Dennis Lehane - Live by Night

“That’s the one,” Maso said.

The ’shiner was Turner John Belkin. He and his three sons sold white lightning out of their stills in unincorporated Palmetto. Turner John Belkin meant no harm to anyone; he just wanted to sell to the people he’d been selling to for a generation, run some games out of his back parlor, run some girls out of a house down the street. But he wouldn’t come into the fold, no matter what. Wouldn’t pay tribute, wouldn’t sell Pescatore product, wouldn’t do anything but go about his business as he’d always run it, and his father and grandfathers had run it before him, going back to when Tampa was still called Fort Brooke and yellow fever killed three times more people than old age.

“I’m working on him,” Joe said.

“I hear you been working on him for six months now.”

“Three,” Joe admitted.

“Then get rid of him.”

The car pulled to a stop. Seppe Carbone, Maso’s personal bodyguard, opened the door for him and stood waiting in the sun.

“I’ve got guys working on it,” Joe said.

“I don’t want you to have guys working on it. I want you to end it. Personally, if you have to.”

Maso got out of the car, and Joe followed him to the train to see him off even though Maso said he didn’t need to. But the truth was, Joe wanted to see Maso leave, needed to, so he could confirm that it was okay to breathe again, to relax. Having Maso around was like having an uncle move in with you for a couple of days and never leave. And worse, the uncle thought he was doing you a favor.

Afew days after Maso left, Joe sent a couple guys to put a little scare into Turner John, but he put a scare into them instead, beat one into a hospital, and this without his sons or a weapon.

Joe met with Turner John a week later.

He told Sal to stay behind in the car and stood on the dirt road out front of the man’s copper-roof shack, the porch collapsed on one end, just a Coca-Cola icebox sitting on the other end, so red and shiny Joe suspected it was polished every day.

Turner John’s sons, three beefy boys in cotton long johns and not much else, not even shoes (though one wore a red wool sweater with snowflakes on it for some ungodly reason), frisked Joe and took his Savage .32 and then frisked him again.

After that, Joe went inside the shack and sat across from Turner John at a wood table with uneven legs. He tried adjusting the table, gave up, and then asked Turner John why he’d beaten his men. Turner John, a tall, skinny, and severe-looking man with eyes and hair the same brown as his suit, said because they’d come upon him with a threat in their eyes so clear wasn’t no point waiting for it to leave their mouths.

Joe asked if he knew this meant Joe would have to kill him to save face. Turner John said he suspected as much.

“So,” Joe said, “why you doing it? Why not just pay a bit of tribute?”

“Mister,” Turner John said, “your father still with us?”

“No, he passed.”

“But you still his son, am I right?”

“I am.”

“You have twenty great-grandkids, you still be that man’s son.”

Joe was unprepared for the flood of emotion that found him in that moment. He had to look away from Turner John before that flood found his eyes. “Yes, I will.”

“You want to make him proud, right? Make him see you for a man?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Of course I do.”

“Well, I’m the same way. I had me a fine daddy. Only beat me hard when I had it coming and never when he’d taken to drink. Mostly, he’d just whack my head when I snored. I’m a champeen in the snoring, sir, and my daddy just couldn’t abide it when he was dog tired. Other than that, he was the finest of men. And a son wants his father to be able to look down and see his teachings took root. Right about now, Daddy’s watching me and saying, ‘Turner John, I ain’t raised you to pay tribute to another man didn’t get down in the muck with you to earn his keep.’ ” He showed Joe his big scarred palms. “You want my money, Mr. Coughlin? Well then you best set to working with me and my boys on the mash and helping us work our farm, till the soil, rotate the crops, milk the cows. You follow?”

“I follow.”

“Else, ain’t nothing to discuss.”

Joe looked at Turner John, then up at the ceiling. “You really think he’s looking?”

Turner John revealed a mouth full of silver teeth. “Mister, I know he is.”

Joe unzipped his fly and withdrew the derringer he’d taken off Manny Bustamente a few years ago. He pointed it at Turner John’s chest.

Turner John unleashed a long, slow breath.

Joe said, “Man sets to a job, he’s supposed to complete it. Right?”

Turner John licked his lower lip and never took his eyes off the gun.

“You know what kind of gun this is?” Joe asked.

“It’s a woman’s derringer.”

“No,” Joe said, “it’s a What Coulda Been.” He stood. “You do whatever you want out here in Palmetto. You get me?”

Turner John blinked an affirmative.

“But don’t you let me see your label or taste your product in Hillsborough or Pinellas County. Or Sarasota neither, Turner John. We clear on that?”

Turner John blinked again.

“I need to hear you say it,” Joe said.

“We clear,” Turner John said. “You have my word.”

Joe nodded. “What’s your father thinking now?”

Turner John stared past the gun barrel, up Joe’s arm and into his eyes. “Thinking he came a damn sight close to having to put up with my snoring again.”

As Joe maneuvered to legalize gambling and buy the hotel, Graciela opened lodging of her own. Whereas Joe was after the Waldorf salad crowd, Graciela built accommodations for the fatherless and the husbandless. It was a national shame that men these days were leaving their families like armies during wartime. They left Hoovervilles and tenement apartments or, in the case of Tampa, the shotgun shacks locals called casitas, went up the road to get milk or cadge a cigarette or because they’d heard a rumor of work, and they never came back. Without men to protect them, the women were sometimes victims of rape or forced into the basement levels of prostitution. The children, suddenly fatherless and possibly motherless, entered the streets and the back roads, and the news that returned of them was rarely good.

Graciela came to Joe one night as he sat in the tub. She brought them two cups of coffee laced with rum. She removed her clothes and slipped under the water across from him and asked him if she could take his name.

“You want to marry me?”

“Not in the Church. I can’t.”

“Okay…”

“But we are married, are we not?”

“Yes.”

“So I would like to call myself by your surname.”

“Graciela Dominga Maela Rosario Maria Concetta Corrales Coughlin?”

She slapped his arm. “I don’t have that many names.”

He leaned in for a kiss, then leaned back. “Graciela Coughlin?”

“Sí.”

He said, “I’d be honored.”

“Ah,” she said, “good. I’ve bought some buildings.”

“You’ve bought some buildings?”

She looked at him, those brown eyes as innocent as a deer’s. “Three. That, um, cluster? Yes. That cluster by the old Perez factory?”

“On Palm?”

She nodded. “And I would like to give shelter there to abandoned wives and their children.”

Joe wasn’t surprised. Lately Graciela had talked about little else but these women.

“What happened to Latin American politics for a cause?”

“I fell in love with you.”

“So?”

“So you restrict my mobility.”

He laughed. “I do, huh?”