Teeth grinding and chest tight with fury, Carmine snatched up his hat, stepped out of the backseat into the ice-cold wind, and stalked toward the warehouse.
The Pulvirenti family held a number of warehouses like this one throughout the city, and they controlled the movement of several types of products coming into New York, including certain varieties of fruits and nuts from the Caribbean, a number of textiles that were in high demand in the shoe and garment industries, and over a dozen popular brands of cigars and cigarettes. Carmine was responsible for four of those warehouses, including this one, and he was not happy right now.
Vincente, the man who ran the operations and reported directly to him, was waiting at the door. “Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to—”
“How did they get in?” Carmine demanded as they strode into the warehouse. “How did they know we had what they came to steal, and where the hell was security?”
Vincente shook his head. “We don’t know, boss. Only way I can think of was an inside job.”
Carmine stopped dead and glared at the man. “An inside job?”
Vincente put up his hands. “I ain’t got any idea who it is, but we’re looking. Eddie and Gino are squeezing some of the dock and warehouse workers for answers, but so far…nothing.”
“I want to know who it is,” Carmine growled, and they continued walking.
The warehouse aisles were stacked high with crates and barrels, and midway down the fourth aisle, two workers were carefully picking up scattered debris. Splintered crates and packing straw, by the looks of it.
“How much is missing?” Carmine demanded.
“Five cases,” Vincente said. “Looks like they tried to take a barrel, too, but I suspect it was too heavy for them to move.”
Carmine grunted in acknowledgment. Five cases meant thirty bottles, which was an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. Theft happened, and a loss this small could be absorbed. It was the fact that someone knew where the hidden liquor was, accessed it, and stole it without being caught that had his teeth on edge.
Scowling, he surveyed the damaged crates. “Whoever it was knew exactly what they were looking for and where to find it.” He gestured at the crates around it. “They didn’t even try to get into any of the others.” He turned to Vincente. “Bring in more security. I want men walking these warehouses night and day. Remind every man who sets foot in here what happens if they cross the Pulvirenti family. I find out who’s stealing from me, they’ll regret ever thinking about it. Am I clear?”
Vincente nodded vigorously. “Y-yes, boss. I’ll get right on that, and I’ll make sure everyone knows. Err, that they’re reminded.”
Carmine gave a sharp nod. The two workers cleaning up debris exchanged nervous looks, but then focused on sweeping up wood and straw.
Carmine glared at the opened crates before he walked away to see if any other merchandise had been disturbed.
Anyone else running operations like this would’ve fired everyone and quite possibly shot a few to make an example. Maybe Carmine was a bit soft-hearted for this job, but he remembered all too clearly Papa coming home from the docks in Catania with barely enough money to keep the family fed. They’d struggled just the same as so many people struggled here in New York. After Papa had died, the family had been destitute almost overnight. If his uncle hadn’t sent them money to come to America, there was no telling what would have become of Mama, Giulia, and Carmine.
So, soft-hearted or not, he was reluctant to cut loose any of the men working for him unless he knew without a doubt they were the thieves.
Carmine reached the end of an aisle and started up another. Almost halfway to the end of a long row of crates and barrels, he pulled a wheeled pallet aside, revealing several intact, untouched pallets. He didn’t open them; he knew that beneath the nailed wooden lids were cases and bottles of brandy, Canadian whisky, and Caribbean rum. There were stashes like this one all over the warehouse, and Vincente had assured him only the one had been disturbed last night.
His gaze drifted over the crates containing cases and barrels of liquor waiting to be moved in secret out to Pulvirenti-controlled speakeasies scattered throughout Manhattan, particularly around Times Square and Hell’s Kitchen. Even more booze would be delivered at a significant markup to over a hundred other speakeasies or, at an even higher markup, sold to New York’s wealthiest elite. That was to say nothing of the dozens upon dozens of pharmacies who dispensed alcohol legally via phony prescriptions. There was another stash out on Long Island that kept numerous pharmacies and speakeasies—Pulvirenti-run and otherwise—well-stocked in between making sure the spectacularly rich had enough to entertain their equally rich guests.
It was a relatively small operation compared to those run by Joe Morello, Big Bill Dwyer, and Cola Schiro, but he couldn’t complain. It mostly ran smoothly, and everyone associated with the Pulvirentis was getting rich, and fast. Carmine had a home, a car, and wealth he couldn’t have imagined as a poor fifteen year-old crossing the Atlantic with his younger sister and recently-widowed mother.
But every bootlegger worth his salt knew better than to rest on his laurels. A supply line could dry up. A shipment could be confiscated or hijacked en route into the city, and once the merchandise made it to the warehouse, there was always the possibility of burglary, theft, fire, and raids. To keep the booze and money flowing, men like Carmine had to be constantly innovating, coming up with new ways to earn bigger profits.
And still, as had happened last night, merchandise was lost. Worse, he’d been concerned lately that—theft notwithstanding—liquor was moving out of the warehouses faster than it was moving in. There was still a steady stream coming in via truck and hidden in shipments of other Pulvirenti-controlled imports, but the bread and butter of Carmine’s operation had long come from Rum Row. He needed rum runners out on the water. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d had a damn good crew, and if he didn’t replace them soon, then the liquor supply was going to dry up faster than he could replenish it. Not good. Not good at all.
As he surveyed the illicit inventory, his mind kept wandering back to the four handcuffed Irishmen in Plaza Hotel uniforms.
He believed his sister that the young Irishman had been trying to save her from Ricky. That he hadn’t just murdered the man in cold blood. What fascinated him was that the Irishman had been in the suite at all. He and apparently one other young man had made it in undetected, and likely would have slipped out as well if not for the altercation between Ricky and Giulia. In fact, he thought with a shudder, the kid probably could have escaped even with the altercation, simply by not getting involved and letting the noise be his cover while he ducked out of the suite. Thank God he’d stepped in instead.
Had it not been for Ricky and Giulia getting into a fight, the alarm likely never would have been sounded, and the rest of the Irishmen never would have been caught either. They might have even escaped with significant amounts of stolen cash and valuables. From what Detective Higgins had told him, they’d taken plenty, but they’d left the highest value and most conspicuous items behind, which would have given them even more time to escape without anyone realizing something was amiss. Plus they would have better luck selling stolen items that weren’t quite so high-profile; it didn’t do a man any good to steal the Hope Diamond if he’d be discovered the moment he tried to sell it.