The Syndic
Public Domain
Chapter XVI
“Here?” Charles demanded. “Here?“
“No possible mistake,” she said, stunned. “When you’re a Falcaro you travel. I’ve seen ‘em in Duluth, I’ve seen ‘em in Quebec, I’ve seen ‘em in Buffalo.”
The bull-horn voice roared again, dead in the shroud of fog; “Come into the wind and cut your engines or we’ll put a shell into you.”
Charles turned the wheel and wound in the moderator rod; the boat pitched like a splinter on the waves. There was a muffled double explosion and two grapnels crunched into the plastic hull, bow and stern. As the boat steadied, sharing the inertia of the ore ship, a dark figure leaped from the blue-white eye of the searchlight to their deck. And another. And another.
“Hello, Jim,” Lee Falcaro said almost inaudibly. “Haven’t met since Las Vegas, have we?”
The first boarder studied her cooly. He was built for football or any other form of mayhem. He ignored Charles completely. “Lee Falcaro as advised. Do you still think twenty reds means a black is bound to come up? You always were a fool, Lee. And now you’re in real trouble.”
“What’s going on, mister?” Charles snapped. “We’re Syndics and I presume you’re Mobsters. Don’t you recognize the treaty?”
The boarder turned to Charles inquiringly. “Some confusion,” he said. “Max Wyman? Charles Orsino? Or just some wild man from outback?”
“Orsino,” Charles said formally. “Second cousin of Edward Falcaro, under the guardianship of Francis W. Taylor.”
The boarder bowed slightly. “James Regan IV,” he said. “No need to list my connections. It would take too long and I feel no need to justify myself to a small-time dago chisler. Watch him gentlemen!”
Charles found his arms pinned by Regan’s two companions. There was a gun muzzle in his ribs.
Regan shouted to the ship and a ladder was let down. Lee Falcaro and Charles climbed it with guns at their backs. He said to her: “Who is that lunatic?” It did not even occur to him that the young man was who he claimed to be--the son of the Mob Territory opposite number of Edward Falcaro.
“He’s Regan,” she said. “And I don’t know who’s the lunatic, him or me. Charles, I’m sorry, terribly sorry, I got you into this.”
He managed to smile. “I volunteered,” he said.
“Enough talk,” Regan said, following them onto the deck. Dull-eyed sailors watched them incuriously, and there were a couple of anvil-jawed men with a stance and swagger Charles had come to know. Guardsmen--he would have staked his life on it. Guardsmen of the North American Government Navy--aboard a Mob Territory ship and acting as if they were passengers or high-rated crewmen.
Regan smirked: “I’m on the horns of a dilemma. There are no accomodations that are quite right for you. There are storage compartments which are worse than you deserve and there are passenger quarters which are too good for you. I’m afraid it will have to be one of the compartments. Your consolation will be that it’s only a short run to Chicago.”
Chicago--headquarters for Mob Territory. The ore ship had been on a return trip to Chicago when alerted somehow by the Navy to intercept the fugitives. Why?
“Down there,” one of the men gestured briskly with a gun. They climbed down a ladder into a dark, oily cavern fitfully lit by a flash in Regan’s hand.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Regan told them. “If you get a headache, don’t worry. We were carrying some avgas on the outward run.” The flash winked out and a door clanged on them.
“I can’t believe it,” Charles said. “That’s a top Mob man? Couldn’t you be mistaken?” He groped in the dark and found her. The place did reek of gasoline.
She clung to him and said: “Hold me, Charles ... Yes that’s Jimmy Regan.
“That’s what will become top man in the Mob. Jimmy’s a charmer at a Las Vegas Hotel. Jimmy’s a gourmet when he orders at the Pump Room and he’s trying to overawe you. Jimmy plays polo too, but he’s crippled three of his own team-mates because he’s not very good at it. I kept telling myself whenever I ran into him that he was just an accident, the Mob could survive him. But his father acts--funny. There’s something with them, there’s some--
“They roll out the carpet when you show up but the people around them are afraid of them. There’s a story I never believed--but I believe it now. What would happen if my uncle pulled out a pistol and began screaming and shot a waiter: Jimmy’s father did it, they tell me. And nothing happened except that the waiter was dragged away and everybody said it was a good thing Mr. Regan saw him reach for his gun and shot him first. Only the waiter didn’t have any gun.
“I saw Jimmy last three years ago. I haven’t been in Mob Territory since. I didn’t like it there. Now I know why. Give Mob Territory enough time and it’ll be like New Portsmouth. Something went wrong with them. We have the Treaty of Las Vegas and a hundred years of peace and there aren’t many people going back and forth between Syndic and Mob except for a few high-ups like me who have to circulate. Manners. So you pay duty calls and shut your eyes to what they’re really like.
“This is what they’re like. This dark, damp stinking compartment. And my uncle--and all the Falcaros--and you--and I--we aren’t like them. Are we? Are we?“ Her fingers bit into his arms. She was shaking.
“Easy,” he soothed her. “Easy, easy. We’re all right. We’ll be all right. I think I’ve got it figured out. This must be some private gun-running Jimmy’s gone in for. Loaded an ore boat with avgas and ammo and ran it up the Seaway. If anybody in Syndic Territory gave a damn they thought it was a load of ore for New Orleans via the Atlantic and the Gulf. But Jimmy ran his load to Ireland or Iceland, H.Q. A little private flier of his. He wouldn’t dare harm us. There’s the Treaty and you’re a Falcaro.”
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