Sugar House (9780991192519) (31 page)

"Have a safe trip."

Joe pulled the long speedboat back onto the
river. The sun had faded to the west, and the electric lights from
the buildings and signs in Detroit helped guide his way down the
river for a while. As he cleared the city limits, the lights from
the rivers' edge grew dimmer. He looked to the sky for help, but
clouds had rolled in. He had to make his way down the river in
darkness. Joe didn't worry. He knew the waterway well. Looking to
the east he narrowed his eyes, searching the water. A boat was
approaching. It was driving fast and straight towards him.

Thanks to Walt, Joe's boat was one of the
fastest on the river. But his cargo was weighing him down in the
water and slowing his speed. Joe pushed hard on the throttle to try
to outrun the intruders. Speeding over the small waves through the
darkness his heart pounded in his chest. Unlikely to be the Coast
Guard or a customs officer at the speed the boat was approaching,
he thought. He'd be safer if it was. But it looked to him like a
rival gang out to hijack his cargo.

Can't be a coincidence I'm getting chased
the first night my shipment gets increased
, he thought. Joe
grabbed for the .38 at his waist with his right hand, steering
through the dark water with his left. He'd reached the halfway
point, but the other boat was still gaining and he knew he couldn't
make it to the boathouse. It was too far to Fighting Island. With
nowhere to hide, Joe pushed the boat to the limits of its
power.

A shot rang out across the water and hit the
boat's transom and splintered the wood. Joe steered the boat in a
zigzag pattern while taking care to avoid the shallow areas of the
river that hid beneath the dark water. Another shot hit the boat,
this time only inches from where his hand held the steering wheel.
He threw the .38 under the captain's seat where he could easily
reach it; resisting the urge to shoot back. He'd only shot the new
gun a few times, and he knew his aim was poor at best. In a
split-second decision he cut the power to the engine. He raised his
hands in the air as the faster boat approached his portside. A
light flashed in his eyes, and he was blinded for a moment.

"Give up, do ya?" an Italian accented voice
called from behind the light's source.

"You got me," Joe responded, smiling and
trying to chuckle, hoping the hijackers wouldn't notice his
trembling hands.

"'You got me'? That's what he says boys." The
thug laughed to his comrades. "We outrun him and we outgun him, and
all he say is 'you got me'. Well, that's a new one. Usually they
are a-crying or a-cussing or threatening me, but I never had a 'you
got me' before."

"Your boat's faster than mine. That's all
there is to it," Joe replied. "I figure it this way: this time you
win. I'll go back to the shop and doctor up my boat, and maybe next
time I win; maybe not. A load of hooch isn't worth fightin' over,
not when there's so much to go around." Joe reached down slowly,
picked up a case of whisky and handed it over to show his
sincerity. The man lowered the light from Joe's face and took the
wooden case.

"OK boys, grab the hooch. And you keep your
hands up, boy. You hear me?" Joe raised his hands again as two
Italian teenagers boarded his boat. He recognized the Licavoli
brothers as soon as they stepped aboard his boat. Pete and Yonnie
were members of the newly established River Gang that had been
trying to gain control of the narrow waterway between Canada and
Detroit. Joe quickly glanced down at the men's waists and noted
that their belts held no guns, but each had a hammer swinging by
his thigh. The Licavoli brothers were recent transports from a St.
Louis gang called the Hammerhead Gang, known for hitting their
victims over the head with hammers before robbing them.

The brothers unloaded the cargo quickly while
Joe stood, hands raised and rocking side to side with the boat. Joe
eyed the swinging hammers and tried to continue his friendly
tactic. "Warm night," he said, smiling at the older man on the
other boat.

"Warm and wet like my first time," he
replied, smirking at Joe and laughing. "Course you wouldn't know
nothing about that yet, would you, bambino?" His hand rested on the
handle of the gun in his waistband.

"I know plenty," Joe replied, trying to
figure out who was behind the thick accent. "I know the government
hired thirty new customs agents last week, and you're gonna have a
hard time docking this load in Detroit."

"Ah, good tip. Guess we'll be taking a ride
up the river to St. Clair, boys."

The brothers loaded the last of Joe's liquor
into their boat. "Don't know why you'd be helping us avoid the
pigs, though. You ain't trying to set us up, are you?" He squinted
hard at Joe trying to read his face in the dark.

Joe was sweating from the heat. Perspiration
dripped down his back and puddled at his belt. Slowly lowering his
hands and putting them on the steering wheel he replied, "I don't
think that fast. Just thought it'd be a waste of good whisky if the
cops nabbed it after all the work we've both put into this load.
You know how they like to call the reporters and smash all the
bottles for the cameras."

"Yeah, this hijacking is getting to be a
lotta work. How about next time I let you keep your load and we'll
just charge you a river tax?" the Italian had taken hold of the
wheel of the boat and his right hand had angled the light he was
holding upward. The light flashed for a moment across his face and
Joe realized his adversary's identity.

Keeping his expression neutral he replied,
"How much is that?"

"Oh, let's say twenty-five percent retail."
The brother Joe believed to be Yonnie started their engine and
revved the motor. "Good doing business with you," the elder man
replied, and they sped off to the north.

'
Twenty-five percent! I wonder what
Charlie will have to say about that
,' Joe thought, as he
steered south down the river to Wyandotte. When Joe pulled into the
boathouse, Cappie was waiting for him inside. Joe related the
incident to his friend and they decided that they'd go back to the
city with the pickup driver the following morning to explain the
situation to their boss.

Joe hadn't been to the city in a couple of months.
The volume of noise from the traffic, construction, and people was
overwhelming. They drove straight to the Sugar House and into the
garage. Their load was small, as they were missing more than half,
and they unloaded in several minutes. Joe was nervous as they
climbed the wooden stairs to the office. It wasn't uncommon for a
rumrunner to try to make a few extra bucks by claiming he'd been
hijacked with his boss's load and then selling it on the side. It
was imperative that Charlie believed his story. His stomach
flip-flopped a few times.

"Didn't know you boys were coming back
today," Charlie said, looking up from some papers on his desk as
they entered the small office.

"Had us a little problem, Charlie," Cappie
replied.

"Oh, what sorta problem?" Charlie leaned back
in his chair with a smirk. Joe knew that Charlie was trying to
appear friendly so he and Cappie would let their guard down. He
also knew that his boss's demeanor could turn on a dime and he had
to tread carefully.

"I got hijacked last night coming back from
Walkerville," Joe responded.

"With the extra-large shipment? Sounds kinda
like a funny coincidence to me, Joe." Charlie's smirk remained.

"That's what I thought, Charlie. I think we
might have a traitor or a spy in the barrel."

"Yeah? So
you
lose five thousand
dollars' worth of booze and it's one of
my
boys. That's what
you're sayin'?" Charlie stood up and walked around the desk to
where Joe was sitting. Joe swallowed hard and wiped his brow. The
office was like a steam bath, and combined with his anxiety he
figured he'd lost half the water in his body.

"I don't know, Charlie. You don't pay me to
think, and I'm not real good at it. But hear me out for a minute. I
get a note from you yesterday morning telling me to increase our
load by thirty percent. I don't leave the house till it's time to
make the run. We got no telephone in that house, and no one stops
by. I run up to Canada like I do every day and hand the order to
the foreman. Before I'm halfway back, I'm being chased down and
shot at by a bunch of dagos. What's that sound like to you?" Joe's
voice grew in confidence and the final question was delivered
angrily.

"Hmm, dago's you say? You recognize anybody?"
Charlie returned to the other side of the desk and sat back down.
(He looked at Cappie and waved him out of the office.) Charlie
would get his side later.

"Yeah, those Licavoli bastards jumped in my
boat and unloaded the whole lot. I'll have to wash out the whole
damn thing to get the garlic smell out, but I'm not sure who held
the gun on me… it was an older guy—he had a shiny wedding band on."
Joe had to play his hand carefully— he didn't want his boss to
comprehend his level of intelligence; better to appear dumb so as
not to stand out.

"Yeah? What'd he look like?"

"Like every other dago in this city… short,
dark… stupid look on his face." Joe knew Charlie fiercely hated the
Italians. A massive war between two Italian gangs had occurred a
couple years before in the city, resulting in the deaths of over a
hundred of their members collectively. Charlie liked to joke about
how the fighting gangs had saved him so much work by killing each
other. Truthfully their ranks had been seriously depleted, allowing
the Sugar House to move in with little opposition. Joe had no bad
feelings toward Italians himself, thinking they were a hard working
group—mostly Catholic like his Polish brethren, but he kept his
opinions to himself.

"Licavoli brothers… I think I heard their fat
sister got married last month. Yeah, they were having a party for
her at that blind pig one of them owns… the Subway Café. Cops got
wind of it and raided it during the reception! I remember because I
laughed my ass off when I heard it." Charlie smiled a true smile at
the recollection. "She married… damn—I can't remember."

"I think one of them might have called the
guy with the gun Fran," Joe offered, trying to lead his boss down
the right path without revealing his hand.

"Fran… Francesco… that's it! Frank Cammarato!
That dago bastard from St. Louis—that's who married that fat broad!
I should've put that together. I thought his racket was robbing
banks. Guess he's branching out. What'd they say to you, Joe?" Joe
relaxed slightly, although he had to repeatedly wipe his forehead
with his handkerchief. Joe related the twenty-five percent "river
tax" threat, his invention of the thirty new customs agents, and
how Frank had stated they were going take the load up past Detroit
to Lake St. Clair.

"Lake St. Clair, huh?" Charlie peered at Joe
over the desk. "You're not too dumb are you, boy? Abe Bernstein
told me you had a brain about you when we was looking for an errand
boy, but truth be told… besides the fact that you've managed to get
every load delivered, I wasn't convinced. Maybe I better have
another look at you. But first I'll send a couple boys up to check
out your story. If it checks out and they find your liquor, we'll
hijack it right back and smash some heads."

"Anything I can do, Charlie?" Joe asked,
rising from his chair. Cappie had returned with the coffee and
handed it to Joe. The last thing he wanted was a hot cup of coffee,
but he took the mug and drank a small sip.

"Why don't you take a few days off and visit
with your family. Cappie's been asking for a few days off to sow
his oats in the city, so I guess this is as good a time as any.
Here's your last two months' pay," Charlie said, reaching into the
desk drawer and handed two thick envelopes to Joe for him and
Cappie. "Come back at the end of the week, and we'll have a sit
down, Joe. Oh, and on a side note, there's a small issue with a
relative of yours that I need to speak to you about."

"A relative of mine?" Joe questioned.

"Yes… you got an uncle by the name of Felix,
right?"

"Feliks, yes," Joe responded, now having an
idea of where this might be going.

"Seems like he's had an awful string of bad
luck—got caught not once but twice with his pants down by two
different dames' husbands, and there's a little matter of him owing
quite a bit of cabbage on some unlucky bets."

"How much?" Joe asked.

"Two dimes," Charlie replied.

Joe whistled under his breath. "Maybe he'll
win it back," Joe said.

"It's been a couple months, Joe. I'm a
patient man but Shorr isn't. He wants to send a couple of the boys
over to help encourage him to get off his wallet."

"If he hasn't paid you, he might not have it,
Charlie," Joe replied.

"Then that's even more bad luck, Joe. We've
turned our heads to this situation for as long as we can. I've
already sent word out to all the gambling joints that we run that
no more bets are to be taken from your Uncle Felix. I like you Joe,
but business is business, and he's in for a lot."

"I'll talk to him, Charlie. Let me see what I
can do, all right? Give me a couple of days?"

"Sure, sure Joe, I'll speak to Shorr. Have a
nice couple of days off, and I'll see you at the end of the
week."

Cappie and Joe left the office and walked out
onto the steaming sidewalk. "How'd it go, Joe?" Cappie asked. The
smell of sugar faded as they walked away from the building.

"Pretty good, I think. Gonna send someone up
to Lake St. Clair to see if they can get the load back. It's
probably already back here in the saloons by now. I'll have to hope
they find something that proves my story."

"Don't worry, Joe. I'll vouch for you."
Cappie clapped Joe on the shoulder.