This is an excerpt from BLACKMAIL AT THE GALLIANO
CLUB,
coming February 2023.
This scene, which takes place in a cemetery, was inspired by my grandfather, a deputy sheriff of Oneida County, New York, during Prohibition. He was assigned to stake out a cemetery to catch bootleggers who’d staged a mock funeral and buried a cache of liquor. The assumption was that
they’d come back at night to get it.
My grandfather enlisted the help of his best friend, an insurance salesman. The two went to the cemetery in the dead of night. They waited . . .
Ten, possibly 15 minutes. The night was cold and pitch-black, the rustling wind sounded like a legion of ghosts while tilting headstones seemed to reach out.
If the bootleggers had the guts to come back and dig up the liquor-filled casket, they were welcome to
it.
But it made a great story and my grandfather told it well.
~
The tire tracks ended on a rise, as if Al Genovese had driven over a cliff. But a faint glow rose from the other side. Snatches of talk carried over the rise, voices muffled by snow and distance.
“Here.” Karol elbowed the
other two men towards a mausoleum on the extreme edge of the cemetery. Level with the berm, the granite structure was a miniature castle with a deep Gothic arch framing each side and the word BLICK chiseled above.
One at a time, they edged their way to the arch on the side overlooking the cliff and crouched in the shadow of
the overhang.
The ruins of the old Packham Foundry were below them, no more than six or seven car lengths away, a scrapyard of strange shapes conquered by time and nature. Cloaked in snow, the brick chimney rose like a ghost from a broken casket.
The biggest remaining structure was a windowless stone cottage. Several vehicles were parked in front, including Genovese’s truck.
Swollen with winter snow and wearing a rime of ice on either shore, the river silently swept past the eerie
landscape. A tangle of fallen trees and mounded debris cluttered the riverbank.
The door to the cottage was open, illuminating three men confronting each other in the falling snow.
“Genovese,” Luca breathed.
“Rotolo,” Toby added.
“Mr. Fisher,” Karol said. “He’s the one with the gun."
