The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,137
he clapped Carmine’s shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him off balance. Wagging a finger at Carmine, he looked at Maurizio. “I like this one, Pulvirenti. I like him a lot.” He gave Carmine’s shoulder another squeeze, then let him go. “A man who makes sure he gets what he paid for, even from a capo. I like that.”
Carmine fought back a relieved sigh.
Maurizio chuckled, sounding relieved himself. “This is why Carmine is such a respected associate in my organization.”
“Yeah,” Joe said with a nod. “Yeah, I see that. And I can see why you had a man like this made.” He turned to Morello. “What about you? What do you think of all this?”
Carmine’s teeth snapped together as the capo-turned-consigliere’s intense gaze landed on him. Morello considered him for a long moment, eyeing him as if he could see through to all the reasons Carmine had been ready to move heaven and earth to make sure all those Irish rum runners—one in particular—were returned safely.
Finally, Morello turned to Joe. “We need to see the operation. And the crew.”
Carmine stiffened, his neck prickling. “The rum runners?” He laughed uncomfortably. “They’re not really part of the organization, not like we are, so—”
Morello silenced him with a pointed glare. “They’re in a position to be interrogated by the Coast Guard and the police. And they were stupid enough to get caught at least once.” He looked at his capo again. “We need to know we’re working with professionals.”
Joe seemed to consider it before he nodded. “I agree. I want to see this crew. The man in charge, anyway.”
“Oh. Um.” Carmine cleared his throat. “All right. That can be arranged.”
“Good.” Joe gave a curt nod, then said to Maurizio, “Let’s have a look at some of your other warehouses.”
Carmine told his workers to move the display of liquor back to its usual storage space, and then he followed the entourage outside. On the way to the next warehouse, Maurizio quietly asked, “Are you sure your boys are up for impressing them?”
Carmine thought about it. Danny wouldn’t be happy. While he’d warmed up considerably to Carmine, he was still wary of the gangs.
“Are they up for it or not?” Maurizio pressed.
“Yeah,” Carmine said. “Yeah, they’re up for it.” I hope.
His boss eyed him. “What are you so worried about? Are these boys trustworthy or not?”
“Of course they are.” Carmine motioned subtly at the men walking ahead of them. “But is he the kind of man who’ll trust some Irish kids with his merchandise?”
“Danny?” James leaned across the space between their chairs in the parlor and touched Danny’s arm. “You still here?”
Danny shook himself and pulled his gaze away from the dark fireplace. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring into it. “I’m still here. I, um…” Had James said something?
His friend sat back, a knowing smile on his lips as he brought up his cigarette. “Thinking about Carmine again?”
“Thinking about—” Danny straightened. “I beg your pardon?”
James chuckled around his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, blew out some smoke, and tapped the cigarette over the ashtray between them. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
“I… I mean…” He had told James during confession, hadn’t he?
James took another drag, then put out his cigarette and sat back. “He means something to you, doesn’t he?”
Trying not to squirm under his friend’s scrutiny, Danny asked, “What makes you say that?”
James smiled. “You don’t really hide it, you know.”
“I don’t?”
“Soon as someone mentions his name, you light up like Times Square.” The smile turned to an almost playful grin. “It’s hard to miss.”
Heat rushed into Danny’s cheeks, and he avoided his friend’s gaze. What could he say? It was true. “Aye. All right. Yes. He’s… He’s always on my mind.”
“I see that.” James sobered a little. “It’s troubling you, though, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.” Danny brought up his own cigarette, which he’d forgotten about for so long it had nearly smoldered to nothing. He tapped away the long piece of ash, then brought up what remained for a drag. “Why wouldn’t I be troubled about having a gangster on my mind?”
“Because I think you forget he’s a gangster sometimes.”
Danny watched James through the thin veil of smoke dissipating between them.
James tapped his long fingers on the table beside the ashtray. “He’s a gangster. He’s Italian. But sometimes when you talk about him…” That knowing smile started to return. “Sometimes, he’s just a man who’s turned your head like I’ve