The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,24

where they frequently met to make plans and divvy up booty, the lads sat around a table, watching in silence as Francis and Liam divided the paltry score.

A failure, and an expensive one at that—after they’d scraped together money to bribe employees for uniforms and a guest list, the night had cost them money. More than they could afford, in fact, and more than any sane man ever would have spent unless he hoped for a big score.

They had hoped for a big score, and the plan had been a good one. One that had taken months to work out and enact. There’d been all kinds of expensive things in those suites, all of it ripe for the taking, and… the crew had come out with less than they’d had at the start.

If everything had gone according to plan, they’d have made plenty of money. The jewelry, cash, and trinkets the cops had taken off the boys would have brought in enough to make the whole heist profitable.

Guilt prodded at Danny. It would’ve been different if he hadn’t intervened with Ricky and the woman. If he’d just stayed behind the furniture with Bernard, waited it out, and—

Except he couldn’t have done that. He’d listened like a coward to one woman suffering at the hands of a brute, and he’d vowed he’d never stand by and let it happen again. There’d been only one choice on New Year’s if he’d wanted his conscience to be quiet ever again.

Bernard sat back in his chair and sipped whiskey from a teacup. “Now what do we do?”

“Pay our rent,” Paddy muttered. “And then steal what we need to eat until we think of a plan to make the money that night didn’t make.”

Liam’s shoulders drooped. Mathew sighed into his drink. For a long time, none of them spoke, but the air hummed with frustration and dejection.

The Plaza Hotel was meant to be their big score. A whole lot of work, a whole lot of risk, but a big payoff in the end.

The disappointment might have been less demoralizing had they been having better luck with anything else they lifted. Thing was, it was getting harder and harder to steal without crossing a gangster or hurting someone struggling as much as they were. Everything worth stealing was controlled by the gangs, or it was owned by the rich, and apparently now when they stole from the rich, they risked running afoul of the gangsters in the process.

“We can try burgling again,” Francis offered. “Was only that one time we was nearly caught.”

“And we’re lucky none of us was shot that night.” Bernard shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What about those big parties the rich people throw?” Mathew said. “You have to admit, had it not been for Danny and Bernard crossing the gangsters, we’d have made off with a decent score. Maybe a private party at one of those mansions uptown.”

The lads exchanged glances, and there were some murmurs and nods.

Mathew was right. The parties in the richest neighborhoods were ripe for the picking, but those jobs were risky, and they were getting riskier as more and more rich people started schmoozing with gangsters. Wouldn’t do the lads any good to start picking pockets and find them sewn shut again. Not unless they all wanted to take midnight swims in the Hudson.

Danny shuddered. At every turn, there was the risk of crossing the ever more powerful and numerous gangsters in the city, and as far as he was concerned, the only thing more dangerous than working for gangsters was working against them.

He said nothing, but in the back of his mind, his conversation with Battaglia echoed over and over. He had no idea what the job was that the man had been proposing, only that it surely would have paid each of them more than the pitiful pile of dollars, coins, and cigarettes they’d divided eight ways. The gangs didn’t bother for scores this small. They certainly didn’t hire anyone unless there’d be enough money to make it worthwhile.

How much would Danny and his boys have been paid? Would it be worth the damage to his conscience and soul if his crew could come away from a job without wondering where they’d have to steal their next loaf of bread?

His gaze moved from one crestfallen friend to the next.

Should he have heard Battaglia out? Should he have taken the job, whatever it entailed?

Working for a gangster—especially a Sicilian gangster—was the last thing in the world