Gangster. - Gangster. Part 7
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Gangster. Part 7

Which pier? Angelo asked, moving closer to Angus.

It's one you know pretty well, he said. Pier sixty-two. The one your old man works on.

Carl Banyon runs that pier, Angelo said, remembering the name as easily as he remembered the cut above his eye. You going to keep him on?

That's up to you two, Angus said. Your job is to watch that pier. Make sure the money's flowing in the direction it should be, meaning toward me. Pick up the collection from the workers on payday and bring it down to me at the Maryland.

My father's, too?

Why should I cut him any favors? He's nothing to me. You want to take it out of your end, then that's your business. So long as the cash in my hand is the cash I'm expecting, you'll get no beef.

When do we start? Pudge asked.

Angus pulled his pocket watch from his vest and peered down at it in the darkness. The pier opens in about three hours. Make sure both of you are there. It don't look good if the boss is late on the first day. He put the watch back in its slot and lifted the collar of his tweed coat. You get any trouble, I'm expectin' you to handle it, he said. You might still be boys to those that look at you. But you're my boys, and that should give you all the edge you'll need.

Angus turned and walked back into the storm, leaving Angelo and Pudge standing under the awning, watching him disappear.

Looks like we got ourselves a pier to play with, Pudge said.

Angelo looked straight ahead and nodded, his right hand inside the side pocket of his jacket, his fingers wrapped around the hard barrel of a revolver.

CARL BANYON STOOD in the center of a circle of forty men, a thick wad of chewing tobacco rammed inside the corner of his mouth. The doors to the pier behind them were closed and padlocked. An extra-tonnage cargo ship, The Tunisia, was docked by the side, waiting to be loaded with crates of fresh-cut lumber and sent on its way.

Angus McQueen's taken over this pier, Banyon said to the men. That don't mean a damn thing to me and it sure as shit don't mean much to any of you. You still wanna work, you still gotta pay. And the person you pay is always gonna be me.

Banyon saw the men's eyes shift away from him and over his shoulder. He turned and saw Angelo and Pudge, dressed in clean dry clothes, walk around scattered puddles and toward the circle. The rain had turned to early morning mist, the heat causing thin lines of steam to rise from the hard ground.

Angelo looked at Banyon and smiled when he saw a hint of recognition in his face. He gave a quick glance to the other men in the circle and stopped when he saw his father, Paolino, standing among them. Pudge was the first to reach the group, his hands inside his pants pockets, a slight smile on his face.

If you're lookin' for your school, it's up the other street, Banyon said, easing his way into the front of the group, facing down Pudge, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into a puddle inches from his feet.

McQueen sent us, Pudge said, loud enough for all to hear.

What's the limey been doing? Banyon shouted with half a laugh. Liftin his crew outta cribs? He leaned over, poised to spit another line of tobacco, this one aimed even closer to Pudge.

That's a bad habit to have, Pudge said, opening his jacket to show the gun jammed in his waistband.

Banyon looked first at the gun, then in the boy's eyes. He had been around long enough to know when intentions were real. Whatever fear, if any, Pudge Nichols had was buried deep inside a harsh exterior and far from any man's gaze. Banyon swallowed and took a step back.

Nothing changes, Angelo said. Instead of paying you every week, they pay us.

Is that how McQueen wants it? Banyon said, walking over to Angelo, his temper at idle, his hands balled into fists of frustration.

It's how we want it, Angelo said, running a hand over the scar above his eye.

I ran this pier for almost ten years, Banyon said, a degree of resignation in his voice. And I ran it good, too. My crews always sent the ships out on time.

You ran it with your mouth, Angelo said with disdain, looking past Banyon and catching his father's hard gaze. You just sat back and watched other men sweat out the work. But even that wasn't enough for you.

I can run it for you the same way, Banyon said, looking from Angelo to Pudge, sweat running down the sides of his face. Or any other way you like.

I don't think so, Pudge said, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the gun barrel jutting out from his pants pocket.

You work the hole, Angelo said, stepping up closer to Banyon. With the rest of the men.

You can't put me in with the dagos, Banyon said, lowering his voice, his eyes shifting from Angelo's face to the hand on Pudge's gun. They hate my guts. They'll leave me for dead the first chance they get.

So will we, Angelo said in a harsh and distant voice that lifted him past his tender age.

Where do you keep the key to the doors? Pudge asked Banyon.

In my pocket, Banyon said, patting his shirt softly, the arrogance floating out of his body.

Then you better open them and let the men get to work, Angelo said. And you either lead them in or deal with us out here.

Whichever way you go, make it quick, Pudge said. That ship needs to be loaded and my guess is it ain't gonna do it alone.

Angelo and Pudge stood their ground and stared hard at a defeated Banyon. The dwarfed dock boss took in a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his face, nodded and turned away, leading the workers toward the pier doors and a full day of work. They followed in a tight group, eager to extract their revenge for a decade's worth of torment.

All except for Paolino, who stood in his place and stared at his son.

Anything wrong, Papa? Angelo asked.

You take money from me now, too? Paolino asked. Just like all the rest.

You can keep your salary, Papa, Angelo said, his voice returning to its normal tones. Your payoff's covered.

Covered by who? Paolino asked. You?

Yes, Angelo said. By me.

Paolino reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two crumpled dollar bills. He tossed them into a puddle by Angelo's feet.

I pay my dirty money now! Paolino said, his voice filled with rage and hatred. And I pay it to you! My son!

Paolino turned and walked away from Pudge and Angelo, his head down, his eyes filled with tears.

I still think we should have tossed Banyon in the drink, Pudge said, turning his back to Paolino and the pier. Let the rats have their way.

He belongs to the workers, Angelo said. They'll do a better job than the rats. Believe me, Banyon won't live long enough to earn a week's salary.

And what about your pop? Pudge asked.

Angelo looked at Pudge and shrugged. He's happy when he's working, he said. It's what he wants and it's what he'll get.

Angelo clutched his stomach, turned and started a fast walk away from the pier. Pudge, surprised by the sudden move, ran after him.

Where are you going? he asked.

I need to find a place where nobody can see me, Angelo said.

See you do what?

Throw up, Angelo said.

4.

Summer, 1923 IT WAS A busy time.

Twenty-four-year-old bond salesman Juan Terry Trippe quit his job to join his friend John Hambleton to start a plane taxi service called Pan American World Airways. The nation's first supermarket opened in San Francisco and Frank C. Mars, a Minnesota candy maker, earned $72,800 in less than a year, with a new bar he called the Milky Way. Time published its first issue and more than thirteen million automobiles clogged the roadways. Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini began their push to power in Europe. Stateside, workers and executives forked over larger chunks of their money to the government in the form of a federal income tax, led by John D. Rockefeller Jr. who paid $7.4 million under the existing rates.

And in New York City, the gangsters got richer.

It was a period of expansion and upheaval and it all helped to serve the gangster interest. No one law did more for their personal gain than what was first called the Prohibition Enforcement Act and later the Volstead Act, which made the sale of alcoholic beverages anywhere in the United States a crime. The law, which passed on October 20, 1920, served as the midwife to the birth of twentieth-century organized crime. It opened wide the vault and gave the enterprising gangster free reign in dozens of untapped markets, including trucking, distribution and nightclubs--all of which served the public's desire for a nickel glass of beer.

Wherever the opportunity for making money existed, the gangster was quick to marshal his resources.

When race riots erupted across twenty-six cities in 1919, sending urban blacks scurrying deeper into the pockets of poverty, Angus McQueen and his ilk were ready to cash in. They tripled the number of betting parlors in the poorer neighborhoods, charging only a penny a wager on the number of the day. Soon, the gangs were hauling in profits of over ten thousand dollars a week in what was referred to on the streets as the nigger numbers.

The circuslike trial of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, arrested for a Massachusetts payroll robbery and murder, convinced a silent minority of Italian-Americans that justice could never be had in their adoptive homeland, making them more than receptive to the recruitment overtures of Italian gangsters. In addition to those willing workers, there were 3.5 million more Americans without jobs and, with twenty thousand businesses failing each year, the prospects would only grow higher. The gangsters were again quick to capitalize on such an availability of cheap labor, offering tax-free solid wages in return for a pulled gun or a late-night heist.

In 1922, the New York Daily Mirror began publication and, along with the still-infant New York Daily News and a cluster of other tabloids, devoted full, detailed coverage to the better-known hoodlums, turning many of them into recognizable names and faces, helping to fuel the public image of the gangster as celebrity.

I can't think of any other time in history where it would have been better for us to get our start, Pudge once told me. It was almost as if the people wanted us to come in, set up shop and take over the place. Anywhere you turned, things broke our way. Prohibition, the Depression, the trouble over in Europe, what have you. You name it and we figured a way to turn misery into money. We went to bed poor and we woke up rich. In those times, nobody could make something like that happen faster than a hood.

ANGELO VESTIERI AND Pudge Nichols strolled side by side down a West Side street, each munching on a roast beef sandwich.

You want to get some coffee first? Pudge asked. We got time.

Angelo shook his head no. Let's get it over with, he said.

Angelo, now seventeen, had grown tall and angular during his years working for Angus McQueen. His tan face was highlighted by a pair of dark, fiery eyes and ivory cheekbones; his thick hair was combed straight back, twin curls always hanging off his forehead. He seldom smiled and buried his alert nature behind a well-honed cloak of indifference. He wore his shirts and sweaters several sizes larger, hoping to disguise a slender frame. While it allowed him to appear bulkier, the habit gave him a perpetually disheveled look.

Pudge, at twenty, still had a boyish face. He was quick to smile and easy to irritate, and the freckles that once dotted his cheeks had given way to the shaving stubble of a man. His upper body was rock hard, with Popeye forearms and biceps that had earned him his fair share of arm wrestling victories. He favored thick sweaters or thin T-shirts, depending on the day's weather, and his curly blond hair was always wind-tossed. He walked with the confident strides of the street thug--chest tilted back, arms locked and bent at the elbow, each step taken with attitude and purpose.

What do you know about this guy? Angelo asked, tossing the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

Just what Angus told me, Pudge said. Plus a little I picked up on the street. His name's Gavin Rainey, but he answers to Gapper, at least down at the piers he does. Word is he's as ugly as he is nasty.

I heard that name before, Angelo said. He's got a small crew working over by the tunnels.

One and the same, Pudge said. They pull small-time stuff for the most part. Vendor shakedowns, low-end lifts, two-percent street vig, that kinda action.

Breaking into one of our clubs doesn't fall under that, Angelo said.

You go to all the trouble of breaking into a joint, you'd think they would come away with a bigger haul, Pudge said, crossing the street against the oncoming traffic, pulling Angelo along with him.

What did they leave with?

Five hundred in cash and some coats and jackets, Pudge said with a dismissive shrug. On top of that, they did a number on the bar. I think that pissed off Angus more than the break-in.

The club's only been open for three weeks, Angelo said. And business has been slow to come in.

Probably why the fool picked it. He went in expecting a small haul, figuring we'd just shrug it off.

Angelo came to a stop and turned to face Pudge. He figured wrong, Angelo said.

ONE HOUR LATER the dark Ford sedan pulled up curbside with Spider MacKenzie behind the wheel. He looked over at Angelo and Pudge, picked up his fedora and got out of the car.

What'd you do, stop off in Jersey for a steak? Pudge asked, irritated over the wait.

Traffic, MacKenzie said.

Timothy Spider MacKenzie was in his late twenties, well-groomed, well-mannered and fiercly devoted to Angus McQueen. He never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary, treating the utterance of each word as if it were hard labor. He had been with McQueen since the early Gopher days, graduating from street runner to bodyguard and driver in less than a decade. He was also the gang's chief enforcer, using club, brass knuckles or gun to silence any victim.

You figure on him being up there alone? Pudge asked.

He's a heavy boozer, Spider explained. I expect he's just sleepin' one off.

Angelo started toward the tenement across the avenue. It doesn't matter if he's alone or with a crowd, we still have to go in.

Pudge watched Angelo walk away. They had grown inseparable in the years since Ida the Goose had forged their alliance. In that time, Angelo had listened and learned well the lessons taught by those preparing him for a gangster's life. He already possessed many of the attributes needed for success--he was fearless, never shied away from a duty and was prepared for even the best plan to go awry. He had an eagerness for battle matched only by a reluctance to use force. Angelo had an innate ability to turn a foe into a friend with a well-timed phrase or a fair cut of a new deal. It was that trait, more than any other, that would enable him to survive longer than most gangsters. Pudge was always quick to pull a trigger. But Angelo knew, in the long run, that was the wrong approach. A gangster's survival depended not on the destruction of his enemies but on the strength of his allies. The ability to keep a business partnership thriving was what ultimately kept a successful gangster alive. In that, Angelo Vestieri needed lessons from no one.

GAVIN RAINEY SAT upright in a hard-back wooden chair and waited to die.

He was a tall man with thin strands of hair across a freckled face. Beads of sweat broke from his head and ran into his eyes. He looked decades younger than Angelo and Pudge had imagined he would and nowhere near as vicious as his street reputation. The hard-guy demeanor deserted him the minute he saw the three men enter the foyer of his cold-water walk-up. Without a word, Spider MacKenzie grabbed Rainey with both hands, dragged him up two flights of stairs and tossed him inside his well-furnished, two-bedroom apartment.

You can pull me outta this one, Rainey pleaded. Alls you need do is cover my owe-back to McQueen.

It's not so much what you took and what you did, Pudge said. It's how it looks to have you get away with it.

Spider MacKenzie pulled a revolver from inside his jacket, walked over and shoved the barrel against Rainey's temple. He cocked the trigger and looked up at Angelo and Pudge for a signal.

I'll give McQueen half my weekly haul, Rainey said, the sweat pouring down now in thin streams. To make it up to him, so he don't lose face.