Speak Easy (Speak Easy 1)

“Says the big guys.” Joey set his sacks down, lifted his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “Things are changing around here, Tiny, and small-timers like him aren’t gonna be allowed to run booze free and clear like they have been.”

Part of me knew he could be right, but I didn’t want to admit it. And I had no energy left to argue with him. “I guess that will be his problem then. But right now, all I care about is getting all this sold tomorrow.”

We loaded Al Murphy’s whiskey into the boathouse and put four cases in the Ford for the neighborhood deliveries. “I’ll follow you home,” Joey said after opening the driver side door for me. “We need to talk.”

I didn’t see why it was necessary, and I was completely exhausted, but I said OK. Maybe I can try again about the gun, I thought as I started the car.

Clouds had moved in, so moonlight was scant as I bumped along the drive toward Jefferson, but I couldn’t risk turning on the headlamps until I was a safe distance from the boathouse. The whisky bottles clanked in the back.

At my house, we unloaded in silence, hiding the whisky behind a false panel Daddy had put in the pantry. Afterward, Joey followed me into the front room and sank onto the sofa. “Are your sisters here?” he whispered as I switched on a lamp.

“No. They’re at Bridget’s.” I sat at the opposite end of the sofa. “What is it you want to talk about?”

Joey took off his hat and tossed it between us. “You remember I told you about those guys I knew from school, the River Gang?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they’re taking over all booze smuggling on the water, starting now, north and south of the city.”

I crossed my arms. “What the hell does that mean, taking over?”

“It means from now on, you want to run booze from Canada by boat, you gotta contract them as kind of a…taxi service. They buy and transport the load for you.”

I tilted my head. “How sweet of them. And what do they charge for this service?”

“A percentage of the load, whether the cargo makes it or not.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, say the cops catch them. You gotta pay the River Gang even if the load has to be dumped or gets confiscated.”

My jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? That’s nuts, Joey! Nobody is going to pay them!”

“Then there’s gonna be a lot of bodies at the bottom of the river.” He looked me in the eye, but it felt like he’d kicked me in the gut.

“So there’s no risk to them whatsoever! Brilliant, these guys. And you said they went to the Bishop School?” The Bishop School was where you ended up after being tossed out of too many regular schools. Joey used to run craps games in the yard there.

“It was bound to happen, Tiny. There’s too much money to be made, and with war coming…”

“What war?”

Joey rubbed a finger back and forth under his bottom lip, saying nothing.

I threw my hands in the air. “Christ, Joey!”

He dropped his hand. “All right, here’s your history lesson. The Scarfone and Provenzano families have been fighting each other for control of the Italian criminal rackets for years—tons of guys shot, knifed, blown up, whatever. Then about four years ago, they each get a big hit—Provenzano’s sister and brother-in-law are shot coming out of their house, both killed. Then two days later, Scarfone’s brother’s body is found in a beer barrel on Riopelle. He’d been shot through the head and butchered.”

My stomach heaved.

“Anyways, at that point the two sides apparently decide enough’s enough with the killing. A sit-down is called, and they draw up this peace pact.”

“A peace pact?”

“Yep. My pop told me about it. Signed in blood and everything. Territories in the city and surrounding area are mapped out and each faction is given a slice of the pie. Some small gangs are recognized, but the big players are still Scarfone and Provenzano. Things are calm for a few months. And then”—he paused—“Prohibition passes, and the stakes go way up. We’re talking millions in bootleg liquor since Detroit can funnel in so much Canadian whisky and beer.”

I had a pretty good idea how this story ended. “So let me guess. Two years ago Provenzano decides to hell with the peace pact and has Big Leo Scarfone taken out at the police station.” I looked over at him; he was staring straight ahead, jaw set. “I’m sorry,” I said softly, remembering his dad was killed that day too.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. And after that, what’s left of the Scarfone group kinda re-organizes, but it isn’t real tight. The older guys don’t like the younger ones, so they’re not respecting the pact, neither. They’re moving in on other territories, taking over rackets that don’t belong to them. Like Angel coming over here and shaking down guys like your dad.”