Live by Night

“Well, there’s a lot of them. And they’re all Cuban. Smith deals with Cubans so we don’t have to. He also deals with the Dixies.”

“The runners.”

Dion nodded as the waiter brought their lemonades. “Yeah, the local guns from here to Virginia. They run it across Florida and up the seaboard.”

“But you’ve been losing a lot of those loads too.”

“Yeah.”

“So how many boats can sink and how many trucks can get hit before it’s more than bad luck?”

“Yeah,” Dion said again because apparently he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Joe sipped his lemonade. He wasn’t sure it was the best he’d ever tasted, and even if it were, it was lemonade. Hard to get fucking excited about lemonade.

“You do what I suggested in my letter?”

Dion nodded. “To a T.”

“How many ended up where I figured?”

“A high percentage.”

Joe scanned the menu for something he recognized.

“Try the osso buco,” Dion said. “Best in the city.”

“Everything’s the ‘best in the city’ with you,” Joe said. “The lemonade, the thermometers.”

Dion shrugged and opened his own menu. “I have refined tastes.”

“That’s it,” Joe said. He closed his menu and caught the waiter’s eye. “Let’s eat and then drop in on Gary L. Smith.”

Dion studied his menu. “A pleasure.”

The morning edition of the Tampa Tribune lay on a table in the waiting room of Gary L. Smith’s office. Lou Ormino’s corpse sat in a car with shattered windows and blood on the seats. In black-and-white, the death photo looked like they all did — undignified. The headline read:

REPUTED UNDERWORLD FIGURE SLAIN

“Did you know him well?”

Dion nodded. “Yeah.”

“You like him?”

Dion shrugged. “He wasn’t a bad sort. Clipped his toenails in a couple meetings, but he gave me a goose last Christmas.”

“Live?”

Dion nodded. “Till I got it home, yeah.”

“Why’d Maso want him out?”

“He never told you?”

Joe shook his head.

Dion shrugged. “Never told me, either.”

For a minute Joe did nothing but listen to a clock tick and Gary L. Smith’s secretary turning the stiff pages of an issue of Photoplay. The secretary’s name was Miss Roe, and her dark hair was cut Eton-crop style into a finger-wave bob. She wore a silver short-sleeved vest blouse with a black silk necktie that fell over her breasts like an answered prayer. She had a way of barely moving in her chair — a kind of quarter-squirm — that had Joe folding up the paper and waving it in his face.

Good Lord, he thought, do I need to get laid.

He leaned forward again. “He have family?”

“Who?”

“Who.”

“Lou? Yeah, he did.” Dion scowled. “Why you got to ask that?”

“I’m just wondering.”

“He probably clipped his toenails in front of them too. They’ll be glad not to have to sweep them into the dustpan anymore.”

The intercom buzzed on the secretary’s desk and a thin voice said, “Miss Roe, send the boys in.”

Joe and Dion stood.

“Boys,” Dion said.

“Boys,” Joe said and shot his cuffs and smoothed his hair.

Gary L. Smith had tiny teeth, like kernels of corn and almost as yellow. He smiled as they entered his office and Miss Roe closed the door behind them, but he didn’t get up, and he didn’t put too much into the smile, either. Behind his desk, plantation shutters blocked most of the West Tampa day, but enough creeped in to give the room a bourbon glow. Smith dressed the part of the Southern gentleman — white suit over white shirt and thin black tie. He watched them take their seats with an air of bemusement, which Joe read as fear.

“So you’re Maso’s new find.” Smith pushed a humidor across the desk at them. “Help yourselves. Best cigars in the city.”

Dion grunted.

Joe waved off the humidor, but Dion helped himself to four cigars, placing three in his pocket and biting off the end of the fourth. He spit it into his hand and laid it on the edge of the desk.

“So what brings you by?”

“I’ve been asked to look over Lou Ormino’s affairs for a little bit.”

“But it’s not permanent,” Smith said, firing up his own cigar.

“What’s not?”

“You as Lou’s replacement. I just mention it because the people ’round here like dealing with who they know, and no one knows you. No offense meant.”

“So who in the organization would you suggest?”

Smith gave it some thought. “Rickie Pozzetta.”

Dion cocked his head at that. “Pozzetta couldn’t lead a dog to a hydrant.”

“Then Delmore Sears.”

“Another idiot.”

“Well, then, fine, I could do it.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Joe said.

Gary L. Smith spread his hands. “Only if you think I could be right for the job.”

“It’s possible, but we need to know why the last three supply runs have been hit.”

“You mean the ones heading north?”

Joe nodded.

“Bad luck,” he said. “Best I can figure. It does happen.”

“Why don’t you change the routes then?”

Smith produced a pen and scribbled on a piece of paper. “That’s a good idea, Mr. Coughlin, is it?”

Joe nodded.

“A great idea. I’ll definitely consider it.”

Joe watched the man for a bit, watched him smoke with the diffused light coming through the blinds and spreading over the top of his head, watched him until Smith started looking a little confused.