The bed monitor yelped out an alert when the captain swung his legs over the guardrail.
“Whoa, hold on.” Taylor rushed to the other’s side. “Where do you think you’re headed?”
“I told you,” the captain growled, “I gotta get back to Emza. I gotta find my crew.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, but you’re in no condition to go anywhere.” Taylor waited for the Hawks’ XO to pipe down before helping him back to his pillow.
“You don’t get it, Chief,” the captain said, panting. “Paulie was one of the people taken.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Torrio’s alive?”
“I don’t know,” the captain said. “That’s why I have to get back out there. You gotta understand. The Torrio family practically raised me, growin’ up. I owe them everything. I get that Paulie’s a lot to handle sometimes, granted. Even still, if there’s a chance he’s out there, I have to bring him home. End of story.”
Sounds of an argument escalated outside, prompting Taylor to turn. A tiny woman with curly silver hair and a dimpled chin was screaming at one of the doctors, tears streaming down the mosaic of lines that permeated her plump face.
“It’s okay, Doc, she’s with me,” the captain called out. “Gimme just a second, Ms. T, and I swear I’ll tell ya everything I know.”
The lady nodded grudgingly from the hall, then wiped her face and returned her focus to the doctor.
“That’s Paulie’s mom,” the captain said. “Her husband passed about a year before their family moved to Jax. Outside of one grandchild back in New York, Paulie’s all she’s got left.”
Taylor watched through the window as the old woman pled with the doctor for information. The man looked horrified that he had no real answers. But to his credit, he told her what he could as one of the physicians on duty.
I’m sorry, Ms. Torrio. I truly am. Taylor’s heart sank as he imagined her getting the news no parent should ever receive, that their child hadn’t returned from combat. He knew that call well. Only in his mother’s case, there was no chance of getting a follow-up call when the lost child in question found his way home. Terry. Taylor cleared his throat. “These insectoids you mentioned. If I get a sketch artist down here, would you work with him to nail down some more details?”
“Sure, of course.” The captain brightened. “Does that mean you’ll help?”
“It means I’ll ask around,” Taylor said. “For now, just get some rest. I’ll check back with you later.”
The pair of Eagles turned for the exit as Ms. Torrio and the doctor rushed past them to the bedside.
“Castle Street, eh?” Frank paused at the door. “If memory serves, that’s over in the old Palisade Heights neighborhood out past Astoria in Queens.”
“That’s right,” the captain said.
“I grew up in Carroll Gardens over in Brooklyn,” Frank said. “I used to run with a few cats from out your way, though. Maybe we got some friends in common. What’s your last name?”
The captain paused to field a hug from Ms. Torrio. “It’s Genovese. Michael Genovese.”
The Buma’s eyes narrowed as the door closed behind him.
“What?” Taylor asked.
“Under no circumstances whatsoever should we trust that man,” Frank said in a low voice.
“Why not?” Taylor asked.
Frank glanced around to ensure they were alone. “You ever heard of the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre?”
“Vaguely.” Taylor thought about it. “That’s the case up north where a bunch of mobsters turned up dead in an abandoned warehouse, right?”
“They weren’t just mobsters, boss,” Frank said. “They were six of Slugger O’Bannon’s top lieutenants.”
Taylor didn’t follow.
“Twenty years ago, an Irishman by the name of Dean O’Bannon—Slugger, as he was known—moved his criminal operation from Chicago to Staten Island in the wake of the U.S. government’s crackdown on gun violence in the Windy City. Initially folks back home didn’t take much notice, since Slugger’s outfit was relatively small potatoes. Problem was, O’Bannon wasn’t content to keep it that way.”
Taylor gave a slow nod. “Why’d they call him Slugger?”
“Because he preferred baseball bats, if you know what I mean.” Frank adjusted his flat cap. “Not long after O’Bannon arrived in town, he branched out in his activities—theft, numbers, racketeering, etcetera. Eventually, all that action raised eyebrows in the Consortium, especially out on Staten.”
“The Consortium?” Taylor didn’t recognize the term.
“Think of it as Congress for wise guys,” Frank said. “The Consortium is a committee consisting of the heads of the five major crime families who run New York’s underground. It was founded 48 years ago by Aces Logano in the aftermath of the Castiglione Crime War, which practically turned Manhattan into a combat zone. Its purpose is to oversee all gang activities in the Five Boroughs, and to serve as mediator for any conflicts between families.” The Buma paused. “I’ll give you one guess which family runs Staten Island.”
“Genovese.” Taylor grimaced.
“Bingo,” Frank said. “Once upon a time, Alfred Genovese was one of the most feared men in New York mafia history. When he got word that a new player was encroachin’ on his territory—an Irishman, no less—he kidnapped six of O’Bannon’s senior captains, then lined them up against a wall out by the Avalon shipyards and blew them away.”
Taylor shook his head. “Damn, that’s rough.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Frank said. “To add injury to insult, Al had one of his reporter contacts waiting in the wings to document the entire hit once it was over. Al wanted to send a message, and send a message he did. When Slugger O’Bannon cracked the news vids over coffee the next morning, he did so to the Pulitzer-prize-winning images of six dead Irishman lying face-down in their own fluids, courtesy of the St. Patrick’s Day edition of the New York Post.”
Taylor whistled and stepped aside, processing the story. “A moment ago, you said this
