jack of diamonds

CHAPTER 17 (part 1) Even Shrouds Have No Lining

i

“Tell me one more time why the fuck we’re doing this in Plymouth?” Reggie asked, looking at Sabini.

“Because no one uses the docks at Plymouth anymore; they all go to fuckin’ South’ampton. Face it, Reggie, you’re gettin’ old. The days of sailin’ ships died fuckin’ years ago, so you can fuckin’ forget about runnin’ off t’ sea. They just forgot t' fuckin’ tell ‘em out there in Plymouth,” he added, sitting back in his chair and lighting an oversized cigar. He was looking at Reggie closely. “Besides, we don’t wanna attract any attention now, do we?”

He put his hands on the desk, leaning forward and dropping his eyes. There was a hardening look; the scars on his face—small whorls and cuts he’d earned as a semi-professional boxer—were more than just wounds and stories, but a reminder of every time he got back up. It was one thing to get knocked down when you were fighting, Reggie knew, but getting back up was harder. It meant you had balls, and he’d never be one to say Charlie Sabini didn’t have balls.

“You din’t fuckin’ square if off with Dickie, did you?”

“No, I didn’t fuckin’ square it off wit’ Dickie,” he mimicked, throwing his arms up in the air and sitting up straight. “Look, Dickie’s a right fuckin’ dickwad, an’ you know it. He might say he owns the South’ampton docks, an’ I’ll give it to ‘im, he does a right fine fuckin’ job of it. But this ‘ere’s a private deal. We’re simply offerin' our services for the protection of a client.”

“A client? Is that what you’re callin’ them? These Russians? What am I s’posed t’ say to…who? Who’s gonna be there Charlie?”

“Well, the Solomons for one. This is atween the Solomon brothers an' the Russians. We’re just there t’ see ever’thing’s on the up an’ up.”

“Fuckin’ Russians, Charlie?”

“It’s not the fuckin’ Reds, if that’s what yer thinkin’.”

“It din’t know there was any other sort.”

“An’ why would ye, right? Do you git any fuckin’ newspapers out in fuckin’ Devon, Reggie?”

“I hear things, same as you.”

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you ‘eard any fuckin’ news ‘bout any fuckin’ thing? So yeah, these Russians are the hoity-toity type. They’re the monied gents what own all the land. Yer Lords an’ Ladies; Counts; Dukes. Princes. But they just lost the Civil War they had, an’ they don’t like t’ lose.”

“Ye mean revolution.”

“You see? That’s ‘ow much you don’t know, Reggie. Sure, there was a Revolution. They killed the Tsar, an’ his whole fuckin’ family. God only knows how many else. So this ‘ere guy, this Prince Igor they call him—I don’t know what ‘is real name is, so don’t fuckin’ ask me—anyway, ‘e comes t’ me an’ says ‘e wants to buy dope. From the Sicilians.”

“Dope?”

“Opium. ‘E wants t’ flip it an’ make some serious coin.”

“And then what?”

“Heard him says ‘e wants t’ send a shipment of guns up t' the Finns.”

“Why the Finns?”

“Wrong question, Reggie, but I’ll tell you anyway, or at least I’ll tell you what I know. Because the Finns’re havin’ their own fuckin’ revolution, aren’t they? They’ve always been pain in the ass for the Russians. Sorta like the fuckin’ Irish.”

“I fuckin’ hate the Irish.”

“Yeah, don’t we all. But here’s the tricky part. That’s where the guns are comin’ from.”

“Guns? What guns? You never said anything about no guns.”

“I din’t, an’ for good reason, too. But that’s the question, isn’t it? Where’d the guns come from? AN’ how’d the Russians get them?”

“Okay, and the guns are from…?”

“I told you, the Irish.”

“The Irish? Why the fuck would the Irish wanna sell them guns?”

“Who said they wanted t’ sell ‘em?”

“Why is it I’m startin’ t’ think it’d be easier dealin’ with Dickie the Docker?”

Charlie sat forward again, resting his arms on the desk again. It was after noon, just barely, and Reggie would soon be leaving for Paddington Station so he could catch the train out to Plymouth. Everything would be in place by the time he got to Plymouth, Charlie told him. He’d have a crew of nine men. Charlie said he could count on them, and Reggie believed him. Why wouldn’t he?

“So what’s the tricky part?”

“The Solomons are buyin’ the dope.”

“Yeah, you said that yesterday. What’s the payment?”

“Gold.”

“Gold? How the hell did the Solomons get their hands on gold?”

“They got deep pockets, Reggie, you know that.”

“An’ the Sicilians? Why’d they even think of sellin’ it t’ the Russians in the first place? Do they know the Solomons are takin’ the load from them? The Solomons get there hands on that much crude, what’re they gonna do with it?”

“That’s between them an’ the Sicilians.”

“Okay, so where’s the tricky part?”

“The guns.”

“You mean the Irish?”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

“Why the fuck would ye ever agree t’ that!”

“I din’t know ‘bout the fuckin’ guns! I was doin’ a deal for dope, for the Russians. Nobody said anythin’ ‘bout the Solomon brothers at that time either. So some fuck comes walkin’ in here, all pretty like. A right fuckin’ dapper prick. Right fuckin’ proper. Say’s he’s got a little problem an’ ‘e wants t’ know if I can help. Says it’d be in my own best int’rest if I do. So I tell ‘im I’m all ears. Says ‘e was waitin’ on a truck comin’ into the BSA warehouse. Only it never showed. No one’s seen it.”

“Let me guess. A load of guns?”

“That was three weeks ago. Three weeks, Reggie. An’ in that three weeks, this fuckin’ Prince Igor says he wants me t' talk with the Sicilians an’ help broker a deal for ‘im. He wants me t’ stand in as a translator. You know I don’t speak Italian. I was fuckin’ born here! Anyway, fuckin’ Prince Igor, ‘e doesn’t wanna say what kinda deal it is, an’ I din’t wanna ask at the moment. I figure that can wait. This geezer’s not too bright, though, this Prince Igor. Sometimes the less you say, the better, right? He says to one of his geeks loud enough so as I can ‘ear, that they’ve been sittin’ on this truck for over a week now. Says ‘e wants to git the guns up t’ the Finns. So I don’t know what he wants the dope for, but I’m guessin’ the Sicilians don’t feel threatened by him; they even wanna help the fuckin’ Cause—those Mafia boys hate Fascists an’ Reds. So they agree to whatever the fuck the deal is, an’ say it’s on me. Me? I’m the middle fuckin’ man, I say. I tell ‘em, I’m just here t’ translate, an’ they fuckin’ laugh in my face. Fuckin’ laugh. Anyway, the fuckin’ Geezer asks me what they said, an’ I tol’ him I din’t know. Turns out, the Sicilians aren’t gonna get their payment until after the deal goes down. But young Prince Igor, ‘e’s not trustin’ no one, cause the fuckin’ Solomon brothers are bound for fuckin’ Bedlam, an’ everyone knows it.”

“An’ do the Irish know the Russians’re sittin’ on their fuckin’ guns?”

“That’s the real question, now then, isn’t it? Ya know, when you see this kid, yer never gonna believe ‘e’s even smart enough t’ wipe ‘is own ass without someone there t’ help. But a deal’s a deal.”

“An’ the Irish bloke what come by for a chat?”

“I never did see that Paddy again. I’m thinkin’ they were puttin’ feelers out all over town. I was just one on a list ‘e ‘ad.”

“An’ the guns?”

“Well, seems obvious the Russians have ‘em, down it?”

“But why get the Solomon brothers involved?”

Charlie sat back and smiled.

“Remember when I said that young Prince Igor weren’t too smart? He wants t’ make money, an’ by sellin’ dope t’ the Solomon brothers, he can use that money t’ pay for a ship waitin’ at the docks. I found out he’s got a ship waitin’ t’ load up the guns. He can get the guns t’ the Finns, get paid for ‘em, an’ then pay off what ‘e owes the Sicilians, an’ pocket the rest.”

“An’ we’re there t’ make certain the Solomons don’t go back on their word?”

“That’s about it.”

“An’ tell me once again why you’ll not be there?”

“I tol’ you. My boy’s got a recital.”

“You still got him playin’.”

“I won’t let ‘im know I got the new one ’til ‘e’s a little bit older. ‘E’ll never be able t’ play it on any stage for a fuckin’ recital, but ‘e sure as fuck can play at ‘ome t’ me an’ the missus.”