Wooden Nickels by Debra Dunbar & J.P. Sloan

Author:Debra Dunbar & J.P. Sloan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Debra Dunbar

Chapter 14

Vincent stepped off the streetcar and onto Charles Street. The traffic was brisk, both pedestrian and vehicular. Bright and sunny Sunday afternoons meant everyone was out and about, particularly the churchgoers. Vincent stared up at St. Eustace, wondering how much longer Lefty would be. He hadn’t attended Mass in a tree’s age, personally, and wasn’t sure how it really went anymore. When he’d been sold to the mob at the age of two, he spent most of his childhood in the care of priests as he learned how to read and write. Their peculiar approach to his spiritual education was somewhat more ascetic than he figured was the average person’s. Prayers three times a day. Confession. Studies. And very little time for anything else.

Someone laid on his horn two blocks up the road, and a pair of older ladies hopped off the street and onto the sidewalk. The driver jerked the car to a halt alongside a shabby row house. When he stepped out of the car to give the old women a bit more what for than was called for, Vincent held a breath.

Cooper.

The squat man bustled to the alley between buildings and disappeared. What had Tony said? Cooper ran one of Vito’s gambling parlors in a basement near St. Eustace. Vincent thought once more about Fern’s bruises. Someone needed to teach this man a lesson. And here was his opportunity. There would no doubt be some retaliation on Cooper’s part, but would the man really risk making himself look weak by going to Vito and whining that Vincent had threatened him? The Capo didn’t appreciate men who couldn’t take care of their own business, but Cooper was family, where Vincent was not.

No, he’d probably be more likely to stab Vincent in the back some night. And that prospect seemed a whole lot less unpleasant than the thought of facing Vito’s anger. Either way…

Might as well go out knowing he’d done something good for once in his damned life.

Vincent checked the church. Doors still closed. He turned up the block and wove between cars near the intersection to cross the street. The thin alley revealed a single basement stoop, covered in a green-painted tin awning. A flight of brick steps led beneath the street level to a thick wood door below. Clacking down the steps, Vincent rapped on the door. A panel swung open, revealing bulging eyes and bushy eyebrows.

“Yeah?” the doorman shouted.

Vincent removed his fedora and lifted his face to the daylight.

“You know who I am?” he said with cold detachment.

The eyes bulged even wider before the panel slid shut. A bolt threw open, and the door opened. The doorman eased to the side, ushering Vincent into the smoke-filled cave of a space. Three tables ran alongside one another, each illuminated with a hurricane lamp. Cards sprayed across each table, side-by-side. Coins and cash sat in messy stacks. Men in suits and worker’s jackets sat with their cards clutched to their chest, or chin, or even resting neatly on the tabletops.

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