Private Eye: 5

“Paddy, how ya fancy takin’ a trip to the Jersey shore? Vinny ‘The Reaper’ Cagliari owes me a favor. He’s arranged a meetin’ with Captain Jim McCarthy who is anchored at Rum Row in international water twelve miles offshore. Vinny can arrange for a go-fast boat at Ottens Harbor. We’ll hop on there and head to McCarthy’s boat.”

“Forgive my ignorance but what’s a go-fast boat?”

“A go-fast boat is a boat that goes fast. It’s a boat that hauls ass. It’s used as a contact boat to nab a load from a bigger ship anchored at Rum Row and bring it ashore. It could be any boat that has been souped up or supercharged for speed. Vinny’s boat has been retrofitted with an aircraft engine. Tops out at thirty-three knots per hour, eleven knots faster than those Coast Guard fools.”

At the Ship N Shore, Vinny was nursin’ a beer at a corner table, keepin’ an eye on who was comin’ in. “Eugene, over here. How ’bout a beer? Charlie, bring us a round.”

“Vinny,” exclaimed Eugene. “Been a damn long time. How you holdin’ up?”

“Prohibition is great for business. I’ve given up fishin’ and switched to rum running. Jim McCarthy is one of my main suppliers. He’s got the finest damn liquor, picks up in Canada and the Bahamas.”

“What can ya tell me ’bout Captain McCarthy? What kinda guy is he? Is he a mobster, a pirate? a real captain? Give me the lowdown.”

“He’s a legend ’round these parts. A sea captain operatin’ outta Florida. When prohibition came ’round, he saw a chance to cash in on the situation and was one of the first rum runners smugglin’ booze from Nassau, and from Saint Pierre near Newfoundland. He spends most of his time dealin’ off Rum Row here on the coast. He’s got six ships under British registry dodgin’ US jurisdiction. Known for sellin’ his stuff pure and clean, no watered-down or mixed crap. He’s got a decent reputation. That cover it?”

“Most of my questions are answered. I’m askin’ ’cause there’s a dame named Amelia Monroe, sister of my client, on his boat. We can’t contact her, and her sister is worried sick. Nothin’ suggestin’ he’s done anythin’ wrong mind you.

“That, I’m glad to hear. Last thing I want to do is piss off my supplier.”

“I can get ya out to the Adelaide, his main ship. It’s a beauty, a fishin’ schooner, 127 feet long weighin’ in at 157 tons. This sailboat’s one the fastest on the Atlantic coast. Holds 6000 cases of bootleg booze.”

“When can we make this happen?”

“Give him a call right now. Was just ’bout ready for a run.”

Paddy inquired, “How did you end up with the nickname ‘Reaper’? Most of the names I’ve heard ain’t too flatterin’.”

“Ya see, buddy, adoptin’ a moniker comes in handy when ya wanna stay off the radar of the coppers and any other snoops. Take Vincent “Chin” Gigante, the big shot of the mob, for instance. His handle, “Chin,” was a quick’n’easy way of sayin’ “Vincenzo.” But here’s the kicker: Gigante was dead set on never havin’ his real name uttered out loud. So, he had his crew of wise guys use a little code. Instead of sayin’ his name, they’d just casually rub their fingertips across their chins or call him “Aunt Julia.” Clever, ain’t it?

“I’ll let ya in on a secret. Back in Florida, they called me ‘Peanuts’. Hated it

I’m a made man but as ‘Peanuts’ people would laugh at me. I had no juice. No respect, no influence, no power, no authority. So, when I came here, I said they call me ‘Reaper’ like the grim reaper. The name stuck.”

…

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