The Nazi submarines were so deadly effective that the Allies considered a Liberty ship to have earned back its cost if it made just one trip across the Atlantic Ocean.
Which made, the nervous Lucchese knew, today’s act all the more volatile, if not reprehensible.
A ship horn suddenly blew and Tony thought he’d shit his pants.
Aw, fuck it. I gotta do this thing.
Tony the Gut walked up to the door of the tin box of a dock office that he shared with International Longshoreman’s Association gang bosses Michael Francis “Iron Mike” Mahoney and Franco Giuseppi “Little Joe” Biaggio. He grabbed the knob, then stopped short of turning and pulling it.
He was still anxious, not to mention breathing a little heavily from the walk, and the feeling in his ample belly still was not a good one. Maybe not so much dread. Maybe more like a mix of emotions—fear for sure, anxiety…hell, even a little excitement muddled in there.
Yeah, Lucchese thought, that’s all. C’mon, you can do this!
He took a deep breath, exhaled, turned the knob, and pulled the door open.
The twelve-by-twelve paneled office held—barely—the wooden desks of the three gang bosses. Space was tight; if two of the men leaned back in their chairs at the same time, they hit. Each desk was pushed up against a wall of its own. The top of Lucchese’s desk butted the bottom of the grimy plate-glass window—with the dusty, three-month-old MERRY CHRISTMAS! & HAPPY NEW YEAR! banner draped across the top—that overlooked the waterfront. Mahoney’s was opposite it, at the foot of a large chalkboard that was a grid of white boxes in which the gang bosses kept track of who worked loading what ship and at what job—winch drivers, boom men, jitney drivers, and so on. The third desk, Biaggio’s, was against the wall directly across from the door.
They shared the office’s one battered telephone, coal black with a long, frayed cord. It was on Biaggio’s desk, next to a filthy ashtray and a beat-up RCA radio softly playing music.
Biaggio, a compact five-foot-three, 120-pound thirty-year-old with piercing gray eyes and a mostly bald head that he kept trimmed to the scalp, was talking on the phone when Lucchese entered the office. The bitter cold wind blasted in from behind him, carrying some snow-flakes.
“Close the goddamned door already,” Mahoney snapped, grabbing at papers being blown about his desk.
Mahoney, who was thirty-two and had thick black hair that he kept slicked back, stood as tall as Lucchese but weighed 160, every ounce of muscle toned from long hours at Nicky’s Gym.
Biaggio looked up from his desk, said, “I gotta go,” into the phone receiver and put it in its cradle.
He caught Lucchese’s attention.
“We need to talk, Tony. Have a seat.”
Lucchese looked at him. Biaggio was the brightest of the three, on top of everything. He’d been brought in by the ILA not quite six months ago, when the union hall boss said Lucchese “could use a little help, what with the push to load ships faster and all.”
Biaggio showed that he could handle his own work and at the same time know what was going on with Lucchese’s and Mahoney’s gangs.
Since just after Biaggio first arrived, Lucchese had tried—but usually failed—to be one step ahead of Little Joe. The second-guessing tended to annoy Biaggio, but Lucchese never stopped.
Must be that boom thing he’s worried about, Lucchese thought now.
He said, “Engineering’s fixed that winch on that ten-ton—”
“Sit,” Mahoney said pointedly as he stood up.
Lucchese stared at him.
“What the hell’s up with you?”
“Tony, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Biaggio said quietly. “Sit. Please.”
Lucchese moved toward his chair, making an agreeable gesture with his hands up, palms out. He shrugged out of his heavy coat and dropped his huge frame into the wooden chair. He nodded toward the phone.
“I’m expecting a call, just so’s you know.”
“We know,” Mahoney said.
Lucchese raised an eyebrow, his face questioning.
“Everything,” Biaggio added, staring at Lucchese. “We know everything.”