The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,48
telling a soul who’d paid him to do it. For that much money, there weren’t many supers who’d squeal. Not long after, Danny had made similar arrangements with his own landlord and super, and among other things, there were now lights illuminating the otherwise pitch-black staircases in his building. Liam and Peter’s family—not to mention their neighbors—were nearly ready to contact the Pope and have a living saint declared if they ever found out who’d paid for their tenement to finally get proper plumbing so they no longer had to rely on the communal outhouses and taps outside.
The crew might not have been driving fancy cars (or any cars at all aside from the trucks Carmine provided) or wearing fine suits and shoes, but they and their families were living better than they’d been just weeks ago. If Danny needed anything to let him sleep at night now that he was in cahoots with gangsters, this would do.
“Are we sure this counts as work?” Tommy panted in between hoisting another crate of booze into the back of the truck. “Because this feels like playing to me. Especially now that it’s not so bloody cold.” He was right about that. They were into March now, and while it was still cold, it wasn’t quite as harsh as January and February had been.
Danny laughed as he took the crate and slid it up against another. “It’s honest work that’s supposed to be back-breaking drudgery.”
“Explains why they made crime illegal,” Francis mused. “God forbid a man enjoy earning his pay.”
They chuckled and continued loading crates.
“Would you two just be quiet and do your jobs?” Bernard hissed. “I’d just as soon not get caught. Again.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “Would you stop being sore about New Year’s?”
“Just stay quiet.”
Francis muttered something Danny didn’t catch, and they kept working while Bernard and Liam kept watch.
“All right.” Danny hopped down from the back of the truck. “That’s all she’ll hold. Cover it up.”
They stuffed the truck with bundles of sticks they’d gathered, ostensibly to sell as firewood, and once there was no room for anything else, Tommy and Bernard got into the truck and drove away. Moments later, Paddy and Mathew arrived with two more trucks, which the crew loaded down the same way. All the liquor would’ve fit in a single truck this time, but it was far too heavy, and nothing alerted cops to bootleggers like a truck straining—or worse, collapsing—under its cargo’s weight. Carmine had warned the crew to load the trucks lightly, in part so the vehicles could bear the weight, and in part so that if they were caught, they’d only lose a small portion instead of the whole shipment.
They’d taken it to heart, and after the liquor had been distributed and covered in bundles of firewood, they drove toward Manhattan, the second truck leaving an hour after the first and the third an hour after that.
Danny rode in the third truck with Francis at the wheel. As always, each truck went to a different location run by the Pulvirentis, where they’d be given a chit detailing how much liquor had been received. The next morning, they’d meet and hand off the chits to Danny, who would then take them to Carmine and collect their pay for the night’s score.
He smiled to himself. Working for a gangster had never been his plan, but he had to admit: the money was damn good and the work was great fun.
As planned, the following day, Mathew came by Danny’s place to give him the chit he’d collected from the drop house. An hour or so later, Bernard brought the last one.
Gazing at the list of bottles and crates, Danny couldn’t comprehend how much money they’d just made. It was a lot, that much he was sure of, even without the bonus for hijacking someone else’s loot. From the start, they’d each made every night what it could take weeks or months to scrape together as a crew.
Bernard clapped Danny’s shoulder, and he actually smiled for once. “Guess New Year’s paid off after all.”
Danny just laughed.
So it had.
Chapter 10
It had been six years since the Spanish Influenza had ripped through New York, and Carmine’s skin still crawled whenever he found himself herded into a room with dozens of people. Even when the room was the enormous sanctuary of the church. The stuffiness was suffocating as everyone sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews. Every time someone coughed, the hair on Carmine’s neck stood up.