King of the Bootleggers Page 21

  "Not many good houses in the neighborhood," Rocco pointed out.

  "We're thinking outside of the neighborhood. I want the kids to have a nice education, not grow up like me, you know what I mean?"

  "You grew up okay. Well, now that you mention it, maybe you ought to move these imaginary kids right out of the city."

  Tony gave Rocco a play punch in the shoulder, "That's what I like about you Rocco, you always make me feel better."

  "Mr. DeLuca? Mr. Genovese?"

  Rocco and Tony turned to see an older man standing behind them near the front doors of the arena. He was wearing a thick, gray coat and a fedora pulled down over his ears against the cold.

  Tony hurried over, Rocco right behind him, both eager to get inside out of the cold, "Yeah, yeah. I'm Tony Genovese and he's Rocco DeLuca."

  "I'm Pops McMillan, partner in the Pure Ice Company that owns the arena." They shook cold hands. "Let's get inside quick," McMillan said as his cold fingers fumbled with a large set of keys he pulled from a coat pocket. It took him a few tries before he pulled the right side of the double-doors open and they slipped inside.

  Tony rubbed his hands together, "It's a lot warmer in here."

  McMillan beamed as he locked the door behind them, "The building is steam heated. Our patrons can watch a game in real comfort. Yes, sir, real comfort. Course we also have roller skating without the ice, wrestling, boxing...we had a couple of good professional boxing matches here last month. Which sporting event were you gentlemen doing? You mentioned something...?

  "Hockey," was all that Rocco said.

  McMillan nodded, "Well, this is the best place in Hamilton. We have several of the bank and business teams that come here to play. This way," he said and he led them to a tunnel between two sets of concrete stairs that led to the upper level of seats. They came out at the edge of the boards for the ice surface. "The ice surface itself is 200-feet long by 80-feet wide," McMillan said proudly

  "It's massive," Tony said in awe as he looked out over the white ice surface.

  McMillan almost puffed his chest out, "It's bigger than what any of those professional teams in the National Hockey Association have."

  Rocco was skeptical, "Really?"

  "Yes, sir," McMillan said firmly and he tapped the side of his nose, "I know, believe me. I've been keeping watch on them boys real close."

  Tony gave Rocco a sideways glance, "You have? Why...?"

  McMillan pointed up at the interior of the roof, "We're lit by twenty-eight, five-hundred-candle-power lights. Impressive, eh?"

  Tony and Rocco leaned back, looking up at the lights far above them.

  McMillan turned to the right and walked along between the boards and the seats that rose up to the right. He pointed up at them, "We have a total seating capacity of 4,500 and standing room for 500 more up there at the top."

  Rocco and Tony walked along behind the man, gawking at the size of the arena.

  Tony whispered to Rocco, "This is a lot better than flooding some backyard rink."

  Rocco just nodded as he looked over the impressive ice surface again.

  McMillan gestured as he walked and talked, "We have six entrances, three are on Barton and three are on Bristol Street. The north side, which is Barton Street where we came in, has a coat-check and a ladies' washroom. We have five dressing rooms on the Bristol Street side and we got a smoking room over there too. We even got a press box. It's up there over the stands on the south side."

  "You got everything here," Tony said. "More than I ever thought we had in the city."

  "How much to rent the place?" Rocco asked.

  McMillan stopped and turned, "Well, that depends. We can do it by the hour or by the day. Or we can give you a deal, depending on the number of days you plan to run your events."

  "We're looking at doing twenty four hockey games," Tony said. "And then there's the practice time, I guess. Not sure how much of that we need. I'll have to check that out."

  McMillan nodded and did some thinking for a minute. Then he gave Rocco and Tony a stern look, "Hey, wait a minute. Twenty four hockey games? You thinking of bringing a professional team in here?"

  Tony and Rocco just looked at each other, confused by the sudden turn in McMillan's demeanor from friendly to hostile.

  McMillan jammed a thumb emphatically into his own chest, "That's what I'm working on. I've been talking with some of the players on teams out in the Pacific Coast League, trying to get them to come here so I can put a team together for the National Hockey Association. Who sent you? Is it that damn Herb Walter? That son of a bitch has been trying to outdo me for years. Sorry. Out. Out. Let's go." McMillan hustled them back to the front door and wouldn't even think of listening to anything they had to say.

  A few moments later, Rocco and Tony were back in the cold, the arena door being locked behind them in anger.

  Tony looked at Rocco, "What the hell just happened?"

  Rocco looked back, watching an angry McMillan stomping away inside the arena, "We were just given the bum's rush, that's what. Now, what do we do?"

  Chapter 45

  Macchiato Ristorante, Toronto

  VICTOR CIPRIANO of the Toronto Outfit held court in a back room of Macchiato Ristorante on King Street in downtown Toronto. Cosimo Saputo and Primo Troilo, two former members of the deceased Sal Russo's Hamilton organization, sat to his right. Mauro 'Count' Contini from East Toronto and Giovany 'The Bull' Nuvolette from North Toronto, sat at the far end of the table. They headed separate Camorra crime families, a force that originated in the region of Campania and its capital Naples centuries before. The clinking of plates and cutlery, mixed with the voices of pleasant conversation could be heard from the crowded restaurant just beyond the closed door. The spicy aroma of rich spaghetti sauce, roasting garlic and baked bread floated around the room.

  "This Rocco DeLuca has become a problem," Cipriano said.

  Contini looked at his glass of wine as he spoke, "Maybe for you, Victor. You promised us profits from moving whiskey into the Niagara region. You made the promise in return for us working together."

  "He's right," Nuvolette agreed. "So...tell me why we should keep working together? Can you tell me?"

  Cipriano pursed his lips, "Well, for one thing, it keeps us from killing each other."

  Contini laughed, "I think it's more about you not getting killed by Nolan McCabe and the Irish. He really wants the liquor business, Victor."

  "Maybe if we step out of the way...?" Nuvolette added. He let his voice trail off with the implication.

  "Where would the profit be in that?" Cipriano asked.

  Contini swirled the wine in his glass, "We just continue on with what we do. La Mano Nera."

  "Selling whiskey to an eager and thirsty public is much easier than forcing money from people," Cipriano pointed out.

  "But maybe not as much fun," Nuvolette said.

  Cipriano turned his attention to Cosimo Saputo and Primo Troilo. Both men had sat silent to this point, picking at the meal on their plate. "What about Guido Vitalie?" he asked. "What's he saying?"

  Saputo put his fork down, "He's made a deal to get his whiskey from DeLuca."

  "Has he thrown his lot in with DeLuca?" The angry question had come from Nuvolette.

  Saputo shook his head no, "He told us he just wasn't interested in getting in a war with DeLuca–"

  "With Provencano gone, the territory is wide open," Contini said. "Why wouldn't he just move in across the city and take it all?"

  "Maybe he doesn't want to go to war with us either," Saputo suggested.

  "Maybe he doesn't want to go against you two?" Contini shook his head derisively.

  Primo Troilo put down his fork, turned his chair a bit and looked down the table towards Contini, "Why don't you come down some day and try it yourself?"

  Contini exaggerated several nods of his head, "Maybe I will."

  Nuvolette smiled at the fractious interchange but addressed Cipriano as if any threat from Cosi
mo Saputo and Primo Troilo was of little concern. "And what happened to that promise of easy whiskey from that place downtown?" he asked.

  "The Gooderham and Worts Distillery? I'm still working on it. When the government ordered them to support the war effort and convert the distillery operations to manufacturing acetone, the equipment was left unattended and deteriorated. The boys that returned home from service were trying to refurbish everything when prohibition killed that idea. They don't want to buck the law. I'm trying to buy it, but the family also doesn't want to sell–"

  "And you don't see the importance of forcing people to cooperate," Nuvolette interjected sarcastically.

  Cipriano grit his teeth, "We can get all the whiskey we want from Greenshields in Quebec–"

  "As long as DeLuca doesn't interfere. Right?" Contini asked.

  "He won't," Cipriano insisted.

  "So you say," Nuvolette added.

  "If we dump him into Lake Ontario, we won't have to worry about that," Saputo said forcefully.

  "Right. We...that's why you're here right? 'Cause you can't do it on your own?" Nuvolette growled.

  Cipriano raised a hand to calm everyone, "If we work together–"

  "Why do we want to get dragged into a war?" Saputo asked. "For more promises? More broken promises?"

  "What do you want?" Cipriano asked slowly.

  Nuvolette sniffed his wine and took a sip, smacking his lips before he answered. "West Toronto."

  "And Oshawa," Contini added.

  Cipriano looked at the two men without reaction, watching them drink their wine and looking pleased with each other. "Are you trying to surround me?" he asked softly.

  Nuvolette looked at Contini and give a slight shrug, "I don't see it that way. You got a lot of territory in the middle of the city. And you moved into Parkdale and Brockton Village." His eyes slowly moved towards the far end of the table and gave Cipriano a hard look, "It seems to me you're spreading your wings, Victor. Moving further and further away from your home...."

  Cipriano drummed his fingers softly on the table as he considered the two crime bosses at the far end. Then he gestured to Saputo and Troilo, "Why don't I talk to these two gentlemen from Hamilton and determine exactly what they need. Then we can all get back together and finalize this deal?"

  Nuvolette picked up a serviette and wiped his hands off, "That sounds good to me. This was a great meal, Victor. Give my compliments to the chef."

  Contini drained his glass of wine and set it down on the table hard, "Yeah. Good wine, good meal ..." He pushed his chair back and rose from the table, leaving the obligatory 'good company' hanging in the air.

  Cipriano didn't bother rising and he never said anything as Nuvolette moved around the end of the table to join Contini.

  Contini patted Saputo hard on the shoulder as he passed, "You two have a safe trip home."

  Troilo put a hand on Saputo's leg to keep him from rising.

  The sounds and conversation from the busy restaurant rose in pitch as the door opened for the two departing crime bosses. A moment later the sound was muted as the door closed.

  Saputo picked up his wine and said under his breath, "I'll kill that mother...."

  Troilo glanced at Cipriano, "Sorry, Victor. He gets a little hot headed at times–"

  "You don't need to make apologies for me," Saputo spat.

  An amused smile crossed Cipriano's face, "I can understand your feelings. Those two have caused me problems for some time now. And...as you can see...they're trying to box me in." Cipriano picked up his wine glass and took a sip, "I had plans to expand west...all the way to London eventually. But...with those two around...."

  Saputo lifted his wine glass to his lips and then suggested in a low voice, "Perhaps...we can solve that problem...."

  "Perhaps," Cipriano said quietly. He picked up a napkin and passed it across his lips, "Anything I can do...?"

  Troilo sniffed and passed a hand across his nose, "We would need a supply of liquor."

  Cipriano nodded. "There are some spots along Burlington Bay where cases could be dropped off–"

  "And we want the opportunity to supply the Buffalo market," Saputo added.

  Cipriano didn't answer. He just folded the napkin in half, then folded it again.

  Troilo sniffed again, "It's a natural extension to the Hamilton market. From a business point of view."

  "I see," Cipriano said. "And...how about Guido Vitalie? Isn't he between Hamilton and Buffalo?"

  "Not a problem," Saputo said. "We'll drop him in the bay...right beside DeLuca. If you want."

  Chapter 46

  MAURO CONTINI PLACED HIS HANDS against the edge of the glass counter in the Fumer Puros Emporium in East Toronto and watched the shop owner looking over his variety of cigars in a large cabinet. The rich scent of tobacco filled the air, coming from the array of dark wood cabinets standing around the room, all holding a wide range of cigars from around the world. In a room off to the left, customers happily smoked single cigars they had bought to test. The owner chose a box from the cabinet, closed the intricately carved cabinet door and turned back to the counter.

  Contini rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  The shop owner set the box of hand-made Cuban cigars on the counter, "These are full-flavored Belinda Coronas. They have a mild herbal flavor and have been–" he lifted the box and looked at the side "–aged for four years."

  "No, no, no," Contini protested, "don't try to sell me garbage. I told you I wanted good ones." He pointed to a row of boxes on the middle shelf in the cabinet, "Those."

  The shop owner turned and took out the box of cigars Contini was pointing to, "Ah, yes. Cabanas Belvederes." He set them on the counter, moving the first box to the side.

  Contini opened the box and pulled out a tiny cigar, passing it under his nose and inhaling deeply.

  "An excellent choice, Mr. Contini. A subtle, fruity sweetness." The shop owner tilted the box to look at the side, "Aged 10 years."

  Contini snapped the box shut as he continued to smell the cigar, "How many boxes you got?"

  The shop owner hesitated, "I'm afraid that's the only one I have in stock at the moment–"

  Contini swore, "I want a dozen more boxes. How soon?"

  The shop owner opened his mouth, fear showing in his eyes–

  "I told you before, I don't care if they have to come all the way from Cuba. Just get them," snapped Contini. He held the cigar between his teeth, put the box under his arm and headed for the exit door, "Put them on my tab. See you next week."

  As the door jingled when Contini closed it, the shop owner made the sign of the cross and mumbled a prayer.

  Contini turned right along the plank sidewalk, sniffing the cigar again. A light snow was falling and frost on the wood crunched under his foot. A series of quick, crunching footsteps dead ahead caught his attention. He looked up, dropped the cigar and released the cigar box from under his arm as he reached for his weapon inside his heavy coat.

  A man dressed in a heavy, woolen-coat advanced rapidly. A woolen scarf was wrapped around his face, leaving only a glimpse of his eyes below his hat which was pulled low. His right arm was straight out and he held a Browning Model 1910 semi-automatic pistol firmly in his grip.

  Gunshots rang out rapidly. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  The bullets hit Contini in the face, neck, and shoulders.

  The scarfed man continued advancing on his target.

  Contini's body dropped to the ground and he struggled to turn on the snowy sidewalk.

  The scarfed man bent over as he walked, placed the gun against the top of Contini's head as the coup de grâce and fired his last two shots.

  A woman was screaming somewhere on the street as the gunman turned and ran back in the direction he had come from. The bells on the front door of the Fumer Puros Emporium were jingling as he turned at the corner of the next street. The bicycle he had left leaning against the side of the building was still there. Pedaling har
d, he shot across two more blocks and entered a park where he abandoned the bicycle against a large Oak tree. Walking away through the trees, Cosimo Saputo scanned his surroundings for any eyewitnesses and then peeled the scarf away from his face. He rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket along with his gloves. Pushing his collar up around his neck against the cold, Saputo calmly walked through the trees until he reached the street one block over, where he blended in with the pedestrians.

  AT THE SAME TIME, GIOVANY Nuvolette sat in a barbershop chair in North Toronto, surrounded by a group of old men who spent their days sitting in chairs and swapping boxing stories and opinions.

  "And I'm telling you Jack Dempsey will never be beaten," Nuvolette said. "I was there in Toledo last summer when he fought Jess Willard. He put Willard on the canvas seven times in the first round."

  "Ahhh, that was fixed," one of the men scoffed, waving his pipe in the air.

  "How would you know? Were you there?" Nuvolette asked.

  "No, but I read. It was in the paper–"

  "You're nuts," Nuvolette scoffed.

  The barber began sweeping the cut hairs off the sheet around Nuvolette with a small whisk, "I don't think he could've beaten Tommy Burns. No sir, there was a fighter."

  The man with the pipe pointed it at the barber, "Now who's nuts? You. That's who."

  "I think you're all nuts," Nuvolette said as the barber unpinned the sheet, removing it and shaking the remaining hair off it to the floor.

  "Maybe that Benny Leonard could beat him," surmised one of the other older men.

  Nuvolette picked his coat off the hook and slipped it on, "He's a light heavyweight. A good fighter, but too small. Wouldn't last–"

  "You don't know that. The fight takes place in the ring, not in your head," the man replied.

  Nuvolette made a fist and gestured toward the man with it, "You keep that up and I'll knock you on your ass."

  The man spit tobacco juice in the spittoon beside his chair, "And that'll only happen in your head too."

  Nuvolette laughed and waved at the man as he picked up his Fedora from one of the hooks on the wall, "You're all talk. And I'll see you all next week." Sitting the Fedora on his head, he left as the men said goodbye. Nuvolette headed left along the wooden sidewalk, buttoning his coat up against the cold. Half a block down he approached a shoeshine stand, "How are you today, Connie?"