CHAPTER ONE Bloody Rain

The moon was up. The streetlights were lit. The night

was here, and the night was a helluva bad time to be

meeting a short-tempered stool pigeon in the corner of

a bar. Trouble was I was about to do just that. I

thought about the jam in the driver’s seat of the

black flivver, sharing the moment with a pack of

luckies and a fifth of the hard stuff. Sure,

Prohibition was in full swing, but hell, I don’t

follow the rules. I just enforce ‘em.

I lit up and glanced out the window. The Four Aces

Club was staring at me from across the street, the

smell of bootleg liquor coming out the windows. What

the hell was I doing here? I asked myself. The answer

was simple: It was dark, out of the way, and no

stranger to shady deals. Plus, Jackie O’Connell had

picked the place, and you didn’t argue with a guy who

might know something important. Even if he was

freakin’ nuts.

Finishing the whiskey, I stowed the bottle behind my

seat and stepped out of the boiler. It was a rusty old

flivver, sure, but it got me from here t’the next

place. It had to just in case things got hairy.

Just as I beat it across the pavement the sky opened

up and coughed out a few drops. Then a few more until

I was in a goddamn downpour. I ducked into the Four

Aces, already soaked.

The place was nicer than you woulda thought, and by

nice I mean the rattiest piece of cowshit I’d ever

seen. A dark spot in a city that was dark all over.

Pulling off my fedora, I gave it the once-over, hoping

it was a little better than my first impression. But

no cigar. Still a dump.

A few greaseballs were nursing drinks I wasn’t stupid

enough to think were Coke like it said on the bottle.

The bartender was behind the counter. He looked like a

twitchy guy, the kind you find behind desks, not bars.

But he sure as hell wasn’t no pencil pusher.

Squeezed in due North were some pool tables, and the

usual bums were playing with the sticks. One schmuck

smacked the eight-ball into a corner pocket and smiled

like a moron. I almost laughed. Then I didn’t.

Past the pool junkies, tables were packed in like

sardine cans. The dim lights hanging from the cieling

lit up their faces. It wasn’t a pretty sight. More

plug uglies, and I ain’t talkin’ about the gang.

Jackie O’Connell was at the far end near the wall,

playing a hand of poker with some real fuzztails. I

decided to go rain on their parade.

I weaved through the tables, pulled up a chair, and

sat down, eyeing O’Connell. He noticed. “Hit me,” I

muttered. The dealer whipped out five cards; I took a

look at ‘em and grinned, pretending to hide it. One of

the mugs across from me raised his eyebrows. Tommy

Deluca, I thought, remembering him from the Valdano

Case. He probably remembered me too, but hey, at least

I payed his hospital bill.

The thug to the left of the dealer, also a thug, put

down a ten-buck chip. The next three met ‘im, then it

was Jackie’s turn. He gave a yellow smile and shoved a

pile of chips into the middle of the table. “I’ll see

ya bet, and raise it a hundred.” Hey, he mighta not

had good teeth, but at least he had spunk. And he was

whacked, which explained the bet.

The next two chumps folded, looking scared. My turn.

“I’ll see your goddamn bet,” I said, “and raise it a

hundred more.” I parted with a pile of my chips.

The entire table folded, ‘cept for me and the

crackpot. He grimaced. “You don’t got that kinda cash,

jackass.”

“Maybe I don’t,” I shot back. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Jackie folded. I laid out my hand. Two threes, a five,

and a set of nines. He grimaced again, and the game

was over. Gathering up the cash, I followed him to

another table, taking the cig from my mouth and

sliding it behind my ear.

“You sunnoffabitch,” he said as we sat down. “I ain’t

tellin’ you nothin’.”

I pulled out a roll of sugar and peeled off a five

spot, slapping it down on the table. That got him into

a better mood. “Something’s goin’ down tonight,” he

muttered. I asked him what and after five more bucks

he answered, “Hush money’s traidin’ hands tonight down

at da docks. Some serious cabbage.”

His story was as fulla holes as a block of Swiss and

for many reasons, but I had a hunch he was on the

level. “Details, Jackie.” Another five-spot and he

started to talk. And by started to, I mean that just

as he opened his mouth Tommy Deluca stood up with a

heater in his hand and opened fire.

The slugs slammed into Jackie’s head, then his back.

Tommy brought up the gun again. I flipped the table

over, at the same time whipping out my S&W and pulling

back the hammer. I got off a few and threw myself to

the floor as a tommy gun started talking. Who the

hell- the kid behind the counter had the big gun in

his hand. I guess first impressions can be wrong, I

thought, jumping forward and plugging him in the face.

Blood sprayed out and he slammed into the carefully

arranged row of shot glasses.

They shattered. I hit the counter and rolled over it,

landing on top of the stiff. Shit. I was really behind

the eight ball now. I reloaded the roscoe, hoping the

fuckers’d given up by now. But what the hell did

Deluca have to do with this? Last I knew he was with

the Rossi gang on the West Side. This was O’Shea turf.

I poked my head over the top of the bar.

A bat smashed into the wall inches from my head. Bad

idea, I thought, vaulting the counter and tackling the

mug, getting ‘im on the ground. Two goons rushed me on

each side. I shoved the batboy into one of them and he

let off one with his shotgun reflexively, icing his

buddy. The other one flicked out a switch. Was that

how these guys got off, or something? I grabbed a

chair by the legs and swung it. Hard. The wood cracked

against his skull and he was down.

The one with the shotgun was slowly coming together. I

put one in his button before he got a chance. Just as

he went down I saw Deluca slipping out the front with

a hood on each end. One of ‘em opened up with his

tommy gun. These guys are playin’ for keeps, I

thought, ducking under a table like all the other

barflies.

The mugs left and I was right behind ‘em. Raindrops as

big as marbles pelted the street. As I jumped out of

the door I saw Deluca throwing himself into a shiny

boiler. I made for my flivver. The plug with the gun

poured lead and I rolled over my hood, pills tatooing

the siding. I threw open the door and jumped inside,

turning the key and gunning the engine.

Deluca and his buddies peeled out. My car fishtailed

as I got on the street and grinded left on the wheel,

tailing the hoods as they zoomed onto Fifth and Main.

Nice escape route, to be sure. No traffic, but that

probably had something to do with the cars

conveniently blocking all the commute on the other

side of the street.

Goon Number Two leaned out of the back window,

Deluca’s car gathering speed. I ducked as .50 cal

buckshot blew through my windshield. Popping back up,

I leaned on the pedal, the speedometer inching past

forty-five. Forty-five? In the goddamn rain, with a

cracked windshield? Christ. I leaned out the window

and fired back. The first slug went wide but the

second one buried itself in his shoulder. The thug

dropped onto the pavement and rolled away, blood

mixing with the rain.

I sidled up to Deluca, the first goon in the driver’s

seat and Tommy right next to him. I twisted the wheel

and smashed into the side of the boiler. The driver

cried out, his hands leaving the wheel. I pulled the

trigger again, the barrel almost going through the

window. The pill went through his neck, tearing it

apart. “Shit!” Deluca screamed. The dead thug pulled

the wheel reflexively. Deluca mashed his foot onto the

brake. Bad idea. I smiled at the look on his face as

the car rolled onto its side, metal shrieking in pain.

I put on the brake and got out, thick rain pelting my

bloodied dress shirt. I shook the water out of my hair

and walked over to the crushed vehicle.

A low groan came from the inside. Tommy Deluca,

amazingly alive, crawled out of the wreck. Blood

covered half of his face and his leg was broken, but

he’d gotten off better than the other two. Still, that

wasn’t saying much. I trudged over, wiping water from

my brow. “How’s tricks, Tommy?”

Blood was beginning to pool around him. “Screw you,

asshole.”

I put the barrel of the Smith & Wesson against his

head. “Who you workin’ for?”

He looked at the gun and laughed. “You think I give a

shit? I... I’m dead already, creep.”

“Yeah, but how long before you get to sleep? You keep

me in the dark, I leave you here in the street.” I

could see his eyes flash at the thought. “You tell me

now and I help you along.” It was a last ditch effort

but Tommy had never been a strong person.

He let out a hacking cough, blood spraying across his

lips. “Please...” And he stopped resisting. I told

you, Tommy’s weak. “Pontarelli. I’m workin’ for

Pontarelli...” He was square, all right. I cocked the

S&W. “See you in Hell,” I muttered.

I drilled him once in the temple, brain getting on my

shirt. Standing up, I wiped myself off and glanced

across at the blockade of cars at the end of the

street. Pontarelli? The Chief of freakin’ Police? The

same Pontarelli who was looked up to everywhere? The

goddamn crime-fighting king of America?

A few torpedoes were getting out of the cars, guns at

the ready. I suddenly hoped I’d saved some whiskey,

‘cause this was going to be one long night.