Chapter 5 - The Shadow of the Morettis
It was raining again—a steady, miserable drizzle that turned the cobblestones down by Pier 48 into grease traps.
Amelia sat at the green metal desk, the green-shaded banker’s lamp throwing a warm circle of light over the manifests for the incoming cargo containers. According to the manifest, Container 409 contained Italian porcelain tiles for the new cultural center on Passyunk Avenue. According to her cross-reference with the port authority manifests, Container 409 weighed four thousand pounds more than standard porcelain and originated from a warehouse in Calabria controlled by a faction of the Moretti family that Vincent had been feuding with since the late seventies.
The door behind her creaked open.
Vincent didn't knock anymore. He walked in slowly, his overcoat damp at the shoulders, carrying a brown paper bag from the bakery down the street. He set two cannoli on the desk beside her coffee mug.
"You're working late," Vincent said, pulling up the folding chair.
"Container 409," Amelia said, tapping the manifest with her pencil. "It's not tiles, Mr. Castellano. It's unmarked copper wiring—four tons of it, stolen from a rail yard in Newark three days ago. If the federal marshals inspect that dock tonight, they won't find tiles. They'll find federal property with your name on the distribution ledger."
Vincent took a slow bite of his cannoli, a crumb falling onto his gray waistcoat. He didn't look surprised. He looked tired.
"The Morettis are trying to box us out before the municipal contracts are signed next month," Vincent said softly. "They put the copper there to draw the feds down on my piers, so the city council will award the sanitation contracts to their front company."
"And you're going to let them?" Amelia asked, turning to face him.
"I'm too old to start a war over copper wire, Amelia," Vincent sighed, leaning back until the wooden chair creaked. "Sometimes you let the dog take the bone so you don't have to spend all night chasing him."
"That's not business, that's surrender," Amelia said, her voice dropping into a register that made Vincent pause with his pastry halfway to his mouth. "If you let them plant stolen goods on your pier without a response, every two-bit enforcer from here to Camden will think they can walk into Castellano territory and leave their garbage on your doorstep."
Vincent stared at her for a long moment. In the dim light of the green lamp, her face—with the pale thread of the scar across her brow and the cold, unyielding clarity in her eyes—didn't look like the broken waitress who had hidden under a table three months ago. She looked like a general.
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"And what would you do?" Vincent asked, a faint, dangerous smile touching his lips.
"I wouldn't call the police," Amelia said, opening the ledger to a blank page and picking up her pen. "And I wouldn't start a war. I would just send the bill to the right address."
