The Family Corleone by Ed Falco Page A

water. They tied up at the dock and a half dozen men started pulling crates off the boats and loading them into the truck. In twenty minutes the boats were speeding away and the trucks were loaded. Coppers weren’t a problem. Mariposa had them in his pocket. That was a Tuesday night, and the next Tuesday was the same thing. He and Cork cased the operation one more time after that, and now they were ready. It wasn’t likely there’d be any surprises. Chances were no one would put up much of a fight. Who’d want to get himself killed over one lousy shipment of hooch?
    When they reached the piers, Cork cut the lights and drove up the alley as planned. He inched the car along until they had a view of the docks. The pickup and the Hudsons were parked in the same places they’d been parked for the past three weeks. Sonny rolled his window down. A couple of sharp dressers leaned against the lead car’s front fender smoking and talking, a whitewall tire and chrome-capped wheel between them. Two more guys were in the Ford’s cab, smoking cigarettes with the windows open. They were wearing Windbreakers and wool caps and looked like a couple of stevedores. The driver had his hands on the wheel and his head back, a cap pulled down over his eyes. The one riding shotgun smoked a cigarette and looked out at the water.
    Sonny said to Cork, “Looks like a couple of dockworkers driving the truck.”
    Cork said, “Good for us.”
    Nico said, “Easy pickin’s,” but with a touch of nervousness.
    Little Stevie pretend-fired the chopper, whispering “Rat-a-tat-tat” and grinning. “I’m Baby Face Nelson,” he said.
    “You mean Bonnie and Clyde,” Cork said. “You’re Bonnie.”
    The Romero brothers laughed. Vinnie pointed to Angelo and said, “He’s Pretty Boy Floyd.”
    Angelo said, “Who’s the ugliest gangster out there?”
    Nico said, “Machine Gun Kelly.”
    “That’s you,” Angelo said to his brother.
    “Shaddup,” Cork said. “You hear that?”
    A moment later, Sonny heard the hum of speedboat motors.
    “There they are,” Cork said. “Time to go, boys.”
    Sonny held his tommy gun by the grip, with his finger on the trigger guard, and shifted it around, trying to get the feel of the thing. “
Che cazzo!
” he said, and tossed it back in the duffel bag. He pulled a gun from his shoulder holster and pointed it toward the roof.
    Cork said, “Good idea.” He took a pistol out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the seat beside him.
    Nico said, “Me too.” He tossed his tommy gun onto the seat and pulled a .38 out of a shoulder holster. He gestured to the chopper. “That thing’s like carrying a kid around with you.”
    Sonny looked back to the Romeros and said, “Don’t get any ideas. We need you with the choppers.”
    “I like my Chicago typewriter, ” Stevie said. He pointed the muzzle out the car window and pretend-fired.
    At the dock, four men got off the speedboat. The two guys with the three-piece suits and fedoras walked over and exchanged a few words, and then one of them took up a position at the edge of the dock. He watched as the speedboats were unloaded, while the second one oversaw the loading of the truck. Twenty minutes later, the stevedores were closing the Ford’s tailgate, latching it closed with a hook and chain, while the speedboats started their engines and roared off, out across Jamaica Bay.
    “Here we go,” Cork said.
    Sonny leaned into his door, one hand on the latch. His heart was doing a tap dance and he was sweating, despite a chilly wind coming off the water.
    When the lead car started moving, followed by the Ford and the second Hudson, Cork revved the engine.
    “ ’Nother second,” Sonny said to Cork. To the others he said, “Remember, fast and loud.”
    On the dock, the headlights of the lead car splashed onto the black water as it maneuvered around the truck to the head of the convoy. Then everything happened, as Sonny had been directing all along, quickly and