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The Scepter is a noir retelling of the Biblical story of Esther, with a hint of supernatural mystery. You can find the Table of Contents here:
← Previously, in The Scepter: Part VII, Etta, with Billy trailing along behind her, visited her old stomping grounds.
“Haman, … who was held in high honor by the king, sought to harm Mordecai and his people because of the two eunuchs of the king. … But he thought it was beneath him to attack only Mordecai.”
-Esther 1:17, 3:6
The man at the deli counter didn’t charge Giacomo Gardini for his corned beef on rye, which was as it should be. Some people, at least, understood what was due to the second most powerful man in Manhattan.
Giacomo generally preferred to be seen at the Ibis Club or Delmonico’s, but it was important to make the rounds of the neighborhoods on occasion, to ensure that the locals recognized his face. Ricky was memorable, easy to spot in his cloud-white suits. Giacomo had to work a bit harder to imprint his image in the memories of the shop-owners who owed their protection to Ricky and his business dealings. It was a crime of nature, really, that a man like Ricky, who could hardly string together a written sentence, should rise like a titan in people’s minds, while a man whose intellect could run circles around Ricky was relegated to clinging to his coattails. There was so little justice in the world.
Holding the sandwich in its brown paper, Giacomo turned toward the door, bracing himself for the frigid winter air. Then he stopped cold at the sight of a familiar face in line behind him.
The Basement Prophet. The bespectacled, wispy-haired bookkeeper who’d run his mouth and gotten Thornton and DiGiuli disappeared. Meddlesome, conniving fool, using his pretty little slip of a cousin to do his dirty work.
Giacomo prepared to stride past Paul Cohen with only the barest withering glance, but, without even a word of greeting, the Basement Prophet had the gall to catch hold of his arm.
“The deli’s not doing well,” Cohen said in a low voice devoid of deference. “Rabinowitz has a son with polio. He can’t afford to be giving out free sandwiches.”
Heat rushed into Giacomo’s face, turning his skin that blotchy strawberry red which he knew destroyed his complexion. “Mind your tone, Cohen.”
Paul only stared back at him. The same man who quailed before Ricky dared to look Giacomo Gardini in the eye with disdain?
A flare of indignant fury verging on panic pressed down on Giacomo as he felt himself shrinking, suddenly looking up at the world instead of down. Jerking his arm out of Paul’s grasp, he strode through the door into the cold street outside.
When Ricky walked down the street, people moved aside for him, making room on the crowded sidewalk. He seemed not even to notice how he could slice through crowds so easily; all he had to do was move. Though Giacomo straightened his shoulders and walked with a sure, swaggering step, he found himself shunted aside again and again as he walked, until with a scowl he turned down a side street.
His life would be immeasurably easier without the Basement Prophet. The man who had undermined him time and again, who had scattered his well-laid plans like a child’s block tower knocked to the floor by a careless hand. A simple disappearance wouldn’t do. That would give no satisfaction at all.
Giacomo headed toward the nearest busy street, his eyes peeled for a taxi. It was cold, and the streets were dirty with churned snow. He’d done enough mingling for one day. And he ought to talk his grievances over with Della; she’d have ideas. She always did.
“If you want the Prophet to die a broken man, go after that synagogue. The one with the rose window.” Della filled Giacomo’s coffee cup and moved to the kitchen, tidying it with quick, efficient movements. She hardly ever stopped moving. Della was always in motion, her mind always ticking beneath her stiff, dark, silver-flecked waves. “If he’s not at work or in that basement spewing out nonsense for Ricky, he’s at that synagogue.”
“Ricky hates the Jewish Mob,” Giacomo said, smoothing his mustache. “I have a meeting with him tonight. He’ll believe anything I tell him about Lansky. Ricky wouldn’t hesitate to start something if I hint that Lansky’s crew is scheming against him –”
“Not tonight. Let the heat from Thornton and DiGiuli simmer down first. Wait a few days, then tell him that the synagogue is one of their headquarters, that Lansky’s men use it as a meeting place. Get Ricky to start a fight there during their Sabbath or sometime when there are bystanders.”
Giacomo patted his wife’s hand as she passed, carrying a new centerpiece for their dining table. “We’ll have to think through the details carefully, of course.”
“Get rid of his new mistress, while you’re at it,” Della said, sharp as acid. “I don’t like her.”
“She’s far less meddling than Verna.” Giacomo leaned back against the smooth leather of his chair. The peace and quiet of home, a haven where he and Della could speak without having to police their every word – these were his favorite times. “I’d rather keep a vapid, useless girl than risk him taking up with someone who has more of a spine. That’s why I brought Ricky to that nightclub of hers in the first place. If he’s spending his time with an insipid showgirl who has no interest in his business affairs –”
“Don’t underestimate her. She’s not as much of an idiot as she seems.”
“The other night, when I was out with Siegel –” He raised meaningful eyebrows at Della. “We were getting stories straight, covering any links Thornton and DiGiuli might have left behind, and that girl and the Irish fellow, McManus, walked right by me in the street as I was getting into a taxi.”
“What were you doing outside in public with Siegel?” Della’s face went white, her voice suddenly rough.
Giacomo sat up straight in his chair. “Only for a matter of seconds. I was shaking hands with him, saying goodbye. I nearly jumped out of my skin right there on the sidewalk when I saw her passing, but she walked right by me. Didn’t even notice me. And McManus was too busy trailing after her like a lost puppy to –”
“You can’t be making stupid mistakes like that. How can you be sure they didn’t see you?”
“You’re not letting me finish,” Giacomo said. He loved Della, but at times even she could be a bit peevish. “There wasn’t so much as a flicker on their faces, either of them. They saw nothing, I’m sure of it. But, to get back to the point, of course we can get her out of the way, if that’s what you want.”
Della fussed with the centerpiece, a cluster of candles and wintry flowers. “First convince Ricky that the synagogue is part of the Jewish Mob’s operation, then implicate the Prophet. Ricky can put two and two together, usually. Once the Prophet’s gone, the girl will disappear soon after. Or –” Della turned to him, a flash of inspiration lighting her face. “Point the finger at the girl first. The synagogue, the mistress, and then finally the Prophet. Make him watch.”
Giacomo took Della’s hand. “Behind every great man –”
“Knock that off and drink your coffee.”
With a chuckle, Giacomo drained the last dregs of his coffee. From Ellis Island and crowded tenements to a Manhattan apartment and a powerful man twisted around their fingers. He’d never regretted marrying the whip-smart, dark-haired girl he’d met all those years ago, though they’d struggled and worked and been hungry for so long, though no amount of trying had ever brought them a child, though his mother had despised Della until her dying day. He had no regrets about Della.
How far they’d come, together.
“Loyalty.” Ricky’s voice rode through the smoky air, amplified by the musty cigar haze of the Ibis Club’s back room. He kept his eyes on the map in front of him, with black markings tracing routes along the docks and into Staten Island and New Jersey. He had shed his white suit jacket like a skin and stood in his shirt and suspenders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “If I want to reward loyalty – make a real spectacle, the kind that’ll make everybody want to stay in my good graces just to have a piece of it – what’s the best way to do it?”
“For loyalty.” A thrill rose up through Giacomo’s feet. “Well, sir, a gift would always be an excellent choice. A fine watch, perhaps. Gold and stainless steel with a Chronometer and Oystersteel backing would be an ideal choice for any man who has shown outstanding loyalty.”
Ricky grunted in assent.
“A celebration, as well,” Giacomo said, keeping his eyes on Ricky and pretending to ponder the map on the table. “A dinner at Voisin on Park Avenue, or Delmonico’s, or here at the Ibis Club. Something visible, so everyone will see who – will see how highly you value loyalty, how generously you reward it.”
Again Ricky nodded, thumping his cigar against the table and knocking a clump of ash to the floor.
“And an order, by word of mouth, of course, that the man in question be treated with the utmost respect and deference, second only to yourself. That would be my recommendation, sir.”
“Sounds good” Ricky said, shoving the cigar back between his teeth. “Make it happen.”
“May I ask who it is that you’re planning to gift these – to honor in this way?” Giacomo smothered the smile that pressed itself up onto his face.
Ricky’s gaze was on the map, his eyes distracted. “Huh?”
Giacomo cleared his throat. “Who will be receiving the watch – gold and stainless steel with a Chronometer and Oystersteel backing, I believe I suggested – and whose name should be listed on the invitations?”
“Oh.” Ricky slid the map to the side, consulting a list of contacts. “The Prophet. The one who caught wind of Thornton and DiGiuli. Cohen.”
Giacomo’s face fell in a curtain of ice.
Cohen.
The scheming, hypocritical, self-righteous liar –
No, it was too much. He wouldn’t let it happen –
“You take charge.” Ricky waved his hand in Giacomo’s direction. “Have the party next Saturday night. I got a free evening. I’ll leave the rest up to you.”
“Sir –”
His thoughts already elsewhere, Ricky pointed to the door. “Coffee.”
“Yes, sir.” Giacomo’s feet moved independently from his writhing mind. He opened the door of the round, smoky room and leaned his head out. One of Ricky’s foot soldiers sat just outside, his eyes half-closed.
“Coffee,” Giacomo snapped.
The man gave a slight start, narrowed his eyes at Giacomo, then slowly eased himself to his feet and stretched his shoulders.
“Now.” Impotent rage stabbed at Giacomo’s lungs as the man gave him a lazy, insolent look before trudging off in search of a waiter.
Slamming the door, Giacomo squeezed his sweaty palms. He walked back across the room to Ricky and the table crowded with papers.
Paul Cohen, the Basement Prophet. It was ridiculous, the very idea –
Giacomo Gardini would not be stopped, and he would not be supplanted.
He’d worked too hard, for too long, laying his pride bare under the heel of a mammoth, stupid, angry man, and it would not be for nothing.
Giacomo would knock the pedestal out from under Paul Cohen and crush him beneath its weight.
← Part VII
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BOOOOOOO.
I’m liking the addition of Della!