King of the Bootleggers: Whiskey Empire, #1

Chapter 1

November, 1919

The North Side, Hamilton, Ontario Canada

BLOODY TEETH ROLLED across the planked sidewalk and fell over into the muddy street. The shop-owner was bent over, his hand over his mouth, blood running through his fingers as he tried to reason with his assailant, I told you, Rocco, I don't got enough money to pay you this week. I had to pay–

Did I ask you for an excuse? Rocco DeLuca stated firmly. Or did I ask you for my money?

The shop-owner painfully straightened up; at six-foot-five, he now towered over the five-foot-ten DeLuca. But it didn't matter. Despite the black, wavy hair and movie-idol good looks that made him look like a choir boy, Rocco DeLuca was scary. It was the eyes. The dark eyes burned with a fierce anger. Everyone in the neighborhood knew. The shop-owner cast his eyes down to the plank sidewalk. Eye contact might only increase the anger. I...I'll get the money, he mumbled through his fingers.

Rocco DeLuca patted the man on the side of his arm, That's more like it, Mr. Davidson. I've liked you ever since I was a little kid and we moved into this neighborhood from Italy. DeLuca gestured to the old, dilapidated store behind the man, My mother used to send me to your store to buy things all the time. I'd hate to see it burned down.

Davidson nodded as he held onto his jaw and continued to avoid eye contact.

All right, DeLuca said, I'll see you next week. He held up two fingers, "That means two payments. Don't disappoint me."

No, Rocco. I won't.

DeLuca slapped the man on the shoulder amiably again, turned and stepped into the mud of Allison Street. Crossing to the other side he stepped onto the plank sidewalk and looked into the open door of the hardware store.

The store owner's wife blanched in fear when she recognized who was standing outside. She swept the old board floor faster as she whispered urgently to her husband. A few moments later the husband came hustling towards the front door, Mr. Rocco, so sorry I keep you wait. He pulled a few bills from the side pocket of his work coveralls and extended it towards his visitor.

Rocco DeLuca pocketed the cash, It's 'waiting' Mr. Carluccio. That's how you say it

Carluccio flashed an awkward smile, not sure what DeLuca was talking about, Sorry.

No problem Mr. Carluccio. I had the same problem with the language when my parents brought me to this country. Now look at me, I talk very well.

Carluccio nodded repeatedly, the awkward smile frozen on his face.

DeLuca turned and continued his visit to several more of his customers along the street.

THE OLD FLOORS ON THE third floor of the apartment building squeaked and groaned as Rocco DeLuca headed for his apartment. The smell of cabbage, pork and potatoes was strong in the hallway. Always the same thing. Always the same smells here. Stepping into the tiny, apartment, he closed the door behind him. The apartment only depressed him more. All it consisted of was a kitchen area and a small bedroom off to the left. That was it. No running hot water and only a coal stove used to heat the space and cook on. Like all the men in the neighborhood who had returned after fighting in World War 1, he had expected better. Even a job. Instead, it was a return to the same soul crushing poverty.

Besha Margit DeLuca, his wife was at the sink. She had started to use the name Bobbi Goldman as a young teenager after the death of her parents. Getting any type of job to support herself had been difficult because of the every-day anti-Jewish attitudes she had encountered. But after they met, Rocco had encouraged her not to give in. So Besha it was. Grabbing a worn tea-towel to dry her hands, she turned, You're home just in time. Supper is ready. How did it go today?

DeLuca shrugged as he placed his worn flat-cap on the wall hook behind the door. Sitting on one of the four old wooden chairs around the small kitchen table, he slumped back, Only one had any money today. It's getting worse.

Besha nodded sadly, It's the same for everyone in the neighborhood. People just don't have money.

Rocco noted her demeanor. His blonde beauty was usually upbeat no matter what. That's not my Besha. He watched her place a plate in front of him with the same meal everyone in the apartment building seemed to eat; cabbage, potatoes and a small amount of pork. He let her fill her plate and sit down at the kitchen table before he asked her, Is something wrong? You look like somebody died.

Besha shrugged noncommittally.

Rocco reached over and placed a hand on hers, Come on, tell me what it is.

Besha stirred the potatoes around her plate for a moment and then said, Mr. Starkman is cutting me back to three days.

Rocco cursed, Why? You were the one who straightened out his books and helped him grow through the war. Where would he be without you?

Shrugging slightly in sadness, she said, It's not against us. He's struggling too, Rocco. With the war over, his food export business had fallen a lot. The wheat prices have fallen because there's too much if it now...and the companies he was importing sugar from Cuba for are–

Loud banging came at their apartment door.

Rocco DeLuca got up and answered the door.

A tall, dusky-faced policeman stood in the hallway. The name tag on his chest read: A. Genovese.

What do you want?

Mr. DeLuca, the policeman said in a very serious tone, we've had reports that you've been causing trouble in the neighborhood.

Yeah? So shoot me.

I might have to.

DeLuca turned, leaving the door wide open and walked back to the kitchen table.

The policeman stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He took off his police cap, placing it on the hook beside DeLuca's flat cap and then strode across to the kitchen table.

DeLuca dug into his pocket and pulled out the cash he had been given. He led several bills on the table and then sat down to eat again.

The policeman picked up the cash, This is it? This is all you got today?

DeLuca shrugged.

No one's got any money, Tony, Besha said. You want to stay for supper?

Yeah, thanks. Maria had to work and I'm doing a double and working the night shift, Tony said. He tapped the bills against the palm of his hand, glancing at Rocco as he walked around the kitchen table and sat in the other chair. Antonio Genovese and Rocco had been pals since childhood and he could see the frustration on his friend's face.

Besha slid her plate over in front of the policeman and got up to get herself another plate.

DeLuca gestured across at her, Starkman is cutting her back to three days.

What? You gotta be kidding me? He picked up a fork and dug into the meal, Every since they laid off so many people down at the Welland Canal, it's like there's four people for every job.

At least you got on the constabulary, pointed out DeLuca.

Yeah, but it doesn't do me and Maria much good. Don't make much money–

The protection racket ain't going so well, either, DeLuca interjected.

And all that information and inside knowledge we thought I'd get by being a copper ain't panned out either, Tony added.

Rocco sat back and pushed his plate away.

Besha sat down and looked across at the table, You've hardly touched it, Rocco. Is it no good? She picked up a fork full and tasted it.

Rocco shrugged a shoulder, No, it's fine.

He's right. In fact, it's great, Tony said as he shoveled another forkful into his mouth.

You have to eat Rocco, encouraged Besha. You have to keep your strength up.

I know. It's just...this is all getting to me. He looked around at the dilapidated apartment.

After a few moments of eating, Tony offered a suggestion, Maybe you could get into bootlegging. There's money to be made at it. Despite the government banning alcohol, people still want to drink–

That's Sal Russo's racket, you know that, Rocco said harshly.

I know, I know, Tony said. But just a little, just to help yourself out.

Maybe you could work for him? Besha suggested.

Tony laughed, Can't happen, won't happen.

Why not? You could always ask him, Besha said.

Salvatore Russo is Sicilian, Rocco said as he pressed the tips of his fingers together and gestured his annoyance, he's Cosa Nostra.

"And we are from Calabria, our family was ‛Ndrangheta," Tony added.

But he's Italian, you're Italian, doesn't that count for something? Besha said.

Tony laughed, That's not how it works. He pushed a fork-full of pork into his mouth and chewed. Then he gestured towards Rocco, You know...the Sicilian's normally do the protection racket back in the old country. But Fat Sal hasn't said anything about you doing it here. Maybe he'd be okay with the bootlegging thing too–

Look, Rocco said curtly, I'm not getting into a beef with Fat Sal. He owns the North End. So drop it.

Tony put his hands up in surrender, Okay, okay. I'm just trying to help here.

Just eat, okay? Rocco picked up his fork and dug into his meal again.

Chapter 2

ROCCO DELUCA WALKED along the plank sidewalk, headed for Piccolo's Deli to get a double payment there as well. He and Besha were just about out of food and the rent would be due in a week-and-a-half. He glanced into the bakery as he passed and his eyes met those of Mr. Dimesworth's son. The teenage boy's eyes flashed fear. Not today, paesano. Your pops already paid for the month. As he approached the deli he saw two men, both dressed in cheap, brown-wool suits, standing beside the entrance. They had their hands clasped together in front of them, their backs against the wall like they were waiting for something...or someone.

As he drew closer, Rocco recognized both men. They were from the North Side, but he only knew the name of the tall one, Lauriano Achille, better known as Meatball. The shorter, husky man he knew only as Guppy. They're part of Fat Sal's muscle. What are they doing here? They usually stayed–

Meatball turned his head and looked straight at Rocco. He then glanced at Guppy and gestured with his chin in Rocco's direction.

Guppy's body went on alert and both men now focused a steely eye on DeLuca as he approached.

Rocco stopped a few feet away from the entrance and nodded a wordless hello.

Meatball and Guppy stepped out from the building and turned towards Rocco, standing firm in his path on the wooden sidewalk.

Rocco didn't move a muscle; he recognized the bulge of a handgun underneath the suit jacket of both men.

It is highly suggested that you move on, Meatball said.

Why is that?

Because we already done the collection here, Guppy said. In fact, we already done the collecting for the neighborhood... last week.

Rocco didn't blink an eye but he caught the meaning. That's why old Piccolo couldn't pay me. These two bozos had already took taken it. Rocco took an exaggerated breath and looked casually to the other side of the street before he spoke again. I understood Fat Sal–

"Mr. Russo," Meatball interjected.

They're trying to provoke me. Play it cool, Rocco. He took a breath again and looked into Meatball's eyes, "I understood Mr. Russo, wasn't interested in the protection–"

Mr. Russo is interested in everything, Meatball said. "This is his town. Not just the North End...all of it."

Guppy rolled his hands in a dismissive gesture, He just allowed the riff-raff to run their little games, you know, as a gesture of charity. Guppy clasped his hands back in front of him, "This is our route now. And now that you're aware of it, it's suggested you find a different line of work."

With that, both of Fat Sal's men set their feet firmly apart, watching for the smallest movement of aggression.

Rocco ground his teeth as he glanced across the dirt street, working to keep his temper under control. Bide your time, Rocco, bide your time. Without another word, he turned and walked back down the sidewalk, staring straight ahead, half expecting to get shot in the back. But it never came.

ROCCO WAS SITTING ON the stoop, nursing his last beer. Right now he didn't care about the ban and getting pinched for having illegal alcohol in his possession. Screw the coppers. The sun was setting but his anger was rising. Kids played hop-scotch in the street two doors down but their laughter was subdued, almost sad. Like the sad, worn-down apartment buildings on the street. Everything about the North End was sad and worn-down. Even the people, all beaten down by a hard existence.

Tony Genovese walked by the kids, whistling and twirling his police baton by the leather strap on the end. He stopped the whistling and twirling when he saw Rocco sitting on the stoop. As he approached, his face grew grim. He knew something was up. I take it old man Piccolo still didn't have the money?

Rocco didn't answer; he simply took another swig of his beer.

Genovese took a seat on the stoop beside Rocco without saying a word.

Rocco offered the half-empty bottle.

Genovese took the bottle, swirled it around a little and took a drink.

Two of Fat Sal's men were waiting for me at Piccolo's, Rocco said as he stared ahead.

Genovese stopped in mid-drink and glanced across at his pal. He lowered the beer and looked at Rocco, What did they want?

Rocco didn't talk right away. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a book of matches.

Genovese stayed silent. He knew something was wrong. His thumb worked gently at the label on the bottle of beer as he waited for his friend to open up.

Rocco lit his cigarette, tossed the match away and blew out smoke, They wanted me to know they were taking over the protection racket.

Genovese blinked. Why now? he asked after a moment. Why after all this time?

Rocco just took another drag on his cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke in anger. His jaw clenched. It's bad enough they take my money, he said in a whisper. But they embarrassed me in front of the entire neighborhood.

Tony Genovese watched an older couple walking by on the other side of the street, tapping a finger against the visor of his police hat in greeting when they glanced this way. He saw the couple's fearful glance towards Rocco before they sped up their feet and hurried along. Tony watched the kids play for a moment and then turned to Rocco, So...now what?

Rocco shrugged and flipped the cigarette into the street, I got one more beer left upstairs. How's half a glass sound?

Hey, I'm on duty, Tony complained.

That never stopped you before.

That's true. Tony slipped his baton into his police belt and followed Rocco into the old apartment building. Together they climbed the rickety stairs in silence to the third floor. Reaching the landing, they turned right and headed down the hallway. A short, old lady, dressed all in black, was banging on the door to Rocco's apartment at the far end.

That looks like Mrs. Maggio, Tony said.

It is. Rocco called out as they walked, Mrs. Maggio. What can I do for you? Besha's not home right now.

The old lady turned and squinted down the hallway. Then she began walking towards the two men. She gestured as she drew closer, No, no. You have a call, Mr. Rocco. A telephone call.

Rocco realized she was pointing to the telephone on the wall that was just outside her apartment. It was the only telephone on the entire third floor since people here couldn't afford one of their own. And Mrs. Maggio acted very much like the operator for the people on the third, letting anyone knowing if a call came through for them.

Who would be calling you? Tony asked as he glanced at the handset sitting on top of the black box on the wall.

Rocco shrugged, I have no idea. Never had a telephone call before.

Tony pushed his hat back on his head and looked at the old woman, Do you know who it is?

What do I look like, a secretary? cracked the old woman. She never even looked at the two men as she swung her door open and disappeared into her apartment.

Rocco looked at Tony and shrugged again. Then he stepped over and picked up the handset, Hello?

Tony leaned in to listen to the conversation.

Hello, Is this Rocco? Rocco DeLuca?

Yeah. Who's this?

Rocco! It's Matteo Jacurso, it's Little Jack. How are you?

Little Jack? It's been a long time. Where are you?

Buffalo.

Buffalo? You're calling me long-distance from Buffalo? Did somebody die? Rocco glanced at Antonio by placing his hand over the mouthpiece, Matteo Jacurso. A cousin on my father's side from back home.

Yeah, business died, Matteo said. You heard about the prohibition thing down here?

Rocco nodded and realized Matteo couldn't actually see him, Uh, yeah. I read about it in the newspaper last month.

The Volstead Act they call it. Passed on October 28, 1919, one friggin' day before my birthday. Can you believe it? Great birthday present.

Yeah. We went dry up here three years ago.

But they still let you make booze up there, right? The three breweries we had here got shut down. And Person's whiskey distillery and wholesale distribution center is closed too. We got no way to get at anything down here.

Well, most of the guys have shut down here as well. And the ones still operating aren't supposed to sell it to the public. But they do some tricks to get it out on the streets here. Like you can always get a bottle at a drugstore or something,  Rocco said.

Can you get me some?

Rocco looked at Tony and rolled his finger around his temple like the man was crazy, You call me all the way from Buffalo to get you a bottle of booze? Rocco tilted the handset so Tony could hear.

Tony put his ear close, listening.

No, no, no. How much can you get me, Rocco?

Both Rocco and Tony looked each other, wondering what kind of fool was on the other end of the phone.

"Look, Rocco, let me spell it out. I work down here for Baby Face Monterosso. He's ‛Ndrangheta, like us. He's got two underground nightclubs here and one up the Niagara Falls. But we need booze, Rocco. That's what's what brings the crowds in, booze. That's why I called you. I told Baby Face you could help us. Can you get me some? Come on, Rocco, I know you can."

Rocco wasn't sure what to say. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at his friend.

Tony shrugged and whispered, Ask him how much he needs.

Rocco thought about it for a moment and then spoke into the phone, How much do you need?

"All you can get me, Rocco. Cases of it–"

–cases?

Yeah. We're good for the money, you know that.

Yeah, I'm not worried about that, Rocco said, still unsure of where this was going. How...how do I get it across the border to you–?

I don't know, you figure it out. Bring it across in a boat and I'll meet you on the shore.

Where do I get a boat?

I don't know. Steal one. Just get me the booze, Rocco. Just call Exeter 4-5200 when you're ready. The line went dead.

Rocco slowly put the handset back in the cradle, thinking.

"So how you gonna get cases of booze, Rocco?" Tony asked.

Rocco stuck his hands in his pants pockets, unsure of the answer.

Chapter 3

TONY GENOVESE AND ROCCO DELUCA entered the front door of Glen Gael Distillery on Sherman Avenue North, where they specialized in Single Malt Scotch Whiskey from 100% malted barley. Tony wore civilian clothes rather than his uniform for this visit. The old, red brick building had a large, brick archway that opened right to the back and they could see the copper stills, stainless tanks of various sizes and other strange equipment that filled the back half of the building. A sour, yeasty smell similar to baking bread permeated the air. Workmen wearing coveralls were rolling wooden barrels across the floor towards other barrels that were stacked high on wooden racks against the old brick wall.

An older white-bearded man in an apron and wide, black braces over his shoulders, stepped out of a small office area on the right, Good day, gentlemen. What can I do for you?

You the boss here? Tony asked.

My name is Stuart Kippen, I'm the owner.

Rocco glanced at Tony and decided to get right to the matter, My friend and me were wondering if we could buy some whiskey from you?

Old man Kippen stuck his thumbs under his braces, Well, this is not a pub you know.

Rocco's jaw clenched.

Tony took a quick step forward to make sure the old man didn't lose his teeth, Look, we're here to buy some cases of whiskey. Entire cases.

I see, said Kippen as he grew serious. He turned and stepped back towards the office, All I need is your purchase order and export license–

Tony and Rocco looked at each, not expecting that.

What if we don't have a license? Rocco asked.

Kippen stopped in the doorway and turned to look back, his thumbs going into his braces again, Then I'm afraid I can't sell you. You need an export license and you have to pay the customs excise tax before you take any liquor. The man obviously saw the anger on Rocco's face and he raised his hands in defense, "Look, I wish I could help you, I really do. I'm barely staying solvent due to the local chapter of the Women's Christian Temperance Union as it is. But with the law the way it is now, I can only sell to exporters, not that there are many around here. Now, if you were to come back with the proper, legitimate paperwork, showing that you're exporting it to Cuba or Mexico and you pay the excise tax, then we can do business. Otherwise, I'll be put under pressure and out of business by the blasted suffragettes. They're constantly on the local constabulary...well...my hands are tied gentlemen, my hands are tied."

ROCCO AND TONY WALKED side-by-side across the blocks, back towards their neighborhood. Rocco's face left no doubt he was angry at the rebuttal. It was at least fifteen minutes before he spoke, So how do we get one of these export licenses? Any idea?

Tony just shook his head no.

Maybe we could get someone to make up these papers?

Maybe. But I don't even know what they look like, Tony said. And I don't know any place that has them. Pretty hard to forge something you don't know anything about.

Rocco was silent as they walked the next two blocks. Finally, he asked, How does Fat Sal do it?

Tony shrugged his shoulders after a moment of thought, I have no idea. And I don't know anyone in their crew who would tell us. It's not like we're friends with those guys.

Maybe he's got something on that old guy back there and he's squeezing him to get his liquor out the back door, offered Rocco. What do you think?

"Maybe. Maybe if I put the uniform on and go back there...."

No, I don't want you losing your job, Rocco said. You and Maria have been good friends–

But that's why I took the job, Rocco, to help us both out.

Rocco placed a firm hand on his friend's shoulder as they walked, I know. But right now, I don't see it paying off for either one of us.

Tony nodded in agreement with his friend's assessment.

Rocco clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, "But I gotta figure out something, Tony. With Besha being cut back and Fat Sal taking over the protection racket...."

Tony shook his head in frustration. Being unable to help his friend was unacceptable. He had to find a way to help. Fifteen minutes later he stopped walking and slid his hands into his pants pockets.

Rocco stopped after a few steps and turned to look back at his friend, What is it, Tony?

Tony didn't answer right away; he just stared off into the distance.

Rocco watched his friend, wondering what was going on in his mind.

I got an idea, Tony said finally as he tapped his temple with a finger. He pointed at Rocco, I'll meet you out front of your building after supper. With that said, Tony turned and walked up the street and away from his friend.

Chapter 4

THE TEMPERATURE WAS DROPPING , and Rocco DeLuca felt a slight shiver under the old leather army jacket he wore as he sat on the stoop. The street was dark, quiet and empty with the kids being unable to stay outside in the thin hand-me-down clothing they wore. Headlights and the roar of an engine caught Rocco's attention off to his left.

A black, 1918 Ford Model-TT one-ton truck rumbled his way from the far end of the street.  It had an enclosed cab and a wooden crate-style open cargo box that had been painted yellow. He could see two figures through the front windshield, one driving and one passenger. The truck braked to a stop in front of Rocco.

Rocco tilted his head and looked at the passenger, Tony?

Yeah Rocco, jump in. Tony slid over to the center of the seat.

Rocco stepped up onto the running board and into the passenger side of the truck. It was then that he realized his friend was wearing his police uniform. This didn't make any sense.

Tony picked up his hat from his lap and perched it on the back of his head before he jerked a thumb towards the driver beside him, This is Tommaso Giachetti, from the neighborhood.

Rocco leaned his head to look across at the driver. It was a young man he had seen, now maybe nineteen with a shock of black hair, who ran the streets as a kid barefoot, Yeah. I recognize you from the street. The kids called you Tommy Two Shoes.

Giachetti's face lit up, Yeah. That's right. I didn't think you'd know me at all.

Rocco looked at Tony, "How come they didn't call him Tommy No Shoes? Wouldn't that make more sense."

Tony shrugged, Go figure kids. But he's got shoes, Rocco. His mother said he could only wear them to church. He had to be dressed up, you know?

Rocco's patience was growing thin, You said you had an idea. What the hell you doing with this truck?

Giachetti leaned forward, My pops put a down-payment on this truck after the war with money he saved from when he was in the army. He started a small lumber yard and used this to deliver. He hesitated for a moment and then said, He couldn't pay Fat Sal's protection money and he worried so much he had a heart attack.

Rocco felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Fat Sal.

My pops can't work now...and we're gonna lose the truck–

Rocco looked at Tony, This is your idea? You're buying the truck and we're in the delivery business now?

Have faith Rocco, have faith, Tony said. He turned to Tommy, Stop talking kid and get driving.

Sure, Tony, sure. The gears groaned and squealed and the one-ton truck jerked twice before they moved down the street.

Fifteen minutes later Tony pointed up the street, Turn left just there.

Tommy peered along the dark street and then nodded, pulling into an alleyway.

Turn the lights off and take it slow, instructed Tony.

Tommy turned the lights off and drove past the backyards of a number of houses before being told to stop halfway down the dark alley.

Tony jerked a thumb to the back of the house on the left, That's Sam O'Toole's place, Rocco. Busted twice for bootlegging and I know for a fact he keeps several cases in a small back room off the kitchen. While I keep him occupied at the front door, you two go through the back door and grab whatever you find.

Rocco's eyebrows rose, We're going to rob a bootlegger?

Actually, we're going to rob several bootleggers tonight. Tony smiled, I got the addresses from the arrest reports. It's perfect. Who they gonna report the robbery to? The cops? He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the cargo box, Tommy has a tarp folded up back there. You can hide the cases you take under it.

Rocco leaned and looked across at the driver, "You sure about this kid? You could lose the truck...or we could get shot if we get caught...."

Tommy shrugged, We're gonna lose the truck anyway. Then he raised his chin, I ain't scared to get shot.

Well, I am, shot back Rocco. He still wasn't sure about it and glanced at Tony again, But don't Fat Sal supply all these bootleggers their booze?

Tony shrugged, "So he gets double orders in the morning. Look...unless you got a better plan, Rocco...."

Rocco had nothing to offer. He stayed quiet as Tommy let Tony get out on his side of the cab.

Tony skirted around the left side of the house in the dark, heading for the front.

Rocco joined Tommy on the far side of the truck and they waited a few moments before heading low into the darkness of the backyard. Reaching the back porch, Rocco gestured for Tommy to stay quiet as they listened carefully.

Tony began pounding at the front door.

Rocco reached out, grabbing the knob for the back door and slowly twisted. The door opened with a slight groan. They could now hear Tony talking to some man at the front of the house. Darting quickly inside, Rocco led Tommy into the dark kitchen. He looked at the kid and whispered, Did you and Tony think about bringing a flashlight?

Tommy shrugged.

Great plan. Rocco slowly walked into the darkness and finally saw the outline of an open doorway on the left. He headed for it and stepped into another dark room. It smelled old and musty.

Tommy was right behind him and tapped Rocco lightly on the shoulder, pointing off to the left.

Rocco saw the outline of several cases sitting on the floor. He moved carefully in the dark to them and stacked one on top of the other. He lifted them. It wasn't as heavy as he thought it would be. He grabbed another case and stacked it on top. Lifting the three cases, he headed for the back door.

Tommy did the same, quickly stacking three cases and heading in the dark for the back door.

Rocco slipped through the open back door and across the darkness of the backyard. He and Tommy had their three cases sitting in the cargo box in no time and both headed at a run for the still open door. Ducking inside again, they could still hear Tony at the front. He and the man were arguing. It didn't take more than thirty seconds for Rocco to have three more cases stacked up.

The front door slammed shut.

Tommy started to reach for more cases.

No, no, no, Rocco said urgently, we gotta go. Hurry.

Tommy headed at a run for the back door where he stopped and waited for Rocco to exit before he silently closed the back door and then headed for the truck behind Rocco.

Rocco placed the cases in the cargo box with the others as Tommy grabbed the tarp and threw it over the lot.

Tony came running out of the darkness, took a quick step onto the running board and into the truck. Rocco climbed in his side and Tommy jumped into the driver's side, starting it up.

How many were you able to get? Tony asked.

Nine, Rocco said.

Wow, more than I thought you'd get, Tony said as he watched Tommy fight with the gears. Within moments they were rumbling out of the alleyway and back onto the street. After motioning for Tommy to turn right at the next corner, Tony took a quick glance through the small back window, Any idea what brand you got?

Yeah, Rocco said, Nine cases of Glen Gael whiskey.

Tony nodded, So now we know for sure where Fat Sal gets his stuff.

Rocco glanced across at his friend, You sure this isn't going to come back on you? Wearing the uniform and all?

Tony shook his head as he motioned for Tommy to turn left at the next corner, Naw, I doubt it. I'm just a cop with a temperance bent telling a bootlegger to go straight.

How the hell did you pull that one off?

Tony laughed, It's my angelic face. That's what Maria says I have.

Maybe if you take her to church more often you can cure her blindness.

Tommy laughed as Tony gave Rocco a chin-flick with his right hand. Tony then indicated for Tommy to pull the one-ton truck into another dark back alley.

TWO MORE STOPS GAVE the trio a total of twenty-one cases of whiskey. A quick stop to use the phone at Rocco's apartment soon had everything set in motion to deliver the whiskey to a spot on the shore of the Niagara River, on the American side, north of Buffalo.

The air was nippy as Tommy and Rocco headed out, leaving Tony behind for his next shift. Although Tommy said the truck could do 45 mph, they struggled to reach a top speed of 35 mph over rugged, rutted roads. Hours passed before their lights illuminated a sign in the dark that read Bridgeburg.

You know this place? Rocco asked.

Tommy leaned over the wheel as he scanned the street and the buildings up ahead, Yeah. My pops took us down here as well as over to Crystal Beach a few times to camp. This place is straight across from where Tony said they would be waiting on the other side of the river. The old docks usually have boats tied up–

Usually? We can't screw this up, kid.

It'll be okay, you'll see, Tommy said as he turned the one-ton truck right and they drove along a dark street.

Dark water glistened ahead under the partial moonlight. As they got closer, the rough waves were quite evident.

Here we go, Tommy whispered as he pulled the truck to a stop next to an old frame shed. A battered wooden dock stuck out twenty feet into the Niagara River. Tommy jumped out and walked along the edge of the dock, looking down at the water.

Rocco jumped out of the truck and joined him. The air smelled crisp and biting.