have lived with that. They could have lived with the crew’s rebellion. The docks were violent.
But not with the corpse of La Tona hooked to a cross post on the surface of the water fifty yards from the ship. The freighter bringing in the contraband.
La Tona!
Who had killed him? Not the slow-speaking, cloddish customs guard.… Christ, no!… La Tona would have eaten his balls off and spat them out laughing! La Tona was a sneak killer. The worst kind of homicidal brute.
There’d be a smell. A bad smell. No graft could stop it. Five murders on pier thirty-seven during a single night shift.
And with La Tona it would be traced to Vitone. Little Don Vitone Genovese. Dirty little guinea bastard, thought Scarlett.
Well, it was time for him to get out.
He had what he wanted. More than he needed. Strasser would be amazed. They’d all be amazed.
Ulster Scarlett lit a cigarette and walked to a small, thin door to the left of the fireplace. He took out a key, unlocked the door, and walked in.
The room, like the door to it, was small. It had once been a walk-in wine pantry; now it was a miniature office with a desk, a chair, and two heavy steel file cabinets. On each file drawer was a wide circular combination lock.
Scarlett turned on the desk lamp and went to the first cabinet. He crouched down to the bottom file, manipulated the combination numbers, and pulled out the drawer, He reached in and withdrew an extremely thick leather-bound notebook and placed it on the desk. He sat down and opened it.
It was his master work, the product of five years of meticulous scholarship.
He scanned the pages—delicately, precisely inserted into the rings with cloth circlets around each hole. Each entry was lettered clearly. After every name was a brief description, where available, and a briefer biography—position, finances, family, future—when the candidate warranted it.
The pages were titled and separated by cities and states. Index tabs of different colors descended from the top of the notebook to the bottom.
A masterpiece!
The record of every individual—important and unimportant—whohad benefited in any way from the operations of the Scarlatti organization. From congressmen taking outright bribes from his subordinates to corporation heads “investing” in wildcat, highly illegal speculations proffered—again never by Ulster Stewart Scarlett—through his hired hands. All he had supplied was the capital. The honey. And the bees had flocked to it!
Politicians, bankers, lawyers, doctors, architects, writers, gangsters, office clerks, police, customs inspectors, firemen, bookmakers … the list of professions and occupations was endless.
The Volstead Act was the spine of the corruption, but there were other enterprises—all profitable.
Prostitution, abortion, oil, gold, political campaigns and patronage, the stock market, speakeasies, loan-sharking … this list, too, was endless.
The money-hungry little people could never walk away from their greed. It was the ultimate proof of his theories!
The money-grasping scum!
Everything documented. Everyone identified.
Nothing left to speculation.
The leather-bound notebook contained 4,263 names. In eighty-one cities and twenty-four states.… Twelve senators, ninety-eight congressmen, and three men in Coolidge’s cabinet.
A directory of malfeasance.
Ulster Stewart picked up the desk phone and dialed a number.
“Put Vitone on.… Never mind who’s calling! I wouldn’t have this number if he didn’t want me to have it!”
Scarlett crushed out his cigarette. He drew unconnected lines on a scratch pad while waiting for Genovese. He smiled when he saw that the lines converged—like knives—into a center spot … No, not like knives. Like bolts of lightning.
“Vitone? It’s me.… I’m aware of that … There’s not very much we
can
do, is there?… If you’re questioned, you’ve got a story. You were in Westchester. You don’t know where the hell La
But not with the corpse of La Tona hooked to a cross post on the surface of the water fifty yards from the ship. The freighter bringing in the contraband.
La Tona!
Who had killed him? Not the slow-speaking, cloddish customs guard.… Christ, no!… La Tona would have eaten his balls off and spat them out laughing! La Tona was a sneak killer. The worst kind of homicidal brute.
There’d be a smell. A bad smell. No graft could stop it. Five murders on pier thirty-seven during a single night shift.
And with La Tona it would be traced to Vitone. Little Don Vitone Genovese. Dirty little guinea bastard, thought Scarlett.
Well, it was time for him to get out.
He had what he wanted. More than he needed. Strasser would be amazed. They’d all be amazed.
Ulster Scarlett lit a cigarette and walked to a small, thin door to the left of the fireplace. He took out a key, unlocked the door, and walked in.
The room, like the door to it, was small. It had once been a walk-in wine pantry; now it was a miniature office with a desk, a chair, and two heavy steel file cabinets. On each file drawer was a wide circular combination lock.
Scarlett turned on the desk lamp and went to the first cabinet. He crouched down to the bottom file, manipulated the combination numbers, and pulled out the drawer, He reached in and withdrew an extremely thick leather-bound notebook and placed it on the desk. He sat down and opened it.
It was his master work, the product of five years of meticulous scholarship.
He scanned the pages—delicately, precisely inserted into the rings with cloth circlets around each hole. Each entry was lettered clearly. After every name was a brief description, where available, and a briefer biography—position, finances, family, future—when the candidate warranted it.
The pages were titled and separated by cities and states. Index tabs of different colors descended from the top of the notebook to the bottom.
A masterpiece!
The record of every individual—important and unimportant—whohad benefited in any way from the operations of the Scarlatti organization. From congressmen taking outright bribes from his subordinates to corporation heads “investing” in wildcat, highly illegal speculations proffered—again never by Ulster Stewart Scarlett—through his hired hands. All he had supplied was the capital. The honey. And the bees had flocked to it!
Politicians, bankers, lawyers, doctors, architects, writers, gangsters, office clerks, police, customs inspectors, firemen, bookmakers … the list of professions and occupations was endless.
The Volstead Act was the spine of the corruption, but there were other enterprises—all profitable.
Prostitution, abortion, oil, gold, political campaigns and patronage, the stock market, speakeasies, loan-sharking … this list, too, was endless.
The money-hungry little people could never walk away from their greed. It was the ultimate proof of his theories!
The money-grasping scum!
Everything documented. Everyone identified.
Nothing left to speculation.
The leather-bound notebook contained 4,263 names. In eighty-one cities and twenty-four states.… Twelve senators, ninety-eight congressmen, and three men in Coolidge’s cabinet.
A directory of malfeasance.
Ulster Stewart picked up the desk phone and dialed a number.
“Put Vitone on.… Never mind who’s calling! I wouldn’t have this number if he didn’t want me to have it!”
Scarlett crushed out his cigarette. He drew unconnected lines on a scratch pad while waiting for Genovese. He smiled when he saw that the lines converged—like knives—into a center spot … No, not like knives. Like bolts of lightning.
“Vitone? It’s me.… I’m aware of that … There’s not very much we
can
do, is there?… If you’re questioned, you’ve got a story. You were in Westchester. You don’t know where the hell La
Similar Books
