Dennis Lehane - Live by Night

“Mr. Coughlin, the only reason Senor Ormino had access to those judges and police was because he had Senor Smith as his public face. Those men not only will refuse to do business with a Cuban, but they will also refuse to do business with an Italian. We are all Latin to them, all dark-skinned dogs, good for labor, but little else.”

“Good thing I’m Irish,” Joe said. “I believe you know someone named Arturo Torres.”

A flick of the eyebrows from Esteban.

“I heard he got deported this afternoon,” Joe said.

Esteban said, “I heard that too.”

Joe nodded. “As a gesture of good faith, Arturo was released from jail half an hour ago and is probably downstairs as we speak.”

For one moment, Ivelia’s long flat face grew longer with surprise, even delight. She glanced over at Esteban and he nodded. Ivelia went around his desk to the telephone. While they waited, they sipped some rum.

Ivelia hung up the phone and returned to her seat. “He’s down at the bar.”

Esteban sat back in his chair and held out his hands, eyes on Joe. “You would want exclusive rights to our molasses, I suppose.”

“Not exclusive,” Joe said. “But you can’t sell to the White organization or anyone affiliated with them. Any small operations not associated with them or us can still go about their business. We’ll bring them into the fold eventually.”

“And for this I get access to your politicians and your police.”

Joe nodded. “And my judges. Not just the ones we have now but the ones we’ll get.”

“The judge you reached today was federally appointed.”

“And has three children with a Negro woman in Ocala that his wife and Herbert Hoover would be surprised to learn about.”

Esteban looked at his sister for a long time before turning back to Joe. “Albert White is a good customer. Has been for some time.”

“Has been for two years,” Joe said. “Ever since someone cut Clive Green’s throat in a whorehouse on East Twenty-fourth.”

Esteban raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve been in prison since March of ’27, Senor Suarez. I’ve had nothing to do but my homework. Can Albert White offer you what I’m offering?”

“No,” Esteban admitted. “But to cut him out would bring me a war I can’t afford. I simply can’t. I would have liked to have met you two years ago.”

“Well, you’re meeting me now,” Joe said. “I’ve offered you judges, police, politicians, and a distilling model that’s centralized so we both share all the profits evenly. I’ve weeded out the two weakest links in my organization and kept your prized liquor cook from being deported. I did all this so you would consider ending your embargo on the Pescatore operation in Ybor because I thought you were sending us a message. I’m here to tell you I heard the message. And if you tell me what you need, I’ll get it. But you must give me what I need.”

Another look between Esteban and his sister.

“There’s something you could get us,” she said.

“Okay.”

“But it’s well guarded and won’t be given up without a fight.”

“Fine, fine,” Joe said. “We’ll get it.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“If we get it, will you cut all ties with Albert White and his associates?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it brings bloodshed.”

“It will most certainly bring bloodshed,” Esteban said.

“Yes,” Joe said, “it will.”

Esteban mourned the thought for a moment, the sadness filling the room. Then he sucked it right back out of the room. “If you do what I ask, Albert White will never see another drop of Suarez molasses or distilled rum. Not one.”

“Will he be able to buy sugar in bulk from you?”

“No.”

“Deal,” Joe said. “What do you need?”

“Guns.”

“Okay. Name your model.”

Esteban reached behind him and took a piece of paper off his desk. He adjusted his glasses as he consulted it. “Browning automatic rifles, automatic handguns, and fifty-caliber machine guns with mounting tripods.”

Joe looked at Dion and they both chuckled.

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” Esteban said. “Grenades. And box mines.”

“What’s a box mine?”

Esteban said, “It’s on the ship.”

“What ship?”

“The military transport ship,” Ivelia said. “Pier Seven.” She tilted her head toward the rear wall. “Nine blocks from here.”

“You want us to raid a navy ship,” Joe said.

“Yes.” Esteban looked at his watch. “Within two days, please, or they leave port.” He handed Joe a folded piece of paper. As Joe opened it, he felt a hollowing of his center, and he remembered how he’d carried notes like these to his father. He’d spent two years telling himself the weight of those notes hadn’t killed his father. Some nights he almost convinced himself.

Circulo Cubano, 8 A.M.

“You’ll go there in the morning,” Esteban said. “You’ll meet a woman there, Graciela Corrales. You’ll take your orders from her and her partner.”

Joe pocketed the paper. “I don’t take orders from a woman.”

“If you want Albert White out of Tampa,” Esteban said, “you’ll take orders from her.”

Dion drove Joe to his hotel a second time, and Joe told him to stick around until he decided whether or not he was staying in tonight.

The bellman was dressed like a circus monkey in a red velvet tux and matching fez, and he swooped out from behind a potted palm on the veranda and took Joe’s suitcases from Dion’s hand and led Joe inside while Dion waited at the car. Joe checked in at a marble reception desk and signed the ledger with a gold fountain pen handed to him by a severe Frenchman with a brilliant smile and eyes as dead as a doll’s. He was handed a brass key tied to a short length of red velvet rope. At the other end of the rope was a heavy gold square with this room number on it: 509.

It was a suite, actually, with a bed the size of South Boston and delicate French chairs and a delicate French desk overlooking the lake. He had his own bathroom, all right; it was bigger than his cell in Charlestown. The bellman showed him where the outlets were and how to turn on the lamps and the ceiling fans. He showed him the cedar closet where Joe could hang his clothes. He showed him the radio, complimentary in every room, and it made Joe think of Emma and the grand opening of the Hotel Statler. He tipped the bellman and shooed him out and sat in one of the delicate French chairs and smoked a cigarette and looked out at the dark lake and the massive hotel reflected in it, squares and squares of light tilted sideways on the black surface, and he wondered what his father could see right now and what Emma could see. Could they see him? Could they see the past and the future or vast worlds far beyond his imaginings? Or could they see nothing? Because they were nothing. They were dead, they were dust, bones in a box and Emma’s not even attached.

He feared this was all there was. Didn’t just fear it. Sitting in that ridiculous chair looking out the window at the yellow windows canted in the black water, he knew it. You didn’t die and go to a better place; this was the better place because you weren’t dead. Heaven wasn’t in the clouds; it was the air in your lungs.

He looked around the room with its high ceilings and chandelier over the enormous bed and curtains as thick as his thigh and he wanted to come out of his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to his father, even though he knew he couldn’t hear him, “it wasn’t supposed to be”—he looked around the room again—“this.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and left.