The Scarlatti Inheritance(26)

“They muscle what has to be put in line. No what—who!”

The men in overcoats—five in all—began wandering up to the various stevedores and talking quietly. Cheek to cheek, thought Canfield. With a few, they shoved them humorously and patted their thick necks. They were like zoo keepers, pacifying their animals. Two of the men walked up the gangplank onto the ship. The head man, who wore a white felt fedora and was now the central figure of the remaining three on the pier, looked back toward the automobiles and then up at the glass-enclosed booth. He nodded his head and started toward the stairs. The guard, Jesse, spoke.

“I’ll handle this. Everyone stay put.”

He opened the door and waited on the steel platform for the man in the white fedora.

Canfield could see the two men talking through the glass. The white fedora was smiling, even obsequious. But there was a hard look in his eyes, a serious look in his eyes. And then he seemed concerned, angry, and the two men looked into the office.

They looked at Matthew Canfield.

The door was opened by Jesse. “You. Cannon. Mitch Cannon, c’mere.”

It was always easier to use a cover having one’s own initials. You never could tell who’d send you a Christmas gift.

Canfield walked out onto the steel platform as the man in the white fedora descended the stairs to the cement floor of the pier.

“You go down and sign the search papers.”

“The hell you say, buddy!”

“I said go down and sign the papers! They want to know you’re clean.” And then Jesse smiled. “The big boys are here.… You’ll get another little dividend.… But I get fifty percent, understand?”

“Yeah,” Canfield said reluctantly. “I understand.” He started down the steps looking at the man who waited for him.

“New here, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Where ya’ from?”

“Lake Erie. Lot of action in Lake Erie.”

“What d’ya work?”

“Canadian stuff. What else?… Good hooch that Canadian stuff.”

“We import wool! Como wool!”

“Yeah, sure, friend. In Erie it’s Canadian pelts, fabric.…” Canfield winked at the waterfront subaltern. “Good soft packing, huh?”

“Look, fella. Nobody needs a wise guy.”

“Okay.… Like I said. Wool.”

“Come over to the dispatchers.… You sign for the loads.”

Canfield walked with the large man to the dispatcher’s booth where a second man thrust a clipboard filled with papers at him.

“Write clear and mark the dates and times perfect!” ordered the man in the booth.

After Canfield had complied, the first man spoke. “Okay.… C’mon with me.” He led Canfield over to the automobiles. The field accountant could see two men talking in the back seat of the second vehicle. No one but a driver remained in the first car. “Wait here.”

Canfield wondered why he had been singled out. Had anything gone wrong in Washington? There hadn’t been enough time for anything to go wrong.

There was a commotion from the pier. The two goons who had boarded the ship were escorting a man in uniform down the gangplank. Canfield saw that it was the captain of the Genoa-Stella.

The man in the white fedora was now leaning into the window talking with the two men in the second car. They hadn’t noticed the noise from the pier. The large man opened the car door and a short, very dark Italian stepped out. He was no more than five feet three.

The short man beckoned the field accountant to come over. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a billfold, and withdrew several bills from it. His speech was heavily accented. “You a new man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lake Erie? That’s right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s name?”

“Cannon.”

The Italian looked at the man in the white fedora.

The man shrugged. “Non conosco.…”

“Here.” He handed Canfield two fifty-dollar bills. “You be a good boy.… We take care of good boys, don’t we, Maggiore?… We also take care of boys who ain’t so good.… Capisce?”

“You bet! Thanks very …”

It was as far as the field accountant got. The two men escorting the Genoa-Stella captain had reached the first automobile. They were now forcibly holding him, propelling him against his will.

“Lascia mi! Lascia mi! Maiali!” The captain tried to break the grip of the two hoodlums. He swung his shoulders back and forth but to no avail.

The small Italian brushed Canfield aside as the goons brought the captain up to him. The ship’s officer and his two captors started shouting at the same time. The Italian listened and stared at the captain.