The Gangster (Isaac Bell #9)(28)
Harry Warren was waiting for Isaac Bell on the platform at Grand Central with news of another Secret Service arrest.
“Agent Lynch is having a banner week. Secret Service just pinched a guy passing the same queer upstate.”
“Salata’s?”
“Nope. A Ferri guy.”
“Who’s Ferri?”
“Runs a bunch of smugglers.”
Bell led the way out of the chaotic terminal, dodging work gangs and skirting gaping holes in the concourse floor. “Why’s a smuggler taking chances passing the queer?”
“Odd keeps piling up,” said Warren. “Like I said about Charlie Salata’s boy pinched in Pennsylvania.”
“Same paper?”
“Same queer, same paper.”
“What are the odds that Salata’s turned counterfeiter?”
“Same odds as a grizzly bear hosting a church supper. Anyhow, Agent Lynch told Helen the stuff was lame. The paper. No surprise they got caught. But the engraving was top-notch. Lynch thinks it was done by a guy named Ernesto Leone. Learned his trade in Italy and has trained a bunch of apprentices here.”
“Helen got a lot out of Lynch.”
“She’d given Lynch a description of Leone shopping on Printer’s Row, so I guess Lynch figured he owed her.”
“Did Lynch happen to tell Helen what the prisoners admit to?”
“That smitten he ain’t. Helen asked. He sent her packing.”
“Permanently?”
“’Fraid so. I don’t think we’ll get any more out of the Secret Service.”
The long-legged Bell set a fast pace across town to the office. Harry Warren trotted to keep up.
“You ever hear of this Ferri teaming with Salata?” Bell asked.
“Nope.”
Bell said, “I never heard of an outfit of all-rounders. Birds of a feather is more the rule, but these guys are combining extortion, bombing, counterfeiting, smuggling, kidnapping. Crimes of brute force and crimes of quick wit. Is it an alliance of gangs—a ‘cartel’ of criminals? Or is a single mastermind forcing a variety of gangsters to do his bidding?”
“Damned-near impossible to whip any bunch of crooks into line,” said Warren. “Not to mention different kinds.”
“Cartel or mastermind, they’d be bigger, tougher, and better organized than the small-timers who call themselves Black Hand to scare folks. Makes me wonder what they’ll turn their hands to next.”
“Anything that pays,” said Harry Warren.
Bell said, “Or what they’ll stop at.”
12
You are hereby invited to Pink Tea
With Captain Michael Coligney
19th Precinct Station House
West 30th Street
3 p.m.
Sharp
A New York Police Department officer wearing a blue coat with shiny brass buttons and a tall helmet strolled the Tenderloin, twirling a nightstick and knocking on brothel doors with printed invitations for the proprietors.
Nick Sayers, proud owner of the Cherry Grove bordello, showed up early at the station house, ahead of his competitors. They trooped in soon after, looking anxious. Sayers waited with a small smile on his face. Captain Coligney’s Pink Teas routinely culminated in orders to “resort keepers” to shut down their “disorderly houses” within twenty-four hours. But unlike his competitors, Nick Sayers had an ace in the hole, information to sell that even “Honest Mike” would buy.
Someone had tipped off the newspapers, of course, and police reporters crammed into Coligney’s office, which was already packed with his invited guests, who were dressed to the nines.
“Will this change anything, Captain Coligney?” demanded the man from the Sun. “Won’t new owners switch names and open up again?”
The broad-shouldered, handsome Coligney was resplendent in dress uniform and amply prepared to deal with the press. “Shutting down the resorts is better and fairer than hauling poor, unfortunate women into the station house, holding them for the night in jail, and dragging them into court before they’re turned loose.”
Having quelled the press, he turned to his guests.
“Gentlemen, and ladies”—he nodded gallantly to several wealthy proprietresses—“we have tea, sandwiches, and cakes, but before we partake, please be aware that you are hereby enjoined to shut down your disorderly houses in twenty-four hours. I don’t want to see an open door or a light in the window after three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
Tea was downed, splashed liberally from flasks, sandwiches and sweets consumed, and soon everyone left except the owner of the Cherry Grove.
“Nick,” said Captain Coligney. “Shouldn’t you be off packing your bags?”
“Well, Captain, you would think so, wouldn’t you?”
A note of supreme confidence in Nick’s voice brought the captain up short. “Apparently, you don’t agree, Nick. Care to tell me about it?”
“I would prefer to keep my house open.”
“I would prefer to spend my summers in Newport, but I don’t see it in the cards.”
“I see it in my cards,” said Nick. “And I’m going to play them right.”