King of the Bootleggers Page 23

  Bruno Gagliano weakly lifted a hand towards her, his voice was hoarse, "It's all right, Concetta."

  The woman lowered her hand but remained on alert, watching the men with suspicion.

  Bruno swallowed and spoke, "This is Concetta Pacelli. She...she saved my life...she's a friend–"

  Concetta turned to look at Bruno with a questioning look, "What do you mean friend?" She glanced at Rocco and explained plainly, "He saw my knickers in that alleyway." Looking back at Bruno, she held a single finger up, "That means we're engaged. Capisci?"

  Bruno gave her a weak smile.

  "I'm serious." Water splashed again as she gestured, "I've waited ten years for you to ask me out. Caspita! Ten years." She wagged a finger, "No more. We're going to have lots of bambinos and–"

  Bruno held a weak hand up again in surrender, "I know, I know. We will. But can I speak to these men in private for a moment?"

  "Why? I know your business. I know why you didn't ask me out, to protect me. She shrugged. "I'm fine with it."

  "Please? You should get yourself cleaned up. You're too beautiful–"

  Concetta pushed aside the thought, leaned over, planted a big kiss on Bruno's lips and told him, "I'll be back shortly." As she walked past the men she said, "Don't tire him out."

  The three men turned and watched her shapely legs walk away. Then they turned back to look at Bruno.

  "You actually blushed when she kissed you," Angelo said. "I mean, really, really red...."

  Bruno scoffed, pulling the blankets higher.

  "What happened?" Rocco asked as the men crowded closer.

  Bruno glanced over, to see if anyone was listening before he started talking, "It was Cosimo Saputo and Primo Troilo. They also worked for Provenzano. They came after me."

  "Did they say anything?" Tony asked. "Did they say who sent them?"

  Bruno shook his head no. "They called me traditore...traitor–"

  "Because you're working for me now?" Rocco asked.

  "Yes. I hear the coppers say they killed seven, including the owner of the Carmelina Caffè and the two ladies working for her. They were always nice to me."

  "They were cleaning up witnesses," Tony surmised.

  Bruno nodded, "I killed Saputo with a meat cleaver...I split his head open. I shot Troilo with his own gun. If it wasn't for Concetta...he would've killed me for sure."

  "Sounds like you have quite a woman there," Rocco said.

  Bruno waved a hand, brushing away the thought, "She's just being kind to me."

  Rocco glanced down the line of beds before saying in a low voice, "Me and Tony were just reading the newspapers. The leaders of two Camorra family's were taken out up in Toronto two days ago."

  Angelo and Bruno both registered surprise.

  Tony looked at Rocco, "My instincts say what happened to Bruno is tied in with what happened up in Toronto."

  "It's possible," Rocco agreed. "But even if they aren't, we're going to have to be on our guard." He looked at Angelo, "Make sure everyone has a handgun handy. Buy them shoulder holsters. Even the guys in the distillery."

  "Okay. I'll get shotguns for the guys on the trucks as well."

  "Good idea." Rocco looked at Bruno, "The hospital was looking for your family. I don't even know if...."

  "I have a mother still in Italy," Bruno said. "Never had the money to bring her here. It's fine."

  Tony noticed Concetta Pacelli walking back towards them. She was now wearing a nurse's uniform that was too tight, showing off her voluptuous figure. He looked back at Bruno, gesturing towards the dark-haired beauty with his head, "You have to bring your mother over for the wedding."

  Bruno made a scoffing sound as the other two men turned to watch her approach. "She's just being nice to me. In a few days...."

  Angelo jerked a thumb towards Concetta, "Okay then, Gagliano. If you don't want to bang that, do you mind if I take a shot–?"

  Bruno growled.

  A big grin split Tony's face, "Oh, so the big man does like her."

  Chapter 50

  Barton Street Police Station.

  INSPECTOR FINN MOORE rocked in the chair behind his desk as he went over the crime scene report. Hamilton Chief Constable Denton Wherley, Inspector Rufford Crawley from the James Street Police Station as well Inspector Graham Hall of the Gore Park Station sat across from him. They all had copies and were trying to mine it for nuggets that would send the investigation in the right direction.

  Crawley ran his hand under a line on the page he was reading, "Eye witness accounts say the two men, Cosimo Saputo and Primo Troilo came from two different directions and attempted to kill Bruno Gagliano."

  Hall flipped to another page, "How many bullets did the doctor say he dug out of this Gagliano?"

  "Ten," Moore said.

  Hall whistled, "The man's lucky to be alive."

  "I'll say," Crawley said, "these shooters were not fooling around."

  "This wasn't just some argument that went too far," Chief Constable Wherley said. "The others who were shot inside The Carmelina Caffè...Maurio Calicchio and Carlino Tota as well as the elderly couple...Geovanny Rocchio and his wife Alcina...the way they were shot...they all appear to have been innocent bystanders."

  "The same with the others in the kitchen area," Moore said, "Carmelina DiLuzio, the owner. Donella Sanfilippo, the cook and Susanna Amoroso, a server."

  "This is definitely part of some gang war," Wherley said. "It looks like Saputo and Troilo were trying to eliminate every single witness–"

  "Except they get eliminated themselves," Hall said.

  "Yeah. Gagliano wouldn't talk much," Moore added, "but it appears he killed Saputo with a meat cleaver to the head and then shot Troilo with his own gun."

  "What do we know about these two men, Cosimo Saputo and Primo Troilo?" Wherley asked as he flipped through the pages.

  "It's on page 32," Inspector Finn Moore said. "These men were known to the force. They both worked as bagmen for Roman Provenzano–"

  Wherley stiffened in his seat, "Provenzano?" He looked up from his report, "Isn't that the man who was shot to death on the steps of the Gore Park Courthouse?"

  "That's right," Moore confirmed. "He was shot along with Genesio Marino, another man who worked for him."

  "And Provenzano was the one that had that Maggio woman nailed to his porch," Inspector Moore added.

  "Were you ever able to find any leads on that death?" Wherley asked.

  "No, sir. But that's not surprising. These Italian neighborhoods are very tight-lipped. They don't like to talk to the police."

  "What do we know about the man they were trying to shoot?" Wherley asked.

  "Bruno Gagliano? My constables say he also worked for Roman Provenzano," Moore answered. "He worked mainly as an enforcer." Moore flipped the pages until he found the one he wanted. "Gagliano came to this country from Italy about twenty-five years ago. He settled in the Little Racalmuto area–"

  "Maybe Gagliano was trying to take over Provenzano's business?" Hall surmised.

  "Or maybe Cosimo Saputo and Primo Troilo were trying to take over," Crawley suggested.

  "This would seem to be an internal gang war, to see who comes out on top," Wherley agreed.

  Moore didn't look as convinced as he set the report down on his desk, "It's possible."

  Wherley didn't appreciate someone not supporting his theory. "And why would you think any differently...?"

  Moore looked across into Chief Constable Wherley's eyes, "Because you asked Inspector Crawley and myself to put our best men out there to investigate Salvatore Russo and Roman Provenzano after that shooting at the Marsala Ristorante on James Street–"

  "I'm well aware of my own orders, Inspector," Wherley said firmly. "What of it?"

  "My man says Bruno Gagliano went to work for someone else after Provenzano's death–"

  "Who?" Wherley demanded to know.

  "Rocco DeLuca."

  "Who?"

  "He lives in the North
End," Moore said.

  Inspector Rufford Crawley looked stunned.

  Wherley looked at him, anger in his eyes, "Inspector? That's your area...."

  Crawley shook his head slowly, a look of confusion on his face, "He's...a low level criminal...he's a nobody...he works alone, scaring money out of people...."

  "That's it?"

  Crawley shrugged weakly, "Salvatore Russo was the big man in the North End. We found no evidence that would lead us from Russo to Rocco DeLuca."

  Wherley stared at Crawley for a moment and then looked at Moore, "Do we have any other leads?"

  "There are other people that we're looking at," Moore answered. "Some of the people who worked for Russo and Roman Provenzano went to work for Guido Vitale. He runs rackets and bootlegging over in Cherry Heights and Stoney Creek. Some of the other men seem to have taken up some small time stuff for themselves. But the only link we have right now, based around this latest shooting is–"

  "Is just this Rocco DeLuca character? A small time, petty crook? Unbelievable, " Wherley said as he shook his head in frustration.

  Moore glanced at Hall and Crawley. Neither of them had any other suggestions.

  After giving it some thought, Wherley seemed to come to a decision. "Gentlemen, I'm leaving here to meet with the mayor, the police board and the city councilors. I may not have a job by tonight–"

  "I'd push back against them hard," Crawley said.

  Wherley was surprised at Crawley's vehement tone.

  "With all due respect, sir, a lot of this is their fault," Crawley continued in a harsh tone. "They've refused the funds that would allow us to replace the men we had to dismiss because of corruption. It's left us short-handed and unable to do our jobs."

  "I agree with him," Moore said. "The mayor ran on a budget-cutting program. Several of the other councilors did the same thing–"

  "They're reaping what they sowed as far as I'm concerned," Crawley added. "Even the men we do have are underpaid and susceptible to bribes. And that's a fact."

  Wherley looked at Hall, "What do you think, Inspector?"

  Hall looked uncomfortable with the discussion, "I haven't had a lot of manpower issues myself. But I can understand the feelings of my two fellow Inspectors...."

  Standing up, Wherley straightened out his uniform and flashed a macabre smile, "Daniel into the lion's den. I'm going to push them for funds to bring in a detective from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency."

  "How can a Pinkerton agent help us?" Moore asked. "Wouldn't having more men available to walk beats and chase down these criminals be a better solution"

  "I doubt they'd go for it," Wherley answered. "What I can do is trade off hiring more men for one man. Maybe even two. Since these Italian neighborhoods are tight-lipped to those of us in uniform, maybe a Pinkerton agent or two can infiltrate the neighborhoods and find out what we can't."

  Moore, Crawley and Hall looked a bit skeptical.

  Wherley smiled, "And keep in mind there's more than one way to win the war, gentlemen. We can also begin leaking to the public how the budget cuts of the mayor are causing a rise in the crime rates. "

  Moore, Crawley, and Hall liked that tactic a lot better.

  Chapter 51

  Macchiato Ristorante, Toronto

  NOLAN MCCABE SUCKED ON THE OLIVE, rolling it around in his mouth. A moment later his face screwed up and he dug it out with his fingers and threw it down on the plate in front of him. The olive bounced several times down the table. "How the hell you damn guineas can eat that stuff...?"

  Victor Cipriano maintained a calm demeanor, "Italians find it a delicacy. We eat it from the time we're children–"

  "I don't give a shit." McCabe picked up a napkin and tried to scrape the taste off his tongue.

  Cipriano had invited Nolan McCabe, the leader of the Irish mob, to a meeting in the back room of Macchiato Ristorante on King Street in downtown Toronto. He assumed a nice meal would make for a more civilized meeting. But McCabe had cursed out everything remotely Italian in his heavy Irish brogue.

  McCabe threw the napkin down and grabbed his wine glass, trying to wash the taste down. Draining the glass, he set it down heavily on the table, "I still don't understand why you wanted me here. So why don't you get down to the damn point before I haul ass out of here."

  "I was hoping we could come to some type of an...arrangement–"

  "Arrangement? What the hell do I look like, a bouquet of flowers? Why don't you stop talking like some dandy? You're the same as me under that fancy suit." McCabe sat back in the chair, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket. The handle was made from green jade, decorated with a gold dragon. McCabe made a show of pressing the button, flicking the blade out and picking his teeth with the point of the long, thin blade, "What– do – you – want?"

  Cipriano calmly folded his napkin, placing it on the plate in front of him, "You've been pushing down from Markham lately–"

  McCabe spread his arms apart theatrically, "We Irish just like to spread our wings."

  "Just be careful you don't get them clipped," Cipriano said calmly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, a cigar cutter and a box of matches. He looked down the table at McCabe, indicating the cigar, "Do you mind?"

  McCabe stuck the end of switchblade into the wooden table with a thud, letting it vibrate back and forth as he sat back, "It's your place."

  Cipriano looked at the switchblade for a moment and then began to prepare the cigar. The muscles along his jaw twitched.

  Shifting his chair, McCabe lifted his legs and his black boots landed with a thud on top of the table. He casually crossed his feet at the ankles, "The Toronto Outfit. What kind of name is that? Is that supposed to make me afraid?"

  Cipriano ignored the behavior obviously intended to provoke him. "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. That's a quote from Sun Tzu."

  "Is this Sue lady talk supposed to be teaching me something?"

  Cipriano lit the match, "Sun Tzu was a Chinese general."

  McCabe shrugged, "Don't know nothing about the chinks, except they do your laundry real good."

  Cipriano put the match to the end of his cigar and puffed to get it started. Then he calmly put the match out and dropped it on his plate. He puffed several times on his cigar and blew the smoke out, watching the clouds of white smoke curl through the air, "You and I could go to war...and I could win...or...you could win...and where does that get us–?"

  "Exactly where I want to be," McCabe said in a low voice. "And...I will win."

  Cipriano continued on, "And we both lose men...and resources...and valuable time. Time that could be used to make money. And we only end up bringing the coppers down on us both. That would be a tragic waste."

  "Oh, there'll be a lot a wasting going on...."

  "The true objective of war is peace." Cipriano looked down the table at McCabe, "That's another Sun Tzu quote"

  McCabe considered Cipriano for a moment. "Maybe for the old men...."

  "That's how they get to be old."

  McCabe sneered.

  "You want in on the liquor business...I'll get you set up with your own supply. Direct. No cut on my part."

  That caught McCabe's attention.

  "And since Mauro Contini is no longer in the East end–"

  "Which I'm sure you had nothing to do with."

  "I won't oppose you moving into East Toronto. And there's a lot of territory between there and Montréal...."

  McCabe's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "And you're doing all of this out of the goodness of your heart."

  Cipriano tilted his head back and blew a puff of smoke into the air, "No. I'm doing this because it's good for business. There's a lot of money to be made right now bootlegging liquor. And I want to make money while the climate is perfect for it. Some other people just couldn't understand that. I'm hoping you do."

  McCabe considered Cipriano for a moment and then removed his feet from
the table. He set his feet on the floor and his arms on the table, "Everyone knows guineas always have something extra up their sleeve. What's up yours there, mister fancy pants?"

  Cipriano put the cigar between his teeth and gave the Irishman a sardonic smile, "The man who supplies the whiskey to me, had a very nice business going supplying whiskey across the lake into Buffalo. Unfortunately, he had it taken from him. I'm quite sure he'd be happy if someone took that business back and moved his product into Buffalo for him."

  "And why wouldn't you be that someone who took the business back?"

  "Because I have an agreement in place with the man who supplies Buffalo now and I wouldn't want to break that agreement. Just as I wouldn't break our agreement. I'm sure you can appreciate that."

  McCabe ran a thumb along the edge of his jaw, thinking. Then he reached out and grabbed the switchblade, moving it back and forth, pulling it out of the wooden table. "And just who would this supplier into Buffalo be?"

  "Rocco DeLuca. He's down in Hamilton."

  McCabe closed the switchblade, "Never heard of him."

  "I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing that."

  McCabe slipped the knife into his pocket, "And what about the Hamilton territory?"

  Cipriano puffed on his cigar, "I have no interest doing business down there. I'm interested in moving further west into Galt and London."

  McCabe sat back and thought for a moment, "So...how do I go about getting this whiskey supply?"

  Chapter 52

  The Italia Caffè, Hamilton

  MARCO PASSANTINO SAT TAPPING his fingers on the booth table, his gaze constantly moving. He watched each person inside, and anyone who passed by on the other side of the window, with suspicion. He was startled when someone slid into the booth across from him–

  Nolan McCabe grinned, "You look a little nervous, paisano."