King of the Bootleggers Read online

  Marco stiffened in his seat, "Who are you?"

  McCabe brought a hand to his jacket.

  Marco's hand shot to his own jacket, stopping with his fingers half inside,

  McCabe grinned again as he paused with his hand several inches away from his jacket, "Relax, paisano, relax." He slowly moved his hand towards his jacket again. Slipping it half inside, he slowly pulled out a thick envelope with his fingers. Then he slowly set the envelope on the table and opened the flap just enough to show a thick wad of cash inside, "Isn't this what you wanted in return for the information, paisano?"

  "You call me that again and I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your brain. Right here and now."

  McCabe slowly brought his hands up over the table in mock surrender, flashing a greasy smile, "Okay, okay."

  "And we're only a block away from the neighborhood, so try not to act like a jackass and attract attention to us."

  The smile left McCabe's face, "Careful there or–"

  "And you're an idiot for having your guys asking questions around the neighborhood like they were. You could have got them killed–"

  "That's my problem." McCabe gave Marco a hard stare, "Now...is that all you're here to tell me or...?"

  Passantino stared back for a moment and then glanced out the window as his hand slowly came away from his jacket. "I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't need the money, understand? The guy gave me a job in the distillery, but it's not enough to make ends meet. And I got a kid coming along shortly–"

  McCabe leaned across the table, "I don't give a shit about your whys. Save it for your guinea priest on your deathbed."

  Passantino clenched his jaw and then reached across for the envelope.

  McCabe landed his fingers hard on top of the envelope, holding it in place as he stared across the table.

  Passantino pulled his hand back and nodded, "Okay. DeLuca's got a spot along a stretch of beach down in Cootes Paradise. That's at the west end of the city–"

  "I know where it is," McCabe said in a hard tone.

  "Then you know where the Paradise club is. The beach is off to the left, past the row of old houses. With the weather nice like this, DeLuca likes to make a small bonfire at night and sit on the beach." Marco sneered, "Says he likes to meditate. I guess he's meditating over all that money he makes off of us guys out of the neighborhood."

  "You sound a little bitter there, paisano," McCabe remarked. A moment later, he slid the envelope across to Marco.

  Passantino hesitated for a moment and then Marco wrapped his fingers around the envelope.

  McCabe leaned forward, "When the Irish take over DeLuca's operation, I'll consider you for a job." Then he pointed a warning finger directly at Marco's face, "But if this information turns out to be shit, I'll kill you."

  Passantino stared back, "Just make sure you kill DeLuca...or we're both dead."

  Chapter 53

  Cootes Paradise

  NOLAN MCCABE DROVE PAST the well lit Paradise Club and pulled off the road. Cutting his lights, the Irishman slipped around the front of his vehicle and moved into the line of trees. He moved slowly along the unfamiliar ground in the moonlight, heading towards the water. As McCabe reached the far edge of the trees, he spotted a fire along the beach off to the left. The smell of burning pine carried across the sand. Staying inside the tree line, McCabe moved closer until he could see a dark figure sitting on a large, driftwood log to the left of the bonfire. The flickering flames lit up a ten foot stretch of beach and he could see the figure was looking out over the water. Pulling his weapon, McCabe checked the clip and then made sure the safety was off. Crouching and scanning along the beach in both directions, he determined he and the figure were the only two on the beach. Perfect. Moving in a low crouch, he left the tree line and moved across the sand, weapon held firmly in his right hand as he watched for movement from the figure up ahead. The only sound was the crackling of the firewood. McCabe could feel the heat from the fire as he moved into the circle of light and within six feet of the figure. He stood erect and lifted the weapon. Pulling the trigger, he emptied the magazine into the back of Rocco DeLuca's head. His weapon began clicking on empty and the figure slumped just a bit to the right. Something wasn't right. McCabe stepped forward and saw the straw sticking out from the head where the bullets had penetrated–

  The sound of several people clapping came out of the shadows.

  McCabe whirled around, weapon at the ready.

  Seven dark figures were walking abreast from the tree line. Three of them were still clapping and added some laughter. As they approached the light from the bonfire, Nolan McCabe recognized one of the men.

  Marco Passantino was one of the men clapping and laughing softly.

  And the man in the middle, in the flat cap and not laughing was Rocco DeLuca.

  "Is that what micks do? Go around killing scarecrows," Marco asked. "Even a paisano knows that's a fool's errand."

  McCabe swore and threw his empty weapon to the ground. He quickly produced his switchblade, snapping it open as he got into a knife fighting crouch.

  "I have to give you credit, you don't give up," said Marco. He reached into his jacket and pulled a Luger P08 semi-automatic pistol, "Brought this back from the war. Always wanted to try it out."

  McCabe sneered, "What's wrong? You guineas afraid of a little knife fight?"

  The only sound across the beach was the crackling of the firewood and the soft lapping of the water from the bay.

  Rocco took his jacket off and handed it to the man beside him. Then he pulled his handgun from its shoulder holster and handed it butt first to the same man. His face was passive as he walked across the sand towards the Irishman.

  McCabe moved the knife from one hand to the other as he rocked back and forth on his feet, "You just made a mistake, DeLuca."

  "No, your mick mother made a mistake taking you to this country."

  "I came over by myself, asshole."

  "Then I guess you'll go out alone too."

  McCabe lunged with an underhanded move as Rocco came within distance.

  Rocco stepped deftly to the Irishman's left and threw an overhand punch with his right hand.

  McCabe landed hard in the sand, face down.

  Rocco stepped on McCabe's right hand to pin it down, bent over and pulled the switchblade from McCabe's fingers

  The Irishman groaned in pain.

  Rocco threw the switchblade over to the line of men and stepped back.

  McCabe immediately jumped to a crouch and hit Rocco with a tackle around the waist, taking him to the sand. The two men grappled for an advantage and threw punches, rolling across the sand.

  Rocco's men stood silent, watching the life-and-death struggle.

  Hard punches were landed on both sides on the sand until McCabe managed to separate himself, rolled over and got up into a prize-fighting stance.

  Rocco spun himself around in the sand and got to his feet. He took up a fighting stance like McCabe and the two men circled each other.

  McCabe lunged, throwing a hard right that caught Rocco on the jaw.

  Rocco stepped back and felt the bloody cut on his lip. He grinned, "Good one."

  "You'll go down with the next one, guinea." McCabe moved to his right, fists up and ready.

  Rocco nodded. He brought his fists up and moved to his right as well.

  The two men circled each other, looking for an opening.

  McCabe saw it. He feinted a left and then brought a roundhouse right toward Rocco's head.

  Rocco simply moved his upper body back. The Irishman's punch barely swept past, a mere quarter-of-an inch from his jaw. Rocco brought his upper body back and threw a left hook.

  McCabe's head twisted hard and he grunted, landing face down in the sand. He rose to his knees, shook his head and then came up fast, hoping to catch Rocco off guard as he threw a left uppercut.

  Simply moving his head back, Rocco allowed the punch to soar past before turning at the waist
and throwing a punch to McCabe's kidney.

  McCabe groaned in pain and he fell to one knee, putting a hand in the sand to hold himself up.A moment later, he clutched his side with an elbow as he rose again to continue the fight.

  Rocco fainted a left to the head and when the man flinched, he brought a right hand around to McCabe's heart.

  Air rushed from the Irishman's lungs and he collapsed backward to the sand. Lying still and grimacing for a few seconds, McCabe then rolled over with effort and got to his knees. Groaning with the effort, he rose shakily to his feet–

  Rocco threw a punch to his stomach.

  McCabe cried out in pain and dropped to one knee again. Gritting his teeth, the Irishman swore as he rose to his feet and threw a hard right hand at Rocco's head.

  Letting the punch sail past his jaw, Rocco then drove the Irishman backward with a series of punishing blows. Over and over the sounds of flesh being struck echoed over the sounds of crackling wood.

  Stumbling against the bonfire, McCabe fell backward over a large piece of burning driftwood and screamed in pain as he rolled through the flames, scattering flaming pieces of wood. Rising to his feet in the sand and closer to the water now, McCabe flailed his arms and scattering glowing embers.

  Rocco walked slowly around the fire, his eyes intently watching the Irishman.

  Ignoring the smoke rising from his clothing, McCabe snarled in anger as he watched his opponent close on again. Raising his fists, McCabe yelled as he began throwing punches again.

  Rocco blocked every blow the Irishman threw, moving forward with determination as the big Irishman retreated to the water's edge.

  Stumbling backward as his feet hit the water, McCabe sneered at Rocco. He moved back to where the water was at knee height, set himself again as his opponent moved in and he threw a punch, connecting with Rocco's jaw.

  Rocco just smiled and threw a vicious right uppercut that lifted McCabe off his feet and sent him backward and under the water.

  The Irishman came up, choking and spitting water. The black water was now waist high and he pushed the hair back out of his eyes as he tried to regain his feet on the slippery bottom. His right foot went out from underneath him and he went under again. Sputtering as he came up, he desperately cleared the water from his eyes. Catching sight of Rocco, he brought his fists up, "I'll kill you guinea. And then I'll go find every woman in your life and–"

  "Enough of this. Playtime is over," Rocco growled. He feinted with his right and threw a left hook that knocked McCabe under again. As the Irishman struggled to the surface, Rocco grabbed the man's clothing, turned him face down and held him under the water.

  It took nearly thirty seconds before the man stopped splashing and fighting in the dark water.

  Rocco let go of the clothing and Nolan McCabe floated face down in Burlington Bay.

  Chapter 54

  VICTOR CIPRIANO CLOSED THE PICKET GATE on the white fence and headed for his house. His six-year-old granddaughter Sophia was sitting on the porch, talking to her doll. He smiled at how Sophia's curls bounced with enthusiasm.

  Sophia heard his footsteps approaching and her face lit up. Jumping up, she rushed towards him with her arms outstretched, "Nonno."

  Cipriano squatted and enveloped her in his arms, "Hello my little piccola. I didn't know your momma was bringing you here today to see me."

  Sophia broke off her hug, "I wanted to show you my new dolly."

  "Oh, isn't that nice? What's her name?"

  "Zoe."

  "Zoe?" Cipriano wondered where the name had come from and then it dawned on him, "I bet you named her after that little girl we saw in that picture show I took you to."

  Sophia nodded her head eagerly.

  Cipriano rose, putting his hand out for her to take it. "Are you and your momma staying for supper with me and Nonna?"

  "Uh huh."

  "What are we having tonight?"

  "We're having spagati."

  Cipriano laughed at her pronunciation, "Spagati? With meatballs or meat sauce or....?"

  The little girl shrugged and pulled her hand away as they approached the porch. She ran up the stairs and then pointed to the right behind the banister, "The man left that for you."

  Cipriano was puzzled as he walked up the stairs, "Man? Which man?"

  Sophia just shrugged again as she returned her attention to her doll.

  Cipriano saw a small cardboard box sitting on the porch behind the banister.

  Sophia ran happily for the front door, pulled it open and scooted inside, yelling, "Momma, nonno is here."

  Cipriano reached down and picked the cardboard box up. He gently lifted one of the flaps and looked inside. What he saw made his blood run cold. He lifted his eyes and swept the street with his gaze. Two children were playing with a skipping rope in the middle of the road. There was no one else he could see. And their laughter was the only thing he could hear. He looked back into the box, reached inside and pulled out a switchblade. The handle was made from green jade, decorated with a delicate, gold dragon. There was no doubt it was the switchblade he saw Nolan McCabe pull from his pocket...and stab into the table in the back room of Macchiato Ristorante. He looked back into the street. Something had definitely happened to McCabe. But what? Did he go after Rocco DeLuca? He hadn't talked to the man after his meeting and the deal they had made. If he had gone after DeLuca and gotten killed, was this a message from DeLuca? Did he talk before dying? No, Cipriano doubted that. Whether DeLuca knew or was just playing with him, it didn't matter. He had still gotten something out of the situation. The Irish Mob had lost their leader. Now was the time to remove the rest of them and take control of Markham.

  "Hi, poppa. What do you have there?" It was Cipriano's daughter, Antonello standing in the open front doorway.

  Cipriano set the cardboard box on the railing and put the switchblade into his pocket, "Just a gift from a friend." He gave his daughter a kiss and they moved inside the house. Just before he closed the door, Victor Cipriano looked out into the street one more time. The only thing that bothered him was the fact the box was left at his home. With his granddaughter. That was a definite message from someone. Clenching his teeth, Cipriano closed the door.

  Chapter 55

  ROCCO DELUCA PARKED HIS CAR AT the side of the two-story, stone building containing DeLuca Distillery. Cuba and his eight men were supervising a crew of carpenters brought in to work on the wharf and make sure everything was ready to bring in ships with products or send it out. As Rocco stepped inside the building the sweet, sickly odor of distilling was immediately evident. The sounds of barrels being rolled and crates being stacked carried throughout the building. All the equipment they had brought down from Hespeler was set up near the front. That still left a majority of the floor space open for expansion.

  Besha was talking with Angelo Controni near the doors to the office space up on the right-hand side. As Rocco neared the two, Besha gave Rocco a wink, "Morning, sleepyhead."

  "Morning," Rocco said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.

  "You feeling okay, Rocco? You looked a little tired," Angelo said. Then he lowered his voice, "That guy didn't break a rib or–"

  "No. It was Besha's fault. She kept me up all night testing out a new mattress."

  "Maybe you're just getting old, snookums," Besha said with another wink.

  Angelo laughed.

  "Hey, what are you laughing about?" Rocco said, "Wait till you get that kind of backtalk from your woman...if you're ever able to find one."

  "Actually, Mr. Controni has butterflies in the stomach over a young lady," Besha said with a sly look.

  Angelo looked a little surprised and embarrassed, "Who told you that?"

  "People talk. And I've got eyes," Besha said. She looked at Rocco, "A young lady by the name of Rosalia Nicoletta seems to have her hooks in him."

  Rocco looked at Angelo, "Really? And who is this young lady?"

  Looking uncomfortable, Angelo stuck his hands in his p
ocket, "She just moved into an apartment upstairs–"

  "Upstairs in our apartment building?" Rocco asked him.

  "Yeah–"

  "She's so helpless," Besha said in a mocking tone, "she needed help from a big strong man, getting her few pieces of furniture upstairs–"

  "So I helped her take her stuff upstairs. So what?" Angelo said defensively.

  Rocco made a pumping motion with his fist, "You didn't use that furniture once you got up there, did you?"

  "No. I was just helping," Angelo said. Then he smiled, "But that doesn't mean I wasn't trying...."

  Rocco laughed and turned his attention towards the equipment, "So, what are you two up to here?"

  "Angelo was doing such a good job of supervising over at the Glen Gael Distillery, that I thought he'd be the perfect man to set up and run everything here," Besha explained.

  Controni looked a little uncertain, "I'm still not sure–"

  "Nonsense," Besha said. "You did a great job with the men over there. Dante Rizzo is ready to take over at Glen Gael and you're ready for a bigger job. Why don't you give Rocco a brief idea of how you've set everything up here?"

  Controni got a little more excited with that and he led Rocco across the floor towards the large doors on the right-hand side of the building, "We're doing the malting process over by the doors here, where the rail cars and trucks bring the grains in. We soak the barley outside there in tanks for two or three days and let it germinate."

  Rocco stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded, "Okay, that sounds like a good idea."

  Besha was following behind, arms folded as she listened to Angelo.

  Angelo pointed to some other pieces of equipment and headed in that direction, "Once it's done, we then transfer it in here to the kiln to dry. Then we put that into the malt mill to grind it, we feed that into the mash turns over there–"

  "Have you got all the copper stills set up yet?" Rocco asked.

  Angelo nodded as he headed towards the large copper pots, "We're all ready to run."