The Edge of Lost (16 page)

25

S
han walked out of Carducci’s in a blur of uncertainty. A block down, he slowed to a stop. He struggled to determine what had just happened and where to go from here. Left without even the shopping list, he was returning empty-handed. He could say the wind swept it away. The last thing he would do was burden Mr. Capello with more worries.

“Tommy!”

Shan turned to discover a woman standing below the awning of a café. She waved through the light veil of snowflakes. “Josie?”

“Jeez Louise,” she called over. “I was right there knockin’, you goof.” She pointed to a table by the window only a few yards from Shan.

“Guess I didn’t hear.”

“So I gather.” Smiling, she hugged the sleeves of her white cardigan, which layered a navy dress, flared to midcalf. Aside from a white belt that flattered her slender waistline, the outfit was far more conservative than her satiny numbers at the club. “What’re you doing out here?” she asked.

“I … had to go to the market. Ma needed some things.”

“Come closer, would ya? So I don’t gotta shout.”

Shan wasn’t in the most conversational mood but politely approached. He had just stepped under the awning when her eyes went wide.

“My God, Tommy. What happened to your head?”

Remembering his collision with the shelf, he touched his forehead. A knot was forming, which partly explained the ache behind his eyes.

“That’s a story I wanna hear,” she said. “Come inside where it’s warm.” Before he could give it much thought, she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the café, where the scent of espresso filled the air.

“Heya, Josie,” a bespectacled man called from behind the counter as they passed. “About ready for another pot?”

“That’d be dandy. Another cup and saucer too.”

“Coming right up.”

In this place, Josie was clearly a regular being catered to, not the other way around. At the far window table, she reclaimed her spot. A black winter coat with a fur collar hung on the back of her chair. A tea set and a book waited on the square wooden table.

Shan took a seat across from her. “You here alone?”

“Usually.”

“I didn’t know you came to this area much.”

“Not till lately. I moved in with a girlfriend around the corner a few months back. Pretty decent apartment. When her sister moves here from Maryland, I’ll have to find something else, but for now it’ll do. Got lucky, really, since the move was last minute.”

It took effort for Shan to follow the train of thought. “What happened?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Had an issue with the landlady—at my rooming house, you know, over by the club. She never really approved of my lifestyle anyway.” Josie’s expression made clear the judgments had grinded on her. “So, when she caught Nicky in my room late one night, she had all the excuse she needed to send me packin’.”

Shan suddenly imagined the activity her landlady had walked in on. “Ah,” he said.

Josie read his face. “Sheesh. Nothin’ like that.” Her skin warmed to a dusty pink, marking the first time Shan could recall ever seeing her cheeks hint at a blush.

She went on to explain, “Nicky was on the warpath ’cause I told him it was over. He followed me inside and refused to leave till I took him back. Landlady woke up from all his blathering, and that was that.”

The scenario certainly fit. Shan knew how determined Nick could be once he’d set a goal.

Just then, the bespectacled man swooped in with a cup and saucer and traded Josie’s teapot for another. When she thanked him, he replied, “Anytime, Josie the Camel,” presumably an allusion to the amount of tea she could drink.

She released a laugh that sounded different than usual. Perhaps it was a reflection of her appearance—with less makeup, her curls simply pinned at the sides—but something about her seemed more real. Like an actress caught offstage.

As the man walked away, Josie poured two steaming cups that smelled of mint.

“Looks like you come here a lot,” Shan said, accepting the drink she slid over. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you. I pass by all the time.”

“I usually sit in the corner over there. But those halfwits have been parked for over an hour.”

Following her eyes, Shan peeked over his shoulder at three prim women decked out with pearls and brooches. They didn’t appear to be in a hurry.

“So, you gonna give me the scoop?” Josie dropped sugar cubes into her cup. “Or do I gotta pull it out of ya?”

Shan took a moment to reset his thoughts. He blew on his tea and drew a long sip. Recounting the event might help make sense of it.

With the scene fresh in his mind, he backed up to the beginning and shared as much as he knew. “I was shopping at Carducci’s,” he said, “when I heard the door.” From there, the details flowed out and Josie listened intently.

In the midst of the story, a thought came to Shan. He had initially taken the shop owner’s cool demeanor for trauma over the robbery, but it could have been more than that. Maybe he blamed Shan for not jumping in to help. In all truth, part of him felt ashamed of his inaction. But he was also aware that, in the face of a threat, a childhood instinct placed his own survival first.

“Sounds to me like Mr. Carducci was right,” Josie pointed out when he had finished.

“About?”

“That he wasn’t robbed. He was warned.”

“How do you mean?”

“You
have
heard of shops paying a special tax, right? For protection.”

“Yeah. Of course.” A kid couldn’t grow up in Brooklyn without hearing tales about “protection” from the likes of Black Handers. Extortion notes threatening business owners were sometimes marked with a black hand as a signature. Word had it their methods could be pretty persuasive.

Given a chance to think, Shan did see how a robbery, for example, could demonstrate the necessity of proper security. A downright crummy scheme.

“It’s not right,” he said.

“No. But it’s the way things are.” She stirred her tea with a tiny spoon and took a sip.

“What about me, though? Why did those thugs let me off like that?”

“Who do you think protects this area?” She waited, forcing him to guess. Which didn’t take long. There was only one connection to Shan with that kind of authority, a person he’d shared a friendly exchange with only days ago.

“Mr. Trevino.”

Josie confirmed this with a long blink.

“Swell,” Shan muttered. It was no secret Nick Capello had worked at the club for years, but like the rest of the family, Shan had been treated as a separate entity until now.

“I didn’t ask for any special treatment.”

“Who says you gotta ask?” She raised her cup to take another sip, but instead shook her head. “Good gracious. It’s hard to believe you and Nicky are even related.” Coupled with a slow smirk, something in her tone caused the words to hang there, as if they’d been chosen with purpose.

Unsure how to respond, Shan retreated to his tea, drinking it down. He’d never had reason to question it before, but now he wondered if Nick had ever spilled the secret of Shan’s identity …

No. He wouldn’t have. Despite the differences in their lifestyles, even their bloodlines, they were still brothers.

Shan recalled the book on Josie’s side of the table, a fresh topic. “You like to read, huh?” He angled the worn green hardback to view the title, expecting a romantic novel popular among women. What he found was
The Man in the Iron Mask
. “This is yours?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just—didn’t know you read these kinds of stories.”

“You mean the ones without pictures?”

He opened his mouth, struggling to answer, when she broke into a giggle. “Relax. I’m razzin’ ya.”

Shan let out a small laugh. But still aware of an odd vibration, he kept the focus on the book. “Have you read it yet?”

“About a hundred times.”

The tattered binding and bent corners told him she wasn’t exaggerating. It had been a decade since Shan had read that novel, one of the many Uncle Will had forced him to sell.

“It’s a good story,” she said, pouring them both more tea. “There’s an evil French king. He’s got a twin brother who’s been locked up and kept a secret. Well, some fellas betray the king and switch him with his brother, and that brother gets to live in the palace with a whole new fancy life. Except … well, I don’t want to ruin it. You should just read it yourself.”

Shan searched her eyes for a message, a sign of knowing. “Yeah, I have.”

“Oh. Then you know what happens. Of course, it’s not the happiest ending. But it’s realistic, don’t you think?”

“Meaning … it couldn’t actually work out better than that?” He didn’t clarify whether he was referring to the entire tale or just the character’s change of identity. But she shook her head and replied as if she’d fully considered it before.

“In real life, second chances and happy endings—they only come from fairy tales.”

26

T
hree days had passed since Shan had run in to Josie, yet her words continued to haunt him, reinforced by every stop in his normal routine. The bakery for a snack, the newsstand for a paper, the deli for his lunch, the barber for a trim. From the stares aimed his way, it was painfully clear that the second life he had built, shiny and golden for so long, was being tarnished by rumors.

The vendors weren’t unkind but offered nothing past courtesies. Shan had been a customer to many of them since he was twelve, but a distance suddenly divided them. A chasm formed of fear, suspicion, or disappointment.

In this moment, on the winemaker’s front porch in Flatbush, Shan detected a similar feeling. Then again, perhaps it was normal for the man to act aloof when distributing alcohol, particularly to an unfamiliar customer.

Shan had volunteered to deliver the painting of Genoa, completing Mr. Capello’s latest trade, not wanting the man bothered with lugging wine. And that was even before Shan knew the deal was for three boxes, not one.

He had barely said “
grazie
” when the winemaker closed the door, followed by a turn of the lock, a precaution residents rarely took unless they had something to hide.

A partial moon cast a glow on patchy day-old snow and cars retired for the night. The faint yips of a dog drifted from a neighbor’s house, where an elderly man was ushering his pet inside. The street was otherwise vacant of people. Shan balanced the three boxes and descended the porch steps, careful not to slip in the slush.

He packed the wine in the flatbed of Mr. Capello’s truck. As he finished concealing the boxes with a canvas tarp, a siren started to wail. His stomach cinched, twisting like a rag. On a side street in the distance, a police motorcar zoomed past and the noise waned.

Shan hurried to resume his place behind the steering wheel. Though anxious to return home, he drove with care to prevent unwanted attention. In a handful of minutes that felt much longer, he parked before the house, its windows aglow. At the rush of relief, he couldn’t help but laugh. Most Italian folks transported wine on a regular basis. Likely the same went for the Irish and their bottles of whiskey. Yet here he was, feeling like a major smuggler working for Capone.

He reached for the door handle, but a noise jolted him. A tap on his window. The silhouette of a man stood just outside his door. Through the shadows, Shan made out the beady eyes and bulbous nose that comprised a face he knew. He willed his nerves to steady while rolling down the window. Just Officer Barsetti. No one to get riled up about. Plus, he looked to be off duty tonight in a civilian hat and overcoat.

“Tommy Capello. Thought that might be you.”

“Officer. What a surprise.”

“You know it’s actually Agent now.”

“Is that right?”

Barsetti shrugged. “With all the mess of Prohibition, figured the Bureau could use another hand. Made the switch last spring.”

Shan felt pores open on his scalp. He resisted the urge to remove his hat. “I hadn’t heard. I’m sure you’ll be a great help.”

“I appreciate that.” Barsetti smiled. “Say, I was actually hoping you might have a minute. You mind?” He gestured to the passenger side, and the muscles in Shan’s neck tightened.

“No. Of course not.”

Barsetti circled around and climbed right in. When he shut the door, the bottles rattled ever so slightly.

As an officer—an Italian American living in Brooklyn—Barsetti was known, in general, as a friend to the neighborhood. But as a federal agent? Even if he remained one of the lenient ones, his opinion of sipping a glassful over supper might very well differ from his view of transporting three full boxes. A volume suggesting the wrong intent.

“Boy, it’s cold as an iceberg out there, isn’t it?” Barsetti blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “They say it’ll be a long, brutal winter. I’m guessing they’d be right.”

“Looks that way.”

“You know what’s funny? I was just thinking of you recently.” Barsetti’s lips slid into a smile, exhibiting a small gap between his lower front teeth.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I was picturing the day I first found you in that breadline. You were in a scrap with some Irish kids. Remember that?”

Shan nodded through his discomfort, trying to grasp the point of the story. The point of this visit.

“Thought for sure you’d end up a no-good jail rat, like half those vagrants still running the streets. But look at you. Got your diploma now, working with your father. Earning a good, honest living. Your mother, she’s got every right to be pleased as punch.”

Headlights suddenly illuminated the agent’s face. The beam swept through the truck like the hand of a ghost. Barsetti’s gaze trailed it and settled on an unseen spot in the darkness. “I tell ya,” he sighed. “For a guy in my field, there’s nothing sadder than seeing promising young men throw their lives away. I’m talking about the ones who start thinking everything they’ve got, it just ain’t enough. They see other fellas out there, a brother maybe, making dough the easy way. So they get curious. Can’t blame ’em for that.” He shook his head as if lamenting to himself. “But then they go and start hanging around questionable joints. Schmoozing with men who’ll do
anything
to keep their rackets going.”

Shan gripped the lower edge of the steering wheel, bracing, comprehending.

“See, it’s real easy to get tricked, thinking it’s important to impress these kinds of men. So it might be tempting to do things like, I don’t know, help nab cash from stores that aren’t very … cooperative. Or maybe it isn’t about those men at all. Maybe it’s to impress a pretty girl, one you might share long chats with at a café. You know the sort.”

Dumbfounded that he was being watched, let alone by the implications, Shan struggled to respond. “Officer—Agent—I swear to you. I know how it could look, but I’m not part of any of that.”

“Tommy, I honestly want to believe you.” After a pause, Barsetti turned to him. “When it all goes down, I’d hate to see you and your brother caught in the middle. Truth of it is, my boss cares a whole lot more about who’s supplying Trevino’s joints than the man himself. But hell, sometimes you gotta take what you can get.”

Barsetti’s words, while perhaps meant as a warning, felt more like a threat.

Shan stared out the windshield. In Brooklyn, nothing good came of snitches.

“Anyhow,” Barsetti said. “You’re probably eager to get inside where it’s warm. But I’m glad we had this chat. You ever feel like having another one, you come on down to the Bureau and see me.”

At last the agent stepped out of the truck, a small relief until he angled back. “Oh, and Tommy. Be sure not to leave anything valuable in your truck tonight. The low temperatures will be freezing, well … just about anything.”

Then he tipped his hat and shut the door.