Undying Witch, page 11
The press labeled the past decade, the wild Roaring 20s because many girls revolted with smoking, drinking, wearing short dresses, wild dancing, necking, and petting.
The rich dared to mingle with the lower classes, all in pursuit of illegal alcohol. Being naughty was fun, especially with a boisterous crowd of drunkards. The liquor was not cheap, and went up in price many times over, in the 13 years since the Prohibition law passed. Rum-running in boats from Canada across the Pacific Ocean was expensive. It was funny that the crowd, even the men, drank from teacups with their pinkies held out. This, of course, was to fool the LAPD should there be a raid. No one wanted the police to cart him or her off in a paddy wagon and the newspapers to publish the arrest. Nick-Nick’s speakeasy was the safest since he lined the pockets of City Hall and the LAPD.
Medea swayed to the ragtime music.
Surrounding the dance floor were circular tables with white linen tablecloths. A jazz band played at one end. This was like a fairy tale come to life for her.
A sparkling chandelier lit up the dancers, spotlighting a woman with short, silver-blonde hair that resembled moonlight. She wore a silver dress with a blue feather in her hair band. She had shockingly rolled her hose to just below her powdered knees.
Someone tapped Medea’s back and her heart stopped. Breathless, she lifted her head.
Oh, him.
“You’re Dima’s sister, ain’t you?” Jack Dragna said. He was the head of the Los Angeles mafia and Nick-Nick was his main rum-runner. For such a dangerous man, he had droopy eyes like a puppy. Like Nick-Nick, he was from Sicily. Jack Dragna was the big cheese.
He dragged her over to a dark corner enveloped with smoke. Nick-Nick always smoked stinky cigars.
“How you doing kiddo?” Nick-Nick said, winking. He stood to his six feet height, giving her a bear hug.
She squeezed his ample waist, pinching his love handles affectionately. He was the only father figure she had, his having taken up with Dima when Medea was nine, when he returned from California after being on the lam for shooting an ally of a rival family in self-defense. His German wife had given him no children, so he treated Medea like a daughter. His wife was sterile because Dima disguised herself as a saleswoman and paid her a visit with wares from their basement laboratory.
After the judge dropped murder charges against him, Nick-Nick clawed his way to just below the top of the Italian gangs who operated fruit stands as fronts of their criminal activities. Before Prohibition, there was just the rackets, which included extorting money from legitimate businesses in the Plaza, running gambling dens and prostitution. Nick-Nick was still involved with the rackets but his main income, since Prohibition, was from illegal liquor. It was a crime to even drink at home so selling booze was good business.
Of course, Jack Dragna got the bigger cut since he was the boss. With his profits, he bought up land, making him the richest Italian in Los Angeles and one of the wealthiest men in the city.
Nick-Nick was old, 42 years of age and eight years older than Dragna. Whereas Dragna resembled a bulldog, Nick-Nick looked more like a vicious pit bull.
“I used to like playing marbles, kid, when I was growing up. I always played for money and could not stand to lose. I took a stick to a guy and bloodied his nose for beating me. Don’t you ever let anyone beat you at anything, and kick the ones who try,” he said in a thicker Italian accent than Dragna had.
“Thank you, Mr. Bruno,” Medea said, taking the dollar he offered her and giving him a peck on his cheek.
“So, your sister let you come over here, huh? I am gonna have a word with her. You’re too young for the likes of this joint.” He puffed on an expensive Cuban cigar and blew smoke in her face. “I want you to meet a friend of mine, Charles Crawford. Charlie, this young lady is Dima’s little sister.”
Medea nodded at the man who was not a gangster but a sort-of politician on the side, working in the shadows of government. He was the vice kingpin of Los Angeles and operated casinos and bordellos. Jack Dragna was Italian. The Italian syndicate labeled their nationwide gang the Mafia, Mr. Crawford’s syndicate was nicknamed the City Hall Gang. Dima once told Medea that Mr. Crawford warned them in advance of police raids. A friend of Mr. Crawford’s, named Kent Parrot, had the mayor of Los Angeles tucked away in his pocket while the two of them ran the city and the police. It figured that Dragna was part of the City Hall Gang since it was mostly bootleggers and other lawbreakers who were members. The City Hall Gang was a legal crime syndicate and even chose the mayor.
Mr. Crawford wore a slick, gray suit with diamond cuff links and tie pin. His crossed his legs and there was something like a woman about him. He bobbed his Adams apple and said, “Hi, Girlie,” in a voice higher pitched than Medea’s voice. His hair matched his suit in color.
Medea wiggled her fingers back at Charlie Crawford. Jack Dragna’s steady stare made her feel uncomfortable. He had given her an odd look ever since she sat down.
Medea sat between Nick-Nick and Dragna who now seemed to have forgotten about her as they discussed cars in a guy fashion.
“The Overland is the best, a steal for $360, but I bought the car cheaper from a guy I know,” Nick-Nick said.
“That’s because they quit making the Overland seven years ago,” Crawford pointed out.
“Yeah, but that baby can carry five of my guys and advertises a quick getaway,” Dragna added.
“The car is like a frigging gorilla, wide and big with more than 20 square foot of window space. The biggest machine gun will fit right through the window,” Nick-Nick said.
“And the car has big doors for a fast exit, in case any honest coppers are stupid enough to give chase after a caper.” Dragna slapped the table with his hand and laughed.
“Well, I prefer the Cadillac convertible. It has shatter-resistant glass,” Mr. Crawford said in a sissy voice.
“Glass that doesn’t shatter, huh? Maybe I should get me one of those for myself,” Dragna said.
“Cryer just bought a hard-covered model,” Mr. Crawford said.
Dima predicted that she would prosper beyond her wildest dreams once the mafia came into power, and she had. She clicked her heels across the shiny floor, her slim hips shimmering with rows of fringed beads. Dima walked, all bossy, because she was manager of the Blind-Rat.
If the mafia ever finds out that my mother is stealing from them, there will be hell to pay, Medea thought and took a deep breath. Dima was trusting her and she must not screw up. Quick, she stuffed the dollar in her pocket, hiding it and muttering a spell to make the dollar smell like a skunk. Dima could sniff out money a mile away. Unknown to her mother, Medea did know some rudimentary magic that she had picked up here and there from watching Dima.
Her mother parted her hair in the center, tying it at her neck, giving her the façade of a short fashionable appearance, but her ponytail bounced against the back of her ankles. Several years ago, Dima decided that cutting her hair would decrease her power. Medea often lay in bed, thinking of taking a pair of scissors to her mother’s bedroom when she was sleeping.
An image suddenly came to Medea of stabbing Dima in the throat. She gasped and lowered her eyes. The last thing she needed was for Dima to read her thoughts. Her mother had the gift of reading bodily fluids. Medea quickly wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. Her mother was tall and slender whereas she was shorter and heavier. If only I had a shapeshifting stone, she thought and sneered at Dima. I would not waste the power on beauty and seducing powerful men. Instead, I would use the stone to become powerful. Medea clenched her fists under the table. The only thing she had in common with her mother was wanting more.
Dima looked odd tonight because she wore a black, rowboat-shaped hat with a dark veil covering her face, something she rarely did in darkened light such as the speakeasy had. Dima usually flaunted her beauty.
She held a hand to her head, complaining of a migraine.
Medea hid her smile, darting her eyes to the floor. If Dima saw the pride shining in Medea’s eyes, she might suspect the migraine was from her daughter. Medea had secretly mastered the magic of effigy making, the lump in her hem that represented her mother. She was not dumb like Dima thought, but watched, listened, and learned. She never boasted about her growing abilities. Beneath her bed, was a Russian doll with a face fashioned like the real Dima, old and wrinkled with white sparse hair and sagging breasts. Medea even made a little tiara and placed it on the doll’s head. It was pathetic that when Dima slept at home, she went to bed with a fake tiara on her head. In any case, Dima often complained of a stomach ache, unknowing that it was times like this that Medea stuffed the Russian doll with a smaller Russian doll. Ha, that is what you get for stuffing your face and bragging that you never gain any weight. Medea rubbed her arms which were a tiny bit chubby like her legs. Medea was not fat or plump, but Dima believed that beauty began with slenderness.
In Dima’s presence, Nick-Nick forgot about having a harsh word with her about Medea. A curtain draped across his face as soon as he looked at Dima, his eyes glazing. He drooled as if he could see through her dress to her nylons, garter, and skinny legs. “Oh, baby,” he said in a raspy voice. Dima’s love spell was a potent aphrodisiac. When he became an underboss of the Los Angeles Crime Family, she lost no time securing her own position of power and strengthening her spell before another witch usurped her, especially a warlock by the name of Napoleone D’Amore.
Dima leaned down, raining kisses on Nick-Nick’s face through her veil, leaving a trail of flaming-red lipstick, shaped like cupid’s bows, seeping through the material. A red boa fell sexily across her bony shoulder.
She leaned over to Medea, whispering nervously in her daughter’s ear, “Did you bring it?”
Medea held up a black bag, shaking it.
“My darling, I have business with Medea this evening,” she said, stroking his cheek.
He patted her hand. “Sure, bearcat. Whatever you say.”
Medea followed Dima towards the back, dragging her feet in sneakers.
“Come on, get a wiggle on. We haven’t got all night,” Dima said. Her veil was fashionable, but it made her look like a black widow with her spidery arms, legs, and bad posture. Normally, Dima walked straight and proud like a Russian princess but tonight, her back bent slightly when she walked and her shoulders slumped. She appeared defeated.
Oddly, she left a trail of pebbles which seemed to be dripping from her face. Her gloved hands swung flat at her sides.
The Eddie Cantor song faded when Dima slammed the bathroom door.
She locked the door and then ripped the veil from her face.
Yi! Small white pebbles dripped from her nose and dripped and dripped and... “What the hell happened?” Medea said.
“One of Napoleone D’Amore’s minions snuck into the speakeasy and switched my coffee. Damn that warlock! His spell, also, gave me a migraine.” She held her head, moaning.
“Yes, he must have given you a most powerful headache.” Medea cupped her mouth to keep from boasting that it was she who gave Dima a headache.
“Ha! And to think Napoleone’s last name means love. He hates me and is jealous because I control the mafia through Nick-Nick.”
Medea raised an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe not so much control but the mafia does business exclusively with me for…certain things.”
Medea fumed. It was she who mixed the poisons Dima sold to Nick-Nick, yet she got no credit for her role, nor did she receive any money from the sales.
Dima continued talking, unmindful of the anger simmering just beneath the surface of Medea’s skin. “Just because Napoleone is Italian, he thinks it is his right to help out the mafia from time to time with his services.”
Dima, as usual, exaggerated her influence. She was beautiful but so were a lot of women. She had Nick-Nick under her skirt with a love spell, which allowed her to skim off a pinch of cream from the speakeasy. Though she committed no murders herself for the mafia, she often supplied poisons and potions to the mafia for less messier jobs, such as quietly removing or influencing politicians or police who refused to cooperate with the mafia. For her help, the mafia paid Dima a hefty fee.
She should split the profits with me! Medea glared at her mother. Dima took credit for the concoctions yet it was Medea who created all of them. Her mother had a trunkful of magic, and a shapeshifting stone. All Medea had was her poisons and potions but even those Dima claimed for herself while Medea slaved as a maid. Earlier, Medea told Dima that she had lost her job in order to help her, hoping to gain favor in her mother’s eyes. Instead of being grateful, Dima informed her in a businesslike voice that the Ballerino Hotel in Chinatown was hiring.
Dima pounded her shoe so that she broke a heel, the noise bringing Medea back to the present. “The pebbles won’t stop dripping from my nose,” Dima screamed.
More pebbles dropped from her nostrils, bouncing on the floor, and scattering like marbles. She blew pebbles into a red handkerchief.
Dima clawed at Medea’s hand, grabbing the bag, and tearing it from her fingers. The bag flew in the air, spilling black powder.
“Be more careful,” she snarled, slapping Medea, but the slap was worth it. For the first time, Medea saw her mother as weak when she dropped to her knees, rubbing her nose in the powder, and sniffing like a dog.
Finally, the pebbles stopped falling from her nose. Dima sat on the toilet seat, poking her fingers in her nostrils, and pulling out a ten-inch chunk of sandy sinew.
“I heard that damn warlock Napoleone was vacationing at Pebble Beach. He put a spell on my nose! He may be the head of that testosterone coven, Brotherhood of the Castle, but I am a most powerful witch,” she said in a haughty voice. However, it was because of Napoleone, an Italian immigrant from Benevento, that Dima did not plant the magic walnut seed. She, also, used a different label on the homemade Strega. Instead of the name Strega, she nicknamed the liqueur Magic Brew.
Dima nicknamed Napoleone the Emperor of West Los Angeles because he practiced magic west of the Los Angeles River, while Dima performed witchcraft east of the river. West Los Angeles, which included the movie studios, was affluent and East Los Angeles was poor, so his pickings were richer.
Yet, he begrudges me the mafia, Dima thought. Just because he is from Italy, he thinks the mafia business should be his! Thank God, he does not know that the liqueur I brew is Strega since I steal the labels from the empties here at the Blind Rat. I name my homemade brew after whatever bottles customers are drinking at the speakeasy.
Nick-Nick and Jack Dragna, of course, did not know that Dima was running a competing illegal liquor business, though her door-to-door sales in Brooklyn Heights were small in comparison.
Dima wiped any trace of black anti-spell powder from her nose.
“Can I stay at the speakeasy, Dima, please?”
“For a little while,” she said, reluctantly.
Medea followed her mother back to Nick-Nick’s table.
“You’re the bee’s knees,” he said, kissing Dima.
She draped herself over a chair, straddling her legs over the back. She dressed very fashionable, like a lady, but Dima was never a lady.
Jack Dragna left the table to go to the men’s room. Medea picked up his cigar, shoved it between her lips and sucked.
Neither Dima or Nick-Nick noticed Medea smoking like a man. They were practically having sex at the table. Nick-Nick’s hand was under her skirt and Dima was moaning, shoving his head at her chest.
Dima jumped from the table and Nick-Nick followed behind her, stumbling as if he was drunk. There was a couch in the office and Dima walked in, with Nick-Nick close behind her. They slammed the door.
Jack Dragna came back to the table. He yanked the used cigar from Medea’s mouth. She lifted her hands in front of her face, expecting a beating. Instead, Dragna lit a fresh cigar and shoved the cigar between her lips.
She took a few puffs and he yanked the cigar from her mouth. “If you’re gonna smoke like a man do it properly,” he said and showed her how to smoke.
Medea leaned back in the chair, puffing on the cigar.
Dragna ordered her a drink.
Medea surprised him by tossing the drink back like a man with one swallow.
“Another,” he ordered the waiter.
Medea opened her eyes wide. Was the head of the Los Angles trying to get her into bed? Would he take her to the back alley and shove her against the wall? Jack Dragna was more powerful than Nick-Nick. If he became her lover, then she would have more power than Dima.
“Relax, Kid,” he told her. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was hoping to get you alone. I heard a rumor. Is it true that it’s you who really makes the potions?”
She looked over at the office where Dima and Nick-Nick were making love or having sex, or whatever was between those two. Dima had a big appetite. The couple would be awhile. Medea turned her head to Jack Dragna and locked her eyes with his. “Yes, I am the one who makes your poisons and your potions, always.” She lifted her chin with pride.
“Well, now isn’t that interesting, little girl.” Jack Dragna gave her a slow smile. He slid another drink over to her.
Medea swallowed the whiskey. She wiped her lips with her hand and took a deep puff of the cigar. She was a fast learner and smoked the cigar like a burly man. “I’m almost 15, Mr. Dragna. I may not be tall like Dima, but I’m not a little girl.”
He looked down at the cigar in the ash tray and the three empty shots of whiskey. “I can see that you’re all grown up. You can hold your liquor like a man.”
“Yes,” she said, “but don’t let my shirt and shoes fool you. I am a business woman like my sister. I no longer go to school but work.”
He took her hand in his and examined the broken fingernails and roughened skin. “Your sister’s hands are soft. I can see you work hard for your living.”
Medea snatched her hand from his. She did not care for his touch. His skin felt like her pet snake whose venom she sometimes milked. “Yes, the world is unfair for some of us,” she said.
