Toughs Read online

  Givons knocked on the door. "Message for Mr. Alfred White." Alfred White was the name the room was registered under.

  Patsy opened the door, and Givons hit him hard, knocking him back and down on his ass. Mike Baronti went for his gun, but Givons had his service revolver shoved between his eyes before he could get it out of the holster. "Go ahead," Givons said. "See if you can draw faster than I can pull the trigger."

  Mike put his hands in the air. He said, "I want to see my lawyer," and then clammed up.

  Patsy's nose was bleeding and one of the coppers handed him a clump of tissues from the bathroom. Patsy pulled himself to his feet. "You broke my nose," he said to Givons.

  Givons looked him over. "It ain't broken." He slapped him lightly, twice, on the cheek and then shoved him to the door. "Let's go," he said. "Your friends'll be waiting for you."

  Dwyer had just positioned himself outside the hotel-room door at the Maison, a copper on either side of him, when the door opened from the inside and Frank Guarracie stood in front of him with a valise in his hand. For an instant the two men stared at each other as the coppers drew their guns. Then Dwyer said, "How are you, Frank?" He'd picked up Frank twice before, several years earlier. "We've been lookin' for you."

  "Yeah?" Frank said. "Well, here I am."

  Dwyer extended his hand for the valise. "And what can I expect to find in this fine valise?" he asked as Frank handed it over.

  "I couldn't tell you," Frank said. "I was just picking it up for a friend. I don't have any idea what's inside."

  Dwyer opened the valise, looked briefly at the guns, and snapped it closed. He nodded to the coppers, who relieved Frank of his gun, took him by the arms, and followed Dwyer as he headed down the hall to the elevators.

  At the Cornish Arms, Giovanetti turned a corner and found himself looking at Vince Coll and Tuffy Onesti standing in the hallway outside a closed hotel-room door. He recognized them both from mug shots. Coll had dyed his hair and grown a mustache, but there was no mistaking him: a tall, handsome kid with a dimple square in the middle of his chin. Neither Coll nor Onesti appeared concerned at Giovanetti's appearance in the hall. They figured him, Giovanetti assumed, for another hotel guest. Behind him, at the far end of the hall and out of sight, four coppers were approaching.

  Giovanetti drew his gun. Before he could announce that he was with the police, Coll bolted down the hallway, which dead-ended at a window. Giovanetti took aim as he yelled for Coll to stop. Onesti, white-faced, backed up wordlessly into the doorway. Before Giovanetti could get a shot off, Coll ducked into what appeared to be a restroom.

  When the uniformed officers turned the corner with their guns drawn, Onesti said, "Jesus H. Christ," and looked suddenly relieved. "Hey, Irish!" he yelled down the hall. "It's only the coppers! Come on out!"

  Coll came out of the restroom with his hands in the air. "Say, officers," he said, "you gave us a scare. We thought you were Dutch Schultz's boys."

  Giovanetti kept his revolver trained on Coll. "I'm Detective Giovanetti," he said. When he reached Coll, he patted him down and found only an empty shoulder holster. Behind them, the hotel-room door opened and a beautiful woman stepped out into the hall.

  Giovanetti said to Coll, "Let me guess. That's Lottie Kreisberger."

  "Yes, sir," Vince said. "That's Lottie."

  "Anybody else in there?"

  "Sally, friend of Lottie's."

  Giovanetti yelled down the hall for the coppers to bring everyone to the station and then pushed Coll back into the restroom at the point of his gun.

  "What's the big idea?" Vince glanced around him as if to confirm that he was in a hotel bathroom.

  "Take a seat." Giovanetti pointed to an open bathroom stall.

  "You want me to sit on the shitter?"

  "Why? Does that offend your sense of decorum? Don't you beat guys to death, blow women's brains out, and kill babies for a living?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Vince looked at the commode one more time and then sat down and crossed his legs. Behind the detective, the restroom door opened and a skinny, tall copper poked his head in. Giovanetti told him to get out and wait for him in the lobby. "What's going on here?" Vince asked. "This ain't no place to conduct an interview."

  "Conduct an interview?" Giovanetti's tone said he was surprised by Coll's use of language. "I guess you're right," he added. He took a step back from Coll, put his service revolver back in its holster, and removed a .38 snubnose from his jacket pocket.

  "What the hell are you doin'?" Vince said. "I'm starting to get annoyed."

  "Is that so?" Giovanetti swung out the cylinder, emptied five bullets into his hand, and deposited them in his jacket pocket. He took a step clos er to Vince, spun the cylinder, snapped it closed, and pointed the barrel of the gun at his head. "I've got one question," he said. "If I don't like the answer, I'm going to pull the trigger. Then you may or may not have another chance to get it right. I don't expect you to be too good with math, so let me explain: you'll have a maximum, if you're very lucky, of five chances to get it right. You understand?"

  Vince laughed. "Sure," he said. "Go ahead."

  "Good." Giovanetti moved a little closer and leveled the gun so that the barrel was pointing between Vince's eyes. "Here's the question," he said, and he cocked the hammer. "Who fred the shot that killed the Vengelli boy?"

  "Couldn't tell you," Vince said, as casual as ordering dinner at a restaurant. "I wasn't there."

  Giovanetti could feel blood draining from his face and he knew Vince saw it, too. Out of anger, he pulled the trigger and when the hammer came down with a loud click, he felt it as a spasm in his heart. He could hardly breathe.

  Vince said, "You're no good at this. What's your name? Giovanetti?" He stood up and took his wallet out of his pocket as Giovanetti scrambled back and away from him. "Relax," Vince said. He pulled out a fat wad of cash and started counting.

  Giovanetti dropped the snubnose back in his pocket and took out his service revolver. "What are you doing?" he asked. He took a breath and tried to calm himself.

  Vince held the money out toward the detective. "It's a little over four Gs. I don't need it," he said. "You take it." He looked off toward the bathroom window.

  Giovanetti, in a voice that sounded like a child's, asked, "Why aren't you scared of a bullet in your head, Coll?"

  Vince shrugged. "None of my brothers made it past twenty-four. Why should I be any different?" He took another step closer to Giovanetti, extending the wad of cash—and the last thing he remembered before waking in the lobby was the little guy's fist coming at him straight and fast.

  8:00 a.m.

  Vince watched a patch of blue sky through the barred window of his cell in the Bronx station house. He lay on his back, on a cot with a dirty, inch-thick mattress, his arms crossed under his head. He'd lain there, in much the same position, most of the night, the barred sky through his window changing slowly from black to gray to blue. There'd been a crowd waiting when the paddy wagon pulled up to the station. Mostly they were reporters and photographers and coppers, but there were ordinary chumps out on the street with all the rest, and they shouted curses at him, called him scum and baby killer. It didn't bother him as much as surprise him. When he'd found out he was Public Enemy Number One, he'd gotten drunk with the boys to celebrate. He was famous. The whole feckin' country knew his name. Did they yell curses at Al Capone? It bothered him and it didn't. Chumps. They'd work two weeks for what the big shots spent on lunch. Enough of that. But he wasn't a baby killer, that he didn't like. It wasn't him shot the kid, and what about Cabo, who was famous for carrying a pocket full of pennies to toss to little kids so they'd gather around him like a bulletproof vest? Why wasn't Cabo a baby killer, the way he surrounded himself with kids? Chumps. They didn't have a witness for the Vengelli thing and they couldn't prove anything. In the paddy wagon with Tuffy and the girls, he'd reminded them of that. They didn't have anything on anybody, and as soon as all the big noise
was over they'd be back out on the street.

  That feckin' dectective looked so scared when the hammer came down, Vince almost felt sorry for him. He packed a powerhouse right, though. Vince hadn't been knocked out cold like that since his days in Mount Loretto—and it was a nun did it to him then. They were in the kitchen, and he said something rude, something about nuns' panties, and she clocked him with a cast-iron frying pan. He couldn't see out of one eye for a week, and it was a month or more before his face looked normal again. Jesus, those nuns were tough. Vince touched his forehead, where the detective's punch had connected. It was sore, but there was hardly a mark. Must be something they taught them in copper school, how to do damage with nothing showing.

  Lottie'd looked like she might faint when Giovanetti came out of the elevator with Vince slung over his shoulder. He was strong for a little guy. He must've carried Vince all the way down the hall and to the elevator. Vince was coming around about the time the elevator doors opened, and he saw Lottie fall backward. He figured she thought he was dead. He struggled to say her name, coming out of a fog, and then quickly he was awake and on his feet. He brushed himself off and called out to her. "Hey, doll," he said. "Must've bumped my head somewhere, but I'm fine now." Then the color came back into her face and she gave him one of her winks. Lottie. It bothered him to see her in the paddy wagon, but she'd be out soon enough. Giovanetti said they had the whole gang in custody, but Vince didn't believe it. Feckin' Loretto. They didn't have him, that was certain. The thought of Loretto bothered him, too. Loretto was too smart to cross him. He knew what'd come of that, but he didn't like it that the kid had disappeared and now he wasn't sure about him. He was sure about Lottie. She was the only thing, and now the only thing that bothered him in a way he didn't want to think about was not seeing her again. But that wouldn't happen. They didn't have anything on him they could make stick.

  Vince sat up at the sound of someone approaching his cell. He brushed himself off and straightened his jacket, and then who was it should appear outside his cell but the commissioner himself, Big Shot Mulrooney. And behind him Giovanetti and two more who looked like detectives backed up by a pair of coppers in blue.

  "Ah," Mulrooney said at the sight of Coll. "And there he is, the baby killer himself, in person."

  Vince smiled amiably and said, "It must be somebody else you're looking for, then. Could you possibly have the wrong cell?"

  Mulrooney stood aside and one of the coppers opened the cell door.

  Vince said, "Are you sure you're not afraid to step into a cell with the likes of me?"

  Mulrooney said, "I've pissed on better men than you, Coll." He was a tall man, which made Giovanetti, standing beside him, look even shorter.

  Vince laughed and pointed. "You two should run off to the circus together. Will you look at you, side by side?"

  Mulrooney glanced down at Giovanetti and then stepped into the cell and punched Vince in the kidney, a blow that dropped him to his knees. "Enough clowning," he said, and he hauled Vince to his feet and tossed him back onto the cot. "We've got your gang in custody, Vince."

  Vince held his head between his knees while he waited for the pain to subside. "What gang?" he managed to say.

  Dwyer was standing quietly behind Mulrooney and next to Givons and Giovanetti. "Frank Guarracie," he said. "Tuffy Onesti, Mike Baronti, Patsy DiNapoli."

  Givons added, "Plus your sister, Florence, her husband, Joe, your girl, Lottie, and Frank's girl, Sally."

  Vince said, "You missed Flo's dog, Scottie. He's gonna go hungry with no one to feed him."

  Dwyer said, "That'll teach him to hang around with lowlifes like you and your gang."

  Vince touched his back where Mulrooney had hit him. He sat up and said, "You don't have anything. You might as well let us go now before my lawyer gets here and sets you straight."

  Mulrooney said, "Now you're thinking wishfully, aren't you, Vince? We've got an outstanding warrant for you from the Sheffeld Farm robbery, and you jumped bail last year on a Sullivan rap."

  "And then, of course," Giovanetti added, "there's the Vengelli murder."

  Vince winked at Giovanetti and said, "We've already had that conversation, Detective."

  "And it ended with you unconscious."

  Vince said, "I must've passed out."

  "Ah, enough of this." Mulrooney crouched down so that he was eye to eye with Vince. "You're a disgrace to your people, Vincent Coll."

  "And what people would that be?" Vince said. "The ones on Big Owney's payroll, like yourself, perhaps?"

  Mulrooney snatched Vince by the throat. "You make me sick, Coll. All the hard labor over generations to pull ourselves up out of the gutter, and the likes of you dragging us back down." He pulled him close, so that he was within kissing distance, and then tossed him away like trash. "I'll see you burn in the chair—and soon, too."

  Vince said calmly, straightening out his jacket, "Not without a witness, I don't believe you will."

  To the detectives Mulrooney said, "Bring him along, boys," and then disappeared out the cell door.

  Vince stood as Givons took him by one arm and Dwyer by the other. The three of them followed Giovanetti and the coppers down a filthy corridor lined with empty cells and out into another long hallway, this one neat, smelling of vinegar, and lined with offices. "Where are we going?" Vince asked. "I'm getting hungry. You gentlemen plan on breakfasting with me?"

  "They'll get you some grub soon enough," Givons said, and he pushed through a door and into a room full of coppers who lined the walls around three rows of folding chairs. Tuffy, Frank, Mike, and Patsy were standing against the wall at the front of the room, facing the chairs.

  "Hey, boys!" Tuffy yelled. "They brought Irish to keep us company!" He turned to the coppers and said, "You mugs are swell!"

  "Yeah," Mike said. "Very thoughtful of you."

  Some of the coppers were laughing. They all appeared to be amused.

  "This is like a reunion," Vince said, and he slapped Tuffy on the back.

  Dwyer and Givons took up positions at opposite walls, next to a pair of matching lamp poles with the bare bulbs pointed at the front of the room. "Line up," Givons said. "You know the drill."

  Tuffy and the gang lined up shoulder to shoulder against the wall, with Vince on one end of the line and Tuffy on the other. Vince said, "Say, where's my lawyer? You can't do this without my lawyer here."

  Givons said, "Not if you refused our offer to have a lawyer present."

  "Yeah?" Vince said. "Well, I haven't done any such thing!"

  "Sure you have," Giovanetti said, and the room exploded in laughter.

  Vince looked at the boys and said, "They think they're comedians." He glanced out at the coppers. He added, "They look like a bunch of clowns to me," and then he and the boys had a good laugh.

  From the center of the room, amidst the folding chairs, a photographer standing behind a camera and tripod yelled, "Hey, boys, look over here," and a moment later there was a bright flash of light as he took their picture.

  "Jesus," Tuffy said, "I'm blinded."

  "Ain't that a shame," Givons said, and he and Dwyer turned on their lights, shining them into the boys' eyes. Givons knocked on a door beside him, and Mulrooney entered the room in front of the two Edison workers who had witnessed the shooting at Cabo's garage.

  "That's them," one of the workers said as soon as the door opened.

  The second worker stepped into the room and agreed with the first. They both pointed out Frank Guarracie as the driver of the car and Tuffy Onesti as the shooter in the Mullins murder, and a minute later they were out the door.

  At the front of the room, Tuffy leaned forward to exchange a look with Frank

  Vince put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Don't worry about a thing," he said. "Once our lawyers get here, these coppers will be singing a different tune."

  Tuffy grinned as if his problems were done with. Frank's face was expressionless and remained that way as he was led out of the
room with the others.

  In the hallway, after the prisoners had been taken away, Mulrooney huddled with Giovanetti, Givons, Dwyer, and Will Jackson, the assistant district attorney.

  Giovanetti said, "We'll need to give those Edison guys protection."

  Mulrooney took a cigar from his jacket pocket. He tapped it against his finger as he looked off down the hallway at a young secretary carrying a sheaf of papers into another office. He seemed to be running calculations in his head. When he turned back to the group, he asked Jackson, "How soon can we bring Guarracie and Onesti to trial?"