrugged, "I have no idea. Never had a telephone call before."

  Tony pushed his hat back on his head and looked at the old woman, "Do you know who it is?"

  "What do I look like, a secretary?" cracked the old woman. She never even looked at the two men as she swung her door open and disappeared into her apartment.

  Rocco looked at Tony and shrugged again. Then he stepped over and picked up the handset, "Hello?"

  Tony leaned in to listen to the conversation.

  "Hello, Is this Rocco? Rocco DeLuca?"

  "Yeah. Who's this?"

  "Rocco! It's Matteo Jacurso, it's Little Jack. How are you?"

  "Little Jack? It's been a long time. Where are you?"

  "Buffalo."

  "Buffalo? You're calling me long-distance from Buffalo? Did somebody die?" Rocco glanced at Antonio by placing his hand over the mouthpiece, "Matteo Jacurso. A cousin on my father's side from back home."

  "Yeah, business died," Matteo said. "You heard about the prohibition thing down here?"

  Rocco nodded and realized Matteo couldn't actually see him, "Uh, yeah. I read about it in the newspaper last month."

  "The Volstead Act they call it. Passed on October 28, 1919, one friggin' day before my birthday. Can you believe it? Great birthday present."

  "Yeah. We went dry up here three years ago."

  "But they still let you make booze up there, right? The three breweries we had here got shut down. And Person's whiskey distillery and wholesale distribution center is closed too. We got no way to get at anything down here."

  "Well, most of the guys have shut down here as well. And the ones still operating aren't supposed to sell it to the public. But they do some tricks to get it out on the streets here. Like you can always get a bottle at a drugstore or something," Rocco said.

  "Can you get me some?"

  Rocco looked at Tony and rolled his finger around his temple like the man was crazy, "You call me all the way from Buffalo to get you a bottle of booze?" Rocco tilted the handset so Tony could hear.

  Tony put his ear close, listening.

  "No, no, no. How much can you get me, Rocco?"

  Both Rocco and Tony looked each other, wondering what kind of fool was on the other end of the phone.

  "Look, Rocco, let me spell it out. I work down here for Baby Face Monterosso. He's 'Ndrangheta, like us. He's got two underground nightclubs here and one up the Niagara Falls. But we need booze, Rocco. That's what's what brings the crowds in, booze. That's why I called you. I told Baby Face you could help us. Can you get me some? Come on, Rocco, I know you can."

  Rocco wasn't sure what to say. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at his friend.

  Tony shrugged and whispered, "Ask him how much he needs."

  Rocco thought about it for a moment and then spoke into the phone, "How much do you need?"

  "All you can get me, Rocco. Cases of it–"

  "–cases?"

  "Yeah. We're good for the money, you know that."

  "Yeah, I'm not worried about that," Rocco said, still unsure of where this was going. "How...how do I get it across the border to you–?"

  "I don't know, you figure it out. Bring it across in a boat and I'll meet you on the shore."

  "Where do I get a boat?"

  "I don't know. Steal one. Just get me the booze, Rocco. Just call Exeter 4-5200 when you're ready." The line went dead.

  Rocco slowly put the handset back in the cradle, thinking.

  "So how you gonna get cases of booze, Rocco?" Tony asked.

  Rocco stuck his hands in his pants pockets, unsure of the answer.

  Chapter 3

  TONY GENOVESE AND ROCCO DELUCA entered the front door of Glen Gael Distillery on Sherman Avenue North, where they specialized in Single Malt Scotch Whiskey from 100% malted barley. Tony wore civilian clothes rather than his uniform for this visit. The old, red brick building had a large, brick archway that opened right to the back and they could see the copper stills, stainless tanks of various sizes and other strange equipment that filled the back half of the building. A sour, yeasty smell similar to baking bread permeated the air. Workmen wearing coveralls were rolling wooden barrels across the floor towards other barrels that were stacked high on wooden racks against the old brick wall.

  An older white-bearded man in an apron and wide, black braces over his shoulders, stepped out of a small office area on the right, "Good day, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

  "You the boss here?" Tony asked.

  "My name is Stuart Kippen, I'm the owner."

  Rocco glanced at Tony and decided to get right to the matter, "My friend and me were wondering if we could buy some whiskey from you?"

  Old man Kippen stuck his thumbs under his braces, "Well, this is not a pub you know."

  Rocco's jaw clenched.

  Tony took a quick step forward to make sure the old man didn't lose his teeth, "Look, we're here to buy some cases of whiskey. Entire cases."

  "I see," said Kippen as he grew serious. He turned and stepped back towards the office, "All I need is your purchase order and export license–"

  Tony and Rocco looked at each, not expecting that.

  "What if we don't have a license?" Rocco asked.

  Kippen stopped in the doorway and turned to look back, his thumbs going into his braces again, "Then I'm afraid I can't sell you. You need an export license and you have to pay the customs excise tax before you take any liquor." The man obviously saw the anger on Rocco's face and he raised his hands in defense, "Look, I wish I could help you, I really do. I'm barely staying solvent due to the local chapter of the Women's Christian Temperance Union as it is. But with the law the way it is now, I can only sell to exporters, not that there are many around here. Now, if you were to come back with the proper, legitimate paperwork, showing that you're exporting it to Cuba or Mexico and you pay the excise tax, then we can do business. Otherwise, I'll be put under pressure and out of business by the blasted suffragettes. They're constantly on the local constabulary...well...my hands are tied gentlemen, my hands are tied."

  ROCCO AND TONY WALKED side-by-side across the blocks, back towards their neighborhood. Rocco's face left no doubt he was angry at the rebuttal. It was at least fifteen minutes before he spoke, "So how do we get one of these export licenses? Any idea?"

  Tony just shook his head no.

  "Maybe we could get someone to make up these papers?"

  "Maybe. But I don't even know what they look like," Tony said. "And I don't know any place that has them. Pretty hard to forge something you don't know anything about."

  Rocco was silent as they walked the next two blocks. Finally, he asked, "How does Fat Sal do it?"

  Tony shrugged his shoulders after a moment of thought, "I have no idea. And I don't know anyone in their crew who would tell us. It's not like we're friends with those guys."

  "Maybe he's got something on that old guy back there and he's squeezing him to get his liquor out the back door," offered Rocco. "What do you think?"

  "Maybe. Maybe if I put the uniform on and go back there...."

  "No, I don't want you losing your job," Rocco said. "You and Maria have been good friends–"

&nb
sp; "But that's why I took the job, Rocco, to help us both out."

  Rocco placed a firm hand on his friend's shoulder as they walked, "I know. But right now, I don't see it paying off for either one of us."

  Tony nodded in agreement with his friend's assessment.

  Rocco clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, "But I gotta figure out something, Tony. With Besha being cut back and Fat Sal taking over the protection racket...."

  Tony shook his head in frustration. Being unable to help his friend was unacceptable. He had to find a way to help. Fifteen minutes later he stopped walking and slid his hands into his pants pockets.

  Rocco stopped after a few steps and turned to look back at his friend, "What is it, Tony?"

  Tony didn't answer right away; he just stared off into the distance.

  Rocco watched his friend, wondering what was going on in his mind.

  "I got an idea," Tony said finally as he tapped his temple with a finger. He pointed at Rocco, "I'll meet you out front of your building after supper." With that said, Tony turned and walked up the street and away from his friend.

  Chapter 4

  THE TEMPERATURE WAS DROPPING, and Rocco DeLuca felt a slight shiver under the old leather army jacket he wore as he sat on the stoop. The street was dark, quiet and empty with the kids being unable to stay outside in the thin hand-me-down clothing they wore. Headlights and the roar of an engine caught Rocco's attention off to his left.

  A black, 1918 Ford Model-TT one-ton truck rumbled his way from the far end of the street. It had an enclosed cab and a wooden crate-style open cargo box that had been painted yellow. He could see two figures through the front windshield, one driving and one passenger. The truck braked to a stop in front of Rocco.

  Rocco tilted his head and looked at the passenger, "Tony?"

  "Yeah Rocco, jump in." Tony slid over to the center of the seat.

  Rocco stepped up onto the running board and into the passenger side of the truck. It was then that he realized his friend was wearing his police uniform. This didn't make any sense.

  Tony picked up his hat from his lap and perched it on the back of his head before he jerked a thumb towards the driver beside him, "This is Tommaso Giachetti, from the neighborhood."

  Rocco leaned his head to look across at the driver. It was a young man he had seen, now maybe nineteen with a shock of black hair, who ran the streets as a kid barefoot, "Yeah. I recognize you from the street. The kids called you Tommy Two Shoes."

  Giachetti's face lit up, "Yeah. That's right. I didn't think you'd know me at all."

  Rocco looked at Tony, "How come they didn't call him Tommy No Shoes? Wouldn't that make more sense."

  Tony shrugged, "Go figure kids. But he's got shoes, Rocco. His mother said he could only wear them to church. He had to be dressed up, you know?"

  Rocco's patience was growing thin, "You said you had an idea. What the hell you doing with this truck?"

  Giachetti leaned forward, "My pops put a down-payment on this truck after the war with money he saved from when he was in the army. He started a small lumber yard and used this to deliver." He hesitated for a moment and then said, "He couldn't pay Fat Sal's protection money and he worried so much he had a heart attack."

  Rocco felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Fat Sal.

  "My pops can't work now...and we're gonna lose the truck–"

  Rocco looked at Tony, "This is your idea? You're buying the truck and we're in the delivery business now?"

  "Have faith Rocco, have faith," Tony said. He turned to Tommy, "Stop talking kid and get driving."

  "Sure, Tony, sure." The gears groaned and squealed and the one-ton truck jerked twice before they moved down the street.

  Fifteen minutes later Tony pointed up the street, "Turn left just there."

  Tommy peered along the dark street and then nodded, pulling into an alleyway.

  "Turn the lights off and take it slow," instructed Tony.

  Tommy turned the lights off and drove past the backyards of a number of houses before being told to stop halfway down the dark alley.

  Tony jerked a thumb to the back of the house on the left, "That's Sam O'Toole's place, Rocco. Busted twice for bootlegging and I know for a fact he keeps several cases in a small back room off the kitchen. While I keep him occupied at the front door, you two go through the back door and grab whatever you find."

  Rocco's eyebrows rose, "We're going to rob a bootlegger?"

  "Actually, we're going to rob several bootleggers tonight." Tony smiled, "I got the addresses from the arrest reports. It's perfect. Who they gonna report the robbery to? The cops?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the cargo box, "Tommy has a tarp folded up back there. You can hide the cases you take under it."

  Rocco leaned and looked across at the driver, "You sure about this kid? You could lose the truck...or we could get shot if we get caught...."

  Tommy shrugged, "We're gonna lose the truck anyway." Then he raised his chin, "I ain't scared to get shot."

  "Well, I am," shot back Rocco. He still wasn't sure about it and glanced at Tony again, "But don't Fat Sal supply all these bootleggers their booze?"

  Tony shrugged, "So he gets double orders in the morning. Look...unless you got a better plan, Rocco...."

  Rocco had nothing to offer. He stayed quiet as Tommy let Tony get out on his side of the cab.

  Tony skirted around the left side of the house in the dark, heading for the front.

  Rocco joined Tommy on the far side of the truck and they waited a few moments before heading low into the darkness of the backyard. Reaching the back porch, Rocco gestured for Tommy to stay quiet as they listened carefully.

  Tony began pounding at the front door.

  Rocco reached out, grabbing the knob for the back door and slowly twisted. The door opened with a slight groan. They could now hear Tony talking to some man at the front of the house. Darting quickly inside, Rocco led Tommy into the dark kitchen. He looked at the kid and whispered, "Did you and Tony think about bringing a flashlight?"

  Tommy shrugged.

  "Great plan." Rocco slowly walked into the darkness and finally saw the outline of an open doorway on the left. He headed for it and stepped into another dark room. It smelled old and musty.

  Tommy was right behind him and tapped Rocco lightly on the shoulder, pointing off to the left.

  Rocco saw the outline of several cases sitting on the floor. He moved carefully in the dark to them and stacked one on top of the other. He lifted them. It wasn't as heavy as he thought it would be. He grabbed another case and stacked it on top. Lifting the three cases, he headed for the back door.

  Tommy did the same, quickly stacking three cases and heading in the dark for the back door.

  Rocco slipped through the open back door and across the darkness of the backyard. He and Tommy had their three cases sitting in the cargo box in no time and both headed at a run for the still open door. Ducking inside again, they could still hear Tony at the front. He and the man were arguing. It didn't take more than thirty seconds for Rocco to have three more cases stacked up.

  The front door slammed shut.

  Tommy started to reach for more cases.

  "No, no, no," Rocco said urgently, "we gotta go. Hurry."

  Tommy headed at a run for the back door where he stopped and waited for Rocco to exit before he silently closed the back door and then headed for the truck behind Rocco.

  Rocco placed the cases in the cargo box with the others as Tommy grabbed the tarp and threw it over the lot.

  Tony came running out of the darkness, took a quick step onto the running board and into the truck. Rocco climbed in his side and Tommy jumped into the driver's side, starting it up.

  "How many were you able to get?" Tony asked.

  "Nine," Rocco said.

  "Wow, more than I thought you'd get," Tony said as he watched Tommy fight with the gears. Within moments they were rumbling out of the alleyway and back onto the street. After motioning for Tommy
to turn right at the next corner, Tony took a quick glance through the small back window, "Any idea what brand you got?"

  "Yeah," Rocco said, "Nine cases of Glen Gael whiskey."

  Tony nodded, "So now we know for sure where Fat Sal gets his stuff."

  Rocco glanced across at his friend, "You sure this isn't going to come back on you? Wearing the uniform and all?"

  Tony shook his head as he motioned for Tommy to turn left at the next corner," Naw, I doubt it. I'm just a cop with a temperance bent telling a bootlegger to go straight."

  "How the hell did you pull that one off?"

  Tony laughed, "It's my angelic face. That's what Maria says I have."

  "Maybe if you take her to church more often you can cure her blindness."

  Tommy laughed as Tony gave Rocco a chin-flick with his right hand. Tony then indicated for Tommy to pull the one-ton truck into another dark back alley.

  TWO MORE STOPS GAVE the trio a total of twenty-one cases of whiskey. A quick stop to use the phone at Rocco's apartment soon had everything set in motion to deliver the whiskey to a spot on the shore of the Niagara River, on the American side, north of Buffalo.

  The air was nippy as Tommy and Rocco headed out, leaving Tony behind for his next shift. Although Tommy said the truck could do 45 mph, they struggled to reach a top speed of 35 mph over rugged, rutted roads. Hours passed before their lights illuminated a sign in the dark that read Bridgeburg.

  "You know this place?" Rocco asked.

  Tommy leaned over the wheel as he scanned the street and the buildings up ahead, "Yeah. My pops took us down here as well as over to Crystal Beach a few times to camp. This place is straight across from where Tony said they would be waiting on the other side of the river. The old docks usually have boats tied up–"

  "Usually? We can't screw this up, kid."

  "It'll be okay, you'll see," Tommy said as he turned the one-ton truck right and they drove along a dark street.

  Dark water glistened ahead under the partial moonlight. As they got closer, the rough waves were quite evident.