Read Online As Time Goes By by Michael Walsh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Walsh
Tags: Fiction, Media Tie-In
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blasting back as they scuttled for safety, but they didn't have a chance. Horowitz's men were tough and disciplined, like their leader, and they wasted no lead. In less than a minute the battle of Bedford Hills was over, as even the dimmest of O'Hanlon's gangsters realized it was not worth dying to save a few thousand gallons of Canadian Club. They threw their pieces to the ground in surrender.
Tick-Tock wanted to shoot them all where they stood, but Solly refused. "We're bootleggers, not red Indians," he said. "We take no scalps." He turned to O'Hanlon's men, waving his pistol in the air and yell ing, "Get outta here, you sons of bitches bastards."
O'Hanlon's boys didn't need to be told twice. They turned and ran. How they would get back to New York was their problem.
Although he knew O'Hanlon wouldn't see it like this, the way Solly Horowitz had things figured, this booze was his. He used to have a straight pipeline from the Michaelson family's distilleries in Quebec; he'd been doing business with them for years, ever since Congress had handed him a gift called the Volstead Act. Lately, though, O'Hanlon was bending, if not outright breaking, their understanding about who got what and from which suppliers, and he'd been chiseling him with Michaelson, bidding up the price and increasing the volume. That was no way to do business, unless Dion was trying to put Solly out of business.
Ordinarily the road through Bedford Hills was an O'Hanlon highway, while Solly generally brought his booze down the other side of the Hudson, through the Catskills via Newburgh and the river. In Solly's opin ion he was only getting back what should have been his in the first place. Solomon Horowitz did not appreciate another man's taking what belonged to him.
O'Hanlon would be furious, Solly knew, but that was tough. He wasn't about to start letting himself get mus cled by the Irishman and his new allies, Salucci and Weinberg. Why, Solomon Horowitz had been running gangs in New York when that little pisher Irving Wein berg was still wetting his short pants. And if the day ever came that a fresh-off-the-boat wop like Salucci could start pushing him around with impunity ... well, that day would never come.
This would get their attention.
Horowitz strolled over to the now abandoned cara van. Rick was about to holster his gat when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught an arm, a hand, a finger, a trigger, all moving. Without thinking he knocked Solly to his knees and came up firing.
He'd raised his gun just as O'Hanlon's man had raised his. Rick was faster. His .38-caliber bullet slammed into the man's wrist and shattered it on the spot. He'd fired reflexively, just the way Solly had taught him in all those hours of practice in the Harlem backyards. Yitzik Baline was a natural with a heater.
Solly turned to look at Rick admiringly. "Nice shooting," he said. If his close brush with death bothered him, he wouldn't let it show. Solomon Horowitz never let anybody see him sweat.
"Yeah, Lois is gonna be real proud of you, hero," sneered Tick-Tock, who had come back from the fray mad because he hadn't gotten to kill anybody. He walked over to the wounded man and shot him in the head. There: he felt much better now. "You know," he said, turning his attention back to Rick, "I think she's kind of sweet on you."
Solly didn't answer but instead glowered at his cousin. As far as Lois Horowitz was concerned, her father had big plans for her, and they didn't include any of the mugs and yeggs in the gang. In his presence, you didn't joke about Lois's being sweet on anybody. In fact, you didn't even mention her. Not if you wanted to live a long, prosperous, and healthy life. That went for everybody, and that went for Tick-Tock double, be cause after all, Tick-Tock was family. Sort of.
C HAPTER E IGHT
January 23, 1942. This is London. While the battle for the Soviet Union rages thousands of miles away, here on the west ern front the bombs of the
Tick-Tock wanted to shoot them all where they stood, but Solly refused. "We're bootleggers, not red Indians," he said. "We take no scalps." He turned to O'Hanlon's men, waving his pistol in the air and yell ing, "Get outta here, you sons of bitches bastards."
O'Hanlon's boys didn't need to be told twice. They turned and ran. How they would get back to New York was their problem.
Although he knew O'Hanlon wouldn't see it like this, the way Solly Horowitz had things figured, this booze was his. He used to have a straight pipeline from the Michaelson family's distilleries in Quebec; he'd been doing business with them for years, ever since Congress had handed him a gift called the Volstead Act. Lately, though, O'Hanlon was bending, if not outright breaking, their understanding about who got what and from which suppliers, and he'd been chiseling him with Michaelson, bidding up the price and increasing the volume. That was no way to do business, unless Dion was trying to put Solly out of business.
Ordinarily the road through Bedford Hills was an O'Hanlon highway, while Solly generally brought his booze down the other side of the Hudson, through the Catskills via Newburgh and the river. In Solly's opin ion he was only getting back what should have been his in the first place. Solomon Horowitz did not appreciate another man's taking what belonged to him.
O'Hanlon would be furious, Solly knew, but that was tough. He wasn't about to start letting himself get mus cled by the Irishman and his new allies, Salucci and Weinberg. Why, Solomon Horowitz had been running gangs in New York when that little pisher Irving Wein berg was still wetting his short pants. And if the day ever came that a fresh-off-the-boat wop like Salucci could start pushing him around with impunity ... well, that day would never come.
This would get their attention.
Horowitz strolled over to the now abandoned cara van. Rick was about to holster his gat when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught an arm, a hand, a finger, a trigger, all moving. Without thinking he knocked Solly to his knees and came up firing.
He'd raised his gun just as O'Hanlon's man had raised his. Rick was faster. His .38-caliber bullet slammed into the man's wrist and shattered it on the spot. He'd fired reflexively, just the way Solly had taught him in all those hours of practice in the Harlem backyards. Yitzik Baline was a natural with a heater.
Solly turned to look at Rick admiringly. "Nice shooting," he said. If his close brush with death bothered him, he wouldn't let it show. Solomon Horowitz never let anybody see him sweat.
"Yeah, Lois is gonna be real proud of you, hero," sneered Tick-Tock, who had come back from the fray mad because he hadn't gotten to kill anybody. He walked over to the wounded man and shot him in the head. There: he felt much better now. "You know," he said, turning his attention back to Rick, "I think she's kind of sweet on you."
Solly didn't answer but instead glowered at his cousin. As far as Lois Horowitz was concerned, her father had big plans for her, and they didn't include any of the mugs and yeggs in the gang. In his presence, you didn't joke about Lois's being sweet on anybody. In fact, you didn't even mention her. Not if you wanted to live a long, prosperous, and healthy life. That went for everybody, and that went for Tick-Tock double, be cause after all, Tick-Tock was family. Sort of.
C HAPTER E IGHT
January 23, 1942. This is London. While the battle for the Soviet Union rages thousands of miles away, here on the west ern front the bombs of the
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