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Post by Jimmy Carwin on Sept 13, 2014 0:19:46 GMT
MERMAID CAT HOUSEJanuary 22nd, 1920 - 10:45amMermaid Avenue, Coney Island, Brooklyn, NY Vittorio Castucci
New York was crisp this time of year. Fresh, his Mam would've said. But cold air didn't stop the little birds or the busy little bugs from chirping down on the streets, no it didn't. It had taken until Monday for word to get out about the sad suicide of a man in the alley behind Mermaid Avenue, Coney Island. Apparently he got drunk on moonshine, let his regrets get the better of him and took a dive out the window. Suspiciously, to Jim at least, that was where the word abruptly stopped for no Godly reason. Strangely enough, the suicide coincided with a Brooklyn mobster missing church with his dear old Nan, and more importantly to Jim, the man had also missed his protection racket visits on Tuesday morning (the fat cunt was usually too hung over to do the rounds on a Monday). It didn't take too many brain cells to put two and two together, when folks knew that a brand new Italian bordello had sprung up under the auspices of one Frankie Yale, a dynamic, inventive little greaseball so desperate for daddy's attention that he shaved off his moustache (assuming he could grow one at all) and started wearing an English pound of pomade in his hair every day. Jim slid out of the back seat of his dark green 1918 Peerless and marched up to the door of the Mermaid Cat House, entering carefully and removing his hat the second he was in the door. He took stock of the room and moved to a table where he could sit with his back to the wall and have a good view of every door and window in the room. Instead of rudely taking a seat, he stood by the table and waited for someone to show up, and someone would show up when the fucking Hammer Carwin showed up in your speakeasy. When an imperious looking fellow arrived from the back, or upstairs, or wherever he'd come from, Jim inclined his head at him and pulled out two chairs - his preference and one for the Italian. Sicilian? They were all more or less the same to him. "So. A busy little bug tells me that someone important decided his last argument with his wife was just too much to take and took a dive off the roof of your fine establishment," Jim fished for a cigar inside his jacket, holding one between his teeth before stuffing his hand back in to grab one for this scarred-up chappie , "Smoke?" he offered nonchalantly as his right hand produced a match box as if from nowhere - old sleight of hand tricks were a Godsend for parties and for adding a knife to the equation without anyone noticing.
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Post by Vittorio Castucci on Sept 13, 2014 1:20:45 GMT
Vittorio had just finished checking in on the girls upstairs when he bopped down the steps to see a new stranger in the establishment. The stranger was no stranger at all, though. He was a big, hairy bastard that ran in some circles Vito was aware of. The man had gestured with his head to invite Vito over, a welcome change considering the last guy that came in here looking for him went out through an upstairs window with a slug in his belly. As Vito approached, he had a seat pulled out for him and was offered a cigar, politely declining the latter. "Courteous for an Irishman" he thought. He took the seat and listened to what the man had to say before opening his mouth.
"A little bug like the type you'd squish against a window if it rubbed you the wrong way? You must be thinkin' of that boarding house on Neptune. Heard a body turned up in an alley back there. Nasty business."
Vito had referred to another main street in Coney Island, not too far away. Despite the rain outside the Irish fella was as dry as a bone, which indicated to Vito that he'd come by means of automobile and was therefore most likely exactly who he thought he was.
"Jimmy, I presume?"
The pair hadn't shook hands yet, but Vittorio was remarkably impressed with Carwin so far, right down to the unsubtle reference to the incident that had occurred in the brothel the previous Saturday. Vittorio snapped his fingers and ushered Milky over from the bar, who was more than happy to oblige him.
"Jameson's on ice, my friend... and whatever the gentleman would like, too." Vito said with a pat on Milky's arm. They had but a few bottles of premium quality whiskey left, stashed and hidden before the prohees came knocking.
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Post by Jimmy Carwin on Sept 13, 2014 13:40:50 GMT
"Ah, the birds and bees are useful little creatures when you know how to talk to them, their friends and their parents. I wouldn't crush the little ones anyway - they're easy to bribe, easy to scare. They'd only ever talk to a priest and well, you and I both know how easy it is to bribe them. One stained glass window for the Seaman's Mission and you're damn-near absolved of murder," Jim chuckled as he lit the cigar, took a seat after his host did and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, "Must've read the name of the boarding house wrong, then, if it was the one out on Neptune. Wouldn't want to be the owner of that place today. I hear the jumper was one of our friends from Napoli," his Dublin accent butchered the Italian word, "I don't think the gent over there quite has your network of powerful friends."
Jimmy had never been one to look at another gangster like he was a meal, unless they were an exceptionally mouthy or stupid specimen, and Vito here was distancing himself from that group at an impressive pace as he correctly deduced who had just arrived in his whore house. Jimmy smiled and nodded, "Aye, the one and only. I don't think I need to presume that you're Vittorio Castucci," as much as Jimmy liked to push peoples' buttons, he resisted the urge to trace Vito's scar on his own face - there was no sense in trying to get a rise out of someone who could wear such a wound with pride.
"The jump's opened some doors for us," Jim cut himself off as the bartender arrived and Vito announced that there was Jameson on ice available, "Two fingers of whiskey, three ice cubes," Jim was very particular about his whiskey.
Relaxing a little, he sat back in his seat, cleared his throat and looked Vito straight in the face, "You know, you're the first Sicilian with a speakeasy who hasn't offered me fuckin' Protestant whiskey."
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Post by Vittorio Castucci on Sept 13, 2014 14:41:25 GMT
Vittorio got the feeling that Jimmy thought he was being serious about the neighborhood rascals, so he made a point to settle the matter.
"Nah, they're good kids." Vito said; and he should know, he'd recruited dozens just like them to Black Hand over the years. "As for the clergy, I got nothin' to confess, paisan."
Vito was surprised when Jimmy revealed to him that his victim was Neapolitan. He was sure he had him pegged for an Irishman, but wasn't concerned, more suspicious. Was Jimmy trying to get him to 'fess up to give the Irish a means to retaliation? Then again, Lily had mentioned the guy had gone by "Tony", an Italian if he ever heard it. Only time would tell. The joint was beginning to fill up and come to life now, as more people found their way indoors to shelter out of the cold and the damp, preferring good conversation, liquor and the warmth of a woman's bosom to the bite of New York's streets. The brothel was dimly lit, Vito's idea with the intention of keeping the mood relaxed that had paid off so far; men were taking the whores to bed less than ten minutes after arriving and the money was rolling in. A thin, grey haze scattered across the entire ground floor hallway, a combination of smoke from the cigars, pipes and cigarettes that the inhabitants puffed away on.
"Better to have powerful friends than powerful enemies, no?" Vito smirked, giving nothing away about himself that he didn't choose to; he conceded his name, a courtesy to his guest who had confirmed his own identity. "Please, call me Vito. Must be this pretty face gave me away, huh?"
Milky scuttled away again to ready their drinks, and then Vito felt as though the conversation had taken a turn into a more serious tone. Still not convinced he wasn't being set up, he played it cool.
"So what's this dead Neapolitan schifoso gotta do with me?"
Before he received an answer, Milky was back with their drinks, and just like that the tension was cut with a knife and the mood lightened once more. Vittorio thanked him and made sure that Jimmy knew it wasn't necessary to tip the bartender, who instead left Vito with what he could only assume was a compliment.
"We're all Cat'lics here. The least I could do." Vito made no attempt to address that he'd been called a Sicilian, Jimmy was correct and had clearly done his homework. "You know I gotta say, you got alotta balls for a White Hander comin' down here talkin' about that tragedy that happened on Neptune Avenue."
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Post by Jimmy Carwin on Sept 13, 2014 15:53:53 GMT
"Everyone's a good kid 'til he does something stupid and you gotta kick him under a passing horse," Jim shrugged - he wasn't one to butcher children, but it wasn't like he hadn't put some deep thought into throwing the occasional loud-mouthed brat into the Hudson with his hands tied behind his back, "Ah, confession's overrated anyway. I don't like to think the pearly gates opening is contingent on attendance records or who tells Jesus the most secrets. I don't think the man'd be into gossip, whether or not he's bigger than whatever sins we got."
Punters started to slowly file in as the conversation trailed on, all of them having the wisdom to steer clear of Vito's table, apparently. Jim had to admit, the Italians and Sicilians had better luck overall with their women - Irish girls had no middle ground, they were either goddesses or looked better walking backwards with a man's face drawn on their hairy arses. Jimmy himself was contributing to the grey cloud collecting near the ceiling as he blew smoke rings after anyone who looked a little too hard or a little too long at a conversation that was clearly private. He took a short sip of his Jameson and nodded along as Vito continued to speak, "That's an excellent point, Vito. All the same, with the rumours flying around Neptune, there might be a little bit of both," Jim straightened his collar and leaned across the table to shake Vito's hand now that they were apparently on shortened-first-name terms.
"Scars are a good way to recognise a man. They all tell their stories," Jim nodded, "And yours must have a Hell of a tale to tell."
"Right now I'd imagine it's got nothing to do to you. The little kiddlers aren't really keen on talking too much anymore. If I got to hear about the ...jump... being near here, it means the Neapolitans likely haven't. Your... schifosa," Jim cocked his eyebrow as he once-again butchered the word, "Was a little bit of a brute - his rackets run right up close to the waterfront, my neck of the woods. And he's enough of a loose cannon that we noticed him missing before his own people did. He was the sort to do the rounds on a Tuesday because he'd get himself too blind drunk on grain alcohol every Sunday night to be any good on a Monday morning. We've had some encounters with him. I'd like to think the problem's been contained between your efforts and a little investment on our part. It's the least we can do with all the doors this landwhale's 'accident' opened for us."
"That's good. I'd be worried if I came across an Italian or a Sicilian who didn't listen to the Pope. Somethin' just off about it. It'd be like an Englishman who calls himself honest. Just something off about it," he shrugged, with a short pause for thought, "I prefer to think of it as honest. Because if I'm right, and I think I am, the White Hand should be thanking you. So I brought a present," he set a small, ribbon-wrapped wax paper block and set it on the table, "The Stevedores along the Mississippi used to use this to keep them awake. Doctors call it a respiratory anaesthetic and a topical analgesic. Parke-Davis sold it before the Harrison Act banned it back at the start of the Great War. They said it can take the place of food, make the coward brave, the silent eloquent, and numb any pain. Don't touch the stuff myself, drives me up the wall," he admitted, "But try it out on one of your girls. It'll turn her wild. Consider it an olive branch from a like-minded businessman."
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