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| Powder and Promises | Started by: Babs on May 27, '25 17:51 |
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Detroit, Winter 1952 In the back room of Fredo’s café, hidden behind thick velvet drapes, the core of the Ligambi family had gathered. At the head of the table sat @Joe Ligambi, still as a stone carving. To his right was Jimmy, his shadow and right-hand man. On the left sat the two consiglieri — @Fredo Trappani and Babs. A bit further down, @Jelly Vitarelli, leader of his own crew, was seated beside his right-hand, @Big Jason. @Flumineo stood near the wall, gripping a folder tightly, tension clear in his posture. “Alright, Flumineo. Talk,” Joe said quietly, but with a tone that left no room for delay. Flumineo paused for a moment, then spoke. “The shipment arrived this morning at warehouse three. We were expecting 40 kilos. What we got was 27. And the quality… barely 40 percent pure. Like someone cut it with flour and chalk. We paid full price for garbage.” Joe nodded at Fredo, who silently opened the folder and laid out the paperwork. “Everything checks out,” Fredo said. “Ship from Marseille, all documents signed, sealed, official. According to the papers, they sent 40 kilos of top-grade heroin.” Joe shifted his gaze to Babs and gave him a short nod. “Set up a meeting with the French. Before they send anything else.” Later that day, in a private suite at the St. Regis Hotel, under the soft hum of a ceiling fan, Joe, Jimmy, Fredo, and Babs sat across from the Frenchmen. Claude Besson, smooth-talking negotiator in an immaculate white suit, looked like he was handling a diplomatic matter. Beside him were Gabriel, his cold-eyed enforcer, and Étienne, quieter, with something dangerous behind his calm stare. Joe opened the conversation directly. “We paid for forty kilos. We got twenty-seven. And it’s garbage. What happened?” Claude waved a hand casually. “Mon ami, most likely a logistical issue. Perhaps someone in your port. You know how these things go… transfers, delays…” Jimmy leaned in slightly. “The first three shipments were flawless. Suddenly now there’s a problem?” Claude shrugged, nonchalant. “We stand by our shipments. If there’s a problem, send a formal complaint. We’ll investigate. But in the meantime, perhaps… consider reviewing your own side of the operation.” Joe said nothing, just watched him. The Frenchmen stood, offered half-hearted handshakes, and left with polite smiles. Back at Fredo’s café, the group returned in silence. Waiting for them were Jelly and Big Jason — both with faces that said everything before a word was spoken. Jelly started. “Claude and Étienne were seen in Chicago a few weeks ago. Meeting with the Kelly clan.” Big Jason confirmed. “The Irish crew. Originally from Boston, but now operating out of Chicago — and just recently, Detroit. They’re offering the French better terms. Cash up front, no volume requirements. No paperwork, no headaches. More money, fewer questions.” Joe processed the information. “So this wasn’t a mistake. They’re slowly phasing us out. Replacing us.” Jimmy added, “If we hit now, we look like we’re covering something up. If we wait, we can watch. Maybe catch the whole network.” Babs spoke next. “Let the next shipment go through — but we monitor everything. Every crate, every truck, every corner. The French and the Irish — they move, we see it.” Joe gave a slow nod. “No retaliation. Not yet. Let them think we’re blind. Let them think they’ve got us. But from now on, we watch them all. And when the time comes… we’ll know where to hit.” Fredo exhaled smoke slowly, staring into a dim corner of the room. “They opened the door,” he muttered. “Now it’s up to us to decide when to slam it shut.” |
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