The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,21

without a doubt they were the thieves.

Carmine reached the end of an aisle and started up another. Almost halfway to the end of a long row of crates and barrels, he pulled a wheeled pallet aside, revealing several intact, untouched pallets. He didn’t open them; he knew that beneath the nailed wooden lids were cases and bottles of brandy, Canadian whisky, and Caribbean rum. There were stashes like this one all over the warehouse, and Vincente had assured him only the one had been disturbed last night.

His gaze drifted over the crates containing cases and barrels of liquor waiting to be moved in secret out to Pulvirenti-controlled speakeasies scattered throughout Manhattan, particularly around Times Square and Hell’s Kitchen. Even more booze would be delivered at a significant markup to over a hundred other speakeasies or, at an even higher markup, sold to New York’s wealthiest elite. That was to say nothing of the dozens upon dozens of pharmacies who dispensed alcohol legally via phony prescriptions. There was another stash out on Long Island that kept numerous pharmacies and speakeasies—Pulvirenti-run and otherwise—well-stocked in between making sure the spectacularly rich had enough to entertain their equally rich guests.

It was a relatively small operation compared to those run by Joe Morello, Big Bill Dwyer, and Cola Schiro, but he couldn’t complain. It mostly ran smoothly, and everyone associated with the Pulvirentis was getting rich, and fast. Carmine had a home, a car, and wealth he couldn’t have imagined as a poor fifteen year-old crossing the Atlantic with his younger sister and recently-widowed mother.

But every bootlegger worth his salt knew better than to rest on his laurels. A supply line could dry up. A shipment could be confiscated or hijacked en route into the city, and once the merchandise made it to the warehouse, there was always the possibility of burglary, theft, fire, and raids. To keep the booze and money flowing, men like Carmine had to be constantly innovating, coming up with new ways to earn bigger profits.

And still, as had happened last night, merchandise was lost. Worse, he’d been concerned lately that—theft notwithstanding—liquor was moving out of the warehouses faster than it was moving in. There was still a steady stream coming in via truck and hidden in shipments of other Pulvirenti-controlled imports, but the bread and butter of Carmine’s operation had long come from Rum Row. He needed rum runners out on the water. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d had a damn good crew, and if he didn’t replace them soon, then the liquor supply was going to dry up faster than he could replenish it. Not good. Not good at all.

As he surveyed the illicit inventory, his mind kept wandering back to the four handcuffed Irishmen in Plaza Hotel uniforms.

He believed his sister that the young Irishman had been trying to save her from Ricky. That he hadn’t just murdered the man in cold blood. What fascinated him was that the Irishman had been in the suite at all. He and apparently one other young man had made it in undetected, and likely would have slipped out as well if not for the altercation between Ricky and Giulia. In fact, he thought with a shudder, the kid probably could have escaped even with the altercation, simply by not getting involved and letting the noise be his cover while he ducked out of the suite. Thank God he’d stepped in instead.

Had it not been for Ricky and Giulia getting into a fight, the alarm likely never would have been sounded, and the rest of the Irishmen never would have been caught either. They might have even escaped with significant amounts of stolen cash and valuables. From what Detective Higgins had told him, they’d taken plenty, but they’d left the highest value and most conspicuous items behind, which would have given them even more time to escape without anyone realizing something was amiss. Plus they would have better luck selling stolen items that weren’t quite so high-profile; it didn’t do a man any good to steal the Hope Diamond if he’d be discovered the moment he tried to sell it.

All of which led Carmine to the conclusion that they weren’t just some kids off the street picking pockets or stealing unattended items. They were good. Really good. They planned their heists. They were stealthy. They…

They were exactly what his operation needed. Especially after four of his best and fastest rum runners had been killed when their speedboat had collided with