Live by Night (34 page)

“Good to see you again.” Joe took a seat across from him, and Maso came around, took the seat beside his son.

Digger peeled the orange, tossing the peels onto the coffee table. He wore a permanent scowl of confused suspicion on his long face, like he'd just heard a joke he didn't get. He had curly dark hair that was thinning up front, a fleshy chin and neck, and his father's eyes, dark and small as sharpened pencil points. There was something dulled about him, though. He didn't have his father's charm or cunning because he'd never needed to.

Maso poured Joe a cup of coffee and handed it across the table. “How've you been?”

“Very good, sir. You?”

Maso tipped a hand back and forth. “Good days and bad.”

“I hope more good than bad.”

Maso raised a glass of the anisette to that. “So far, so far.
Salud
.”

Joe raised a glass.
“Salud.”

Maso and Joe drank. Digger popped an orange slice in his mouth and chewed with his mouth open.

Joe was reminded, not for the first time, that for such a violent business, it was filled with a surprising number of regular guys—men who loved their wives, who took their children on Saturday-afternoon outings, men who worked on their automobiles and told jokes at the neighborhood lunch counter and worried what their mothers thought of them and went to church to ask God's forgiveness for all the terrible things they had to render unto Caesar in order to put food on the table.

But it was also a business that was populated by an equal number of pigs. Vicious oafs whose primary talent was that they felt no more for their fellow man than they did for a fly sputtering on the windowsill at summer's end.

Digger Pescatore was one of the latter. And like so many of the breed Joe had come across, he was the son of a founding father of this thing they all found themselves entwined with, grafted to, subjects of.

Over the years Joe had met all three of Maso's sons. He'd met Tim Hickey's only boy, Buddy. He'd met the sons of Cianci in Miami, Barrone in Chicago, and DiGiacomo in New Orleans. The fathers were fearsomely self-made creatures, one and all. Men of iron will and some vision and not even a passing acquaintance with sympathy. But men, unquestionably men.

And every one of their sons, Joe thought as the sound of Digger's chewing filled the room, was a fucking embarrassment to the human race.

As Digger ate his orange and then a second one, Maso and Joe discussed Maso's trip down, the heat, Graciela, and the baby on the way.

After those topics had been exhausted, Maso produced a newspaper that had been tucked into the seat beside him. He took the bottle around the table and sat beside Joe. He poured two more drinks and opened the
Tampa Tribune
. Loretta Figgis's face stared back at them under the headline:

DEATH OF A MADONNA

He said to Joe, “This the filly who caused us all the trouble on the casino?”

“That's her.”

“Why didn't you clip her then?”

“Would've been too much blowback. The whole state was watching.”

Maso tore an orange slice free of the peel. “That's true but that's not why.”

“No?”

Maso shook his head. “Why didn't you kill the 'shiner like I told you back in '32?”

“Turner John?”

Maso nodded.

“Because we came to an accommodation.”

Maso shook his head. “You weren't ordered to accommodate. You were ordered to kill the son of a bitch. And the reason you didn't was the same reason you didn't kill this
puttana pazzo—
because you're not a killer, Joseph. Which is a problem.”

“It is? Since when?”

“Since now. You're not a gangster.”

“Trying to hurt my feelings, Maso?”

“You're an outlaw, a bandit in a suit. And now I hear you're thinking of going legitimate?”

“Thinking about it.”

“So you won't mind if I replace you down here?”

Joe smiled for some reason. Chuckled. He found his cigarettes and lit one.

“When I got here, Maso? This outfit grossed a million a year.”

“I know.”

“
Since
I got here? We've averaged almost eleven million.”

“Mostly because of the rum, though. Those days are ending. You've neglected the girls and the narcotics.”

“Bullshit,” Joe said.

“Excuse me?”

“I concentrated on the rum because, yeah, it was most profitable. But our narcotic sales are up sixty-five percent. As for the girls, we added four houses in my time here.”

“But you could have added more. And the whores claim they're rarely beaten.”

Joe found himself looking down at the table into Loretta's face, then looking up, then looking back down again. It was his turn to exhale a loud breath. “Maso, I—”

“Mr. Pescatore,” Maso said.

Joe said nothing.

“Joseph,” Maso said, “our friend Charlie wants to make some changes to the way we run our thing.”

“Our friend Charlie” was Lucky Luciano out of New York. King, essentially. Emperor for Life.

“What changes?”

“Considering Lucky's right hand is a kike, the changes are a bit ironic, even unfair. I won't lie to you.”

Joe gave Maso a tight smile and waited for the old man to get to it.

“Charlie wants Italians, and only Italians, in the top slots.”

Maso wasn't kidding—it was the height of irony. Everyone knew that no matter how smart Lucky was—and he was smart as hell—he was nothing without Meyer Lansky. Lansky, a Jew from the Lower East Side, had done more than anyone in this thing of theirs to turn a collection of mom-and-pop shops into a corporation.

The thing was, though, Joe had no desire to reach the top. He was happy with his small local operation.

He said as much now to Maso.

“You're far too modest,” Maso said.

“I'm not. I run Ybor. And the rum, yeah, but that's over, like you said.”

“You run a lot more than Ybor and a lot more than Tampa, Joseph. Everyone knows that. You run the Gulf Coast from here to Biloxi. You run the out routes from here to Jacksonville and half the ones that head north. I've been through the books. You've made us a force down here.”

Instead of saying
And this is how you thank me?
Joe said, “So if I can't be in charge because Charlie says ‘No Irish need apply,' what can I be?”

“What I tell you to.” This from Digger, finished with his second orange, wiping his sticky palms on the sides of the armchair.

Maso gave Joe a don't-mind-him look and said, “
Consigliere
. You stay with Digger and teach him the ropes, introduce him to people around town, maybe teach him how to golf or fish.”

Digger fixed Joe in his tiny eyes. “I know how to shave and tie my shoes.”

Joe wanted to say,
But you have to think about it, don't you?

Maso patted Joe's knee once. “You'll have to take a little haircut, financially speaking. But don't worry, we're going to muscle the port this summer, take the whole fucking thing over, and there'll be plenty of work, I promise.”

Joe nodded. “What kind of haircut?”

Maso said, “Digger takes over your cut. You assemble a crew and keep whatever you make, less tribute.”

Joe looked at the windows. He looked out at the ones overlooking the alley for a moment. Then the ones overlooking the bay. He counted down slowly from ten. “You're demoting me to crew boss?”

Maso patted his knee again. “It's a realignment, Joseph. On Charlie Luciano's orders.”

“Charlie said, ‘Replace Joe Coughlin in Tampa.' ”

“Charlie said, ‘No non-Italians at the top.' ” Maso's voice was still smooth, kindly even, but Joe could hear a bit of frustration creeping in.

Joe took a moment to keep his own voice in check because he knew how fast Maso could drop the courtly old gentleman mask and reveal the savage cannibal behind it.

“Maso, I think Digger wearing the crown is a great idea. The two of us together? We'll take over the state, take over Cuba while we're at it. I have the connections to do that. But my cut needs to stay
close
to what it is now. I step down to crew boss? I'll make maybe a tenth of what I'm making now. And I gotta make my monthly nut on—what?—shaking down longshoremen unions and cigar factory owners? There's no power there.”

“Maybe that's the point.” Digger smiled for the first time, a piece of orange stuck in his upper teeth. “You ever think of that, smart guy?”

Joe looked at Maso.

Maso stared back at him.

Joe said, “I built this.”

Maso nodded.

Joe said, “I pulled ten-eleven times out of this city what Lou Ormino was fucking making for you.”

“Because I let you,” Maso said.

“Because you needed me.”

“Hey, smart guy,” Digger said, “nobody
needs
you.”

Maso patted the air between him and his son, the kind of calming gesture you used on a dog. Digger sat back in his chair, and Maso turned to Joe. “We could use you, Joseph. We could. But I am sensing a lack of gratitude.”

“So am I.”

This time Maso's hand settled on his knee and squeezed. “You work for me. Not for yourself, not for the spics or the niggers you surround yourself with. If I tell you to go clean the shit out of my toilet, guess what you're going to do?” He smiled, his voice as soft as ever. “I'll kill your cunt girlfriend and burn your house to embers if I feel like it. You know this, Joseph. Your eyes got a little big for your head down here, that's all. I've seen it happen before.” He raised the hand from Joe's knee and patted Joe's face with it. “So, do you want to be a crew boss? Or do you want to clean the shit out of my toilets on diarrhea day? I'm accepting applications for both.”

If Joe played ball, he'd have a few days' head start to talk to all his contacts, marshal his forces, and align the chess pieces correctly. While Maso and his guns were back on the train heading north, Joe would fly up to New York, talk to Luciano directly, put a balance sheet on his desk and show him what Joe would make him versus what a retard like Digger Pescatore would lose him. There was an excellent chance Lucky would see the light and they could move past this with minimal bloodshed.

“Crew boss,” Joe said.

“Ah,” Maso said with a broad smile, “my boy.” He pinched Joe's cheeks. “My boy.”

When Maso got out of his chair, Joe did too. They shook hands. They hugged. Maso kissed both his cheeks in the same spots where he'd pinched them.

Joe shook hands with Digger and told him how much he looked forward to working with him.

“For,”
Digger reminded him.

“Right,” Joe said. “For you.”

He headed for the door.

“Dinner tonight?” Maso said.

Joe stopped at the door. “Sure. Tropicale at nine sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“Okay. I'll get us the best table.”

“Wonderful,” Maso said. “And make sure he's dead by then.”

“What?” Joe took his hand off the knob. “Who?”

“Your friend.” Maso poured himself a cup of coffee. “The large one.”

“Dion?”

Maso nodded.

“He hasn't done anything,” Joe said.

Maso looked up at him.

“What am I missing?” Joe said. “He's been a great earner and a great gun.”

“He's a rat,” Maso said. “Six years ago, he ratted on you. Means six minutes from now, six days, six months, he'll do it again. I can't have a rat working for my son.”

“No,” Joe said.

“No?”

“No, he didn't sell me out. That was his brother. I told you.”

“I know what you told me, Joseph. I also know you lied. Now, I allow you one lie.” He held up his index finger while he added cream to his coffee. “You've had yours. Kill that hunk of shit before dinner.”

“Maso,” Joe said. “Listen. It was his brother. I know it for a fact.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“You're not lying to me?”

“I'm not lying to you.”

“Because you know what it means if you are.”

Jesus, Joe thought, you came down here to steal my operation for your useless fucking son. Just steal it already.

“I know what it means,” Joe said.

“You're sticking to your story.” Maso dropped a cube of sugar into his cup.

“I'm sticking to it because it's not a story. It's the truth.”

“The whole truth and nothing but, uh?”

Joe nodded. “The whole truth and nothing but.”

Maso shook his head slowly, sadly, and the door behind Joe opened and Albert White walked into the room.

Chapter Twenty-four

How You Meet Your End

T
he first thing Joe noticed about Albert White was how much he'd aged in three years. Gone were the white- and cream-colored suits and fifty-dollar spats. His shoes were one step above the cardboard worn by the people who lived in the streets and the tents all over the country now. The lapels of his brown suit were frayed and the elbows thin. His haircut was the kind you got at home from a distracted wife or daughter.

The second thing Joe noticed was that he held Sal Urso's Thompson in his right hand. Joe knew it was Sal's because of the markings along the breech. Sal had a habit of rubbing the breech with his left hand when he was sitting with the Thompson on his lap. He still wore his wedding ring, even though his wife had caught the typhus in '23, not long before he came to work for Lou Ormino in Tampa. When Sal rubbed the Thompson, the ring scratched the metal. Now, after years of cradling that gun, there was almost no bluing left.

Albert raised it to his shoulder as he crossed to Joe. He appraised Joe's three-piece suit.

“Anderson and Sheppard?” he asked.

Joe said, “H. Huntsman.”

Albert nodded. He opened the left side of his own jacket so Joe could admire the label—Kresge's. “My fortunes have changed a bit since the last time I was here.”

Joe said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I'm back in Boston. I was close to getting a tin cup, you know? Selling fucking pencils, Joe. But then I run into Beppe Nunnaro in this little basement place in the North End. Beppe and I used to be friends. A long time ago, before all this unfortunate series of misunderstandings with Mr. Pescatore. And Beppe and me, Joe, we got to talking. Your name didn't come up immediately but Dion's did. See, Beppe used to be a newsie with Dion and Dion's dumb brother, Paolo. Did you know that?”

Joe nodded.

“So you can probably see where this is going. Beppe said he'd known Paolo most of his life and had a hard time believing Paolo would double-cross anyone, never mind his own brother and a police captain's son, on a bank job.” Albert slung his arm around Joe's neck. “To which
I
said, ‘Paolo didn't double-cross anyone. Dion did. I know because I'm the guy he ratted
to
.' ” Albert walked toward the window that faced the alley and Horace Porter's defunct piano warehouse. Joe had no choice but to walk with him. “At this point, Beppe thought it might be a good idea if I talked to Mr. Pescatore.” They stopped at the window. “Which leads us to now. Raise your hands.”

Joe did and Albert frisked him as Maso and Digger wandered over and stood by the windows. He removed the Savage .32 from behind Joe's back and the derringer single-shot above his right ankle and the switchblade in his left shoe.

“Anything else?” Albert said.

“Usually that suffices,” Joe said.

“Cracking wise to the end.” Albert put his arm around Joe's shoulders.

Maso said, “The thing about Mr. White, Joe, that you should probably have grasped—”

“And what's that, Maso?”

“It's that he knows Tampa.” Maso raised a thick eyebrow at Joe.

“Which makes you a lot less ‘needed,' ” Digger said. “Dumb fuck.”

“The language,” Maso said. “Is that really necessary?”

They all turned back to the window, like kids waiting for the curtain to part at a puppet show.

Albert raised the tommy gun in front of their faces. “Nice piece. I understand you know the owner.”

“I do.” Joe heard the sadness in his own voice. “I do.”

They stood facing the window for about a minute before Joe heard the scream and the shadow plummeted down the yellow brick wall across from him. Sal's face flew past the window, his arms flapping wildly at the air. And then he stopped falling. His head snapped up straight and his feet jerked up toward his chin as the noose snapped his neck. The body swung into the building twice and then twirled on the rope. The idea, Joe assumed, had been for Sal to end up hanging directly in front of their eyes, but someone had misjudged the length of rope or maybe the effect of a man's weight at the end of it. So they stood looking down at the top of his head as his body hung between the tenth and ninth floors.

They'd cut Lefty's rope correctly, however. He arrived without a scream, his hands free and clasped to the noose. He looked resigned, as if someone had just told him a secret he'd never wanted to hear but had always expected to. Because he'd relieved the weight of the rope with his hands, his neck didn't break. He arrived in front of their faces like something conjured by magicians. He bounced up and down a few times and then dangled. He kicked at the windows. His movements were not desperate or frantic. They were strangely precise and athletic and the look on his face never changed, even when he saw them watching. He tugged at the rope even as the tracheal cartilage pressed over the edges of it and his tongue flopped over his lower lip.

Joe watched it ebb out of him, slowly, and then all at once. The light left Lefty like a hesitant bird. But once it left, it flew high and fast. The only solace Joe took from it was that Lefty's eyes, at the very end, fluttered to a close.

He looked at Lefty's sleeping face and the top of Sal's head and begged their forgiveness.

I will see you both soon. I will see my father soon. I will see Paolo Bartolo. I will see my mother.

And then:

I am not brave enough for this. I am not.

And then:

Please. God. Please, God. I do not want to meet the dark. I will do anything. I beg your mercy. I cannot die today. I'm not supposed to die today. I'm to be a father soon. She's to be a mother. We will be good parents. We will raise a fine child.

I am not ready.

He could hear his own breathing as they walked him to the windows that looked down on Eighth Avenue and the streets of Ybor and the bay beyond, and he heard the gunfire before he got there. From this height, the men on the street looked two inches tall as they fired Thompsons and handguns and BARs. They wore hats and raincoats and suits. Some wore police uniforms.

The police were aligned with the Pescatore men. Some of Joe's men lay in the streets or half out of cars and others kept firing, but they were in retreat. Eduardo Arnaz took a burst straight through his chest and fell against the window of a dress shop. Noel Kenwood was shot in the back and lay in the street, clawing at it. The rest Joe couldn't identify from up here as the battle moved west, first one block, then two. One of his men crashed a Plymouth Phaeton into the lamppost at the corner of Sixteenth. Before he could get out, the police and a couple Pescatore men surrounded the car and unloaded their Thompsons into it. Giuseppe Esposito had owned a Phaeton, but Joe couldn't tell from here if he'd been the one driving it.

Run, boys
.
Just run.

As if they'd heard him, his men stopped firing back and scattered.

Maso placed a hand to the back of Joe's neck. “It's over, son.”

Joe said nothing.

“I wished it could have been different.”

“Do you?” Joe said.

Pescatore cars and Tampa PD cars raced down Eighth, and Joe saw several heading north or south along Seventeenth and then east along Ninth or Sixth to outflank his men.

But his men disappeared.

One second a man ran along the street, and the next he was gone. The Pescatore cars would meet at the corners, the gunners pointing desperately, and go back on the hunt.

They gunned down someone on the porch of a
casita
on Sixteenth, but that seemed to be the only Coughlin-Suarez man they could find at the moment.

One by one, they'd slipped away. Into the air. One by one, they simply weren't there anymore. The police and the Pescatore men milled in the streets now, pointing fingers, shouting at one another.

Maso said to Albert, “The fuck did they all go?”

Albert held up his hands and shook his head.

“Joseph,” Maso said, “you tell me.”

“Don't call me Joseph,” Joe said.

Maso slapped him across the face. “What happened to them?”

“They vanished.” Joe looked into the old man's double-zero eyes. “Poof.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Joe said.

And now Maso raised his voice. Raised it to a roar. And it was a terrifying sound. “Where the fuck
are they
?”

“Shit.” Albert snapped his fingers. “It's the tunnels. They dropped into the tunnels.”

Maso turned to him. “What tunnels?”

“The ones running underneath this fucking neighborhood. It's how they get the booze in.”

“So put men in the tunnels,” Digger said.

“No one knows where most of them are.” Albert jerked a thumb at Joe. “That's this asshole's genius. Ain't that right, Joe?”

Joe nodded, first at Albert and then at Maso. “This is our town.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore,” Albert said and drove the butt of the Thompson into the back of Joe's head.