Sam Young, 1936

The guard paced down the halls of the Sing Sing Correctional Facility. He had seen it all in twenty years of guarding prisons – the real hard criminals of Leavenworth, the petty offenses in county jails, the casual white collar guys in the minimum security joints, the disturbed axe murderers in the asylums, he had even spent five years as an MP guarding military prisoners in the various American military forts across the world. He had seen them all – but he had never seen anyone anything close to Sam Young. Perhaps the strangest inmate he had ever seen – cool as a cucumber, severe as the grave, and – like everybody in prison – was innocent. What was oddest about Sam Young, though, was that in twenty years Sam Young was the first inmate he had ever believed. Not because she was particularly assertive – perhaps more because she was not. In twenty years of guarding prisons, he had learned that a prisoner, left alone with a guard, will speak of nothing but their innocence. Even walking down the row of cells on his way to Young prisoners catapulted themselves towards their bars and shouted “Hey buddy! I’m innocent!” Perhaps they somehow thought that the minimum wage guard could change the mind of the justice system.

The prisoners were especially rowdy today. This was why the guard did not like escorting guys in suits. Not because there was any danger – just the fact that an important looking guy in a suit causes quite a ruckus in a prison. Everyone believes in their soul of souls that it’s them he is coming to release. This guy was the kind of guy who liked to make himself look even more important than he was. After all, he was not even the prison warden – just an administrator. Still, he walked with the tie pulled down a little, sleeves rolled up – a clipboard in hand – nothing could make a guy look more important than he was then that ensemble. For some reason he had made Young a personal project of his since they had brought her in a year ago, and boy did he have it in for Young.

They finally made it to her cell. Typical Young – she was the only prisoner not begging at her cell door. The guard banged on the bars with his nightstick.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he shouted roughly.

Within Young sat in the corner on her ramshackle bed – legs up on the bed, arms crossed. She wore her uniform with the usual style and disdain – prisoner shirt unbuttoned over a sleeveless white undershirt; her pants far too large, were held up with suspenders, and that old Captain’s cap – that kind of crush cap those yacht captains, or maybe those fancy Army pilots wear, pulled low over her eyes. Tufts of red hair wafted out under her cap and out of the loose bun on the back of her neck.
“Is it someone I don’t want to see?” she asked coldly, flatly.
The guard looked at the man he had brought, then back at Young. He thought about a judicious response for a moment, but then shrugged and turned back to Young. “Yes ma’am,” he replied.

“Is it someone I really don’t want to see?” she further pressed, not shifting her position an inch.

The guard looked back at the suit, who waved at the cell door frustratedly.

“Yup.”

Young reached up to her head and slowly pushed it back over her forehead, revealing a narrow, youthful face, a long thin nose, and deep emerald eyes. “Mr. Jonah Bell,” she greeted coldly. “How are you?”

Young stared at Bell, Bell stared at Young. For a twenty year old young woman, Young was a surprisingly resolute and determined individual. Most twenty year old women the guard knew were barely starting their lives, not wrapping up time in a State Pen and staring down the prisoner administrator.

The guard opened up the cell, trying not to get in the way of that formidable stare down. He slid the door open and stood aside. Bell stepped in, and as quickly as possible the guard shut and locked it. Young had never tried an escape, but no one was quite sure what she was capable of, but something told them that with this inmate underestimation would be deadly – so they were extremely cautious.
Bell took three steps in and leaned against the wall. He finally diverted his eyes to the ground – Young continued to stare him down.

“Someone arranged for your release,” he said dejectedly.

Young raised an eyebrow, but otherwise did not react.

“A guy named Bozzelli, from Jersey. Any relation?”

“Never heard of him,” Young replied evenly.

Bell shook his head and toed the ground angrily. He was furious, obviously. The
guard just could not figure out why.

“You don’t know them at all?”

“Never heard of them,” Young replied.

Bell kicked something on the ground and turned away. The guard was worried for a moment that perhaps he would have to restrain Bell, not Young – but Bell regained his calm and continued, jaw clenched.

“No idea why they would pay your bail?”

“Not a clue,” Young replied calmly.

Bell turned again, straining to maintain control.

“Whatever will you do, Young – with your freedom?”

“Do you remember a conversation we had a year ago, when you put me in here?” she demanded. “I told you that when you put me in here for a year for something I did not do, without evidence and without cause, I warned you that you were opening up Pandora’s box.”

Bell nodded. “I remember that conversation. And I stand by what I said – you were raised in the gutter, lived in the gutter – you are as dirty as they come and if I could keep you here until you rot, I would do so with a smile on my face.”
Young snapped forward, leaning on her knees and looking at Bell accusatorily. “And I stand by what I said. You have no evidence against me but you needed a scapegoat, someone to take the fall for that shipment, regardless of the fact I was framed. You put me in here with circumstantial evidence and you have made it your goal in life to crucify me for the crimes of Mr. Edgar Wallace and I stand by what I said. I’ve lived a life by the book – and still you thought that that amateurishly executed crime was my work.” She laughed loudly and fully. Bell closed his eyes and rubbed his sockets tiredly. “Mr. Bell – let me show you my work.”
She stood up, shoved her hands into her pockets, and turned her attention the guard.
“I’m a free woman now?”

Bell nodded tiredly.

“Then let me out.”

The guard hesitated a moment, then opened the cell door and stood aside. Casually Young walked past Bell, towards the gates of freedom. As she passed, Bell snapped out and grabbed her upper arm, yanking her towards him.

“Any last words, Young,” he growled, “before I rip your heart out?”

Young smiled. “Try to keep up.” She tore her arm away from his grasp with surprising strength and smiling, passed him into the hall.

Bell looked after her, the guards leaving him to escort Young to the gates.
“That’s what I intend,” he muttered.

The guards took Young to a place where she could change into her clothes – a worn out, thin green buttoned shirt, thick cargo pants that were far too big and had to be held up with her same suspenders, a pair of neat surplus Army boots, a pair of aviator shades, a pocketknife, Zippo lighter, a switchblade, an ID tag necklace, and a lambskin leather jacket. They then took her to the front gates and left her. In front of her was a long gravel walkway between chain link fences topped with barbed wire. Guards looked down on her from watchtowers, and at the end of the pathway was a large black Cadillac, standing by it was a tall, deathly pale and thin man wearing a fedora and pinstriped suit. In the car she could see at least three other men.
Let me guess, Young thought. The Bozzelli’s. From New Jersey. How could I have guessed it would have been a family?

She approached cautiously, but confidently. She was curious why they had bailed her out, and suspicious – very suspicious. She analyzed him carefully, slipping on her aviator shades. She really had no idea what to look for in a suspected bad guy like this, but at least she knew to look for something. He had a bulge under his arm – she suspected that would be a pretty big pistol. Other than that, she could not tell much – he was shaved, his gaunt face was pockmarked with acne scars, and across his left eye ran a long, white scar. He held his hands in front of him professionally, both gloved in black. He looked like the kind of guy her mother had warned her to stay away from, but still, that did not prevent her from walking up to Pinstripe and presenting herself confidently.

They looked at one another a moment, awkwardly – each sizing up the other. Young kept her hands in her pockets and bent to either side, looking Pinstripe up and down.

“Arms to the sides, please,” he said. Young thought a moment, then complied. Pinstripe quickly and expertly padded her down. He reached into her pocket and drew the switchblade, pocketed it, then grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around to face the prison. Guards watched from the watchtowers, and Young could see her old cell through the barbed wire. She wondered if Bell was up there now, think just what she was thinking.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Pinstripe took maybe a minute to check her completely, and then stepped back from her, allowing her to turn and lower her arms. He opened the door, smiling grimly like a Ritzy chauffeur, and waved in.

“If you please, ma’am,” he said with a certain tone that made her wonder if she really wanted to enter the car. She looked back at the guards – they seemed to be making sure not to look at her now. She took a deep breath, and slide in.
Within were three other men – similarly in dress and general appearance to Pinstripe, who came in after her. Two were up front – the driver, a rotund, middle aged man with a shaven completely shaven head, and a guy with a Tommy gun riding shotgun who looked like he was perhaps twelve. Next to her, in the far left just behind the driver, was a large older man who rather resembled an enormous toad in a pinstriped suit and fedora. His mouth was like a ghastly fed slash across fold of pink flesh. His eyes were almost swollen shut by his flabby cheeks, and his hands, crossed about his belly, could barely reach one another.

“Good afternoon, Captain Young,” he said, sticking out his hand.

Cautiously, Young took it. It felt like she had accepted a ball of clay as she squeezed his hand.

“We’ve heard an awful lot about you, Young,” the Toad said as the car pulled out of the prison and hit the road.

“Funny,” Young replied. “I lived in either New York or New Jersey for close to twelve years off and on, and I’ve never heard of you.”
The wording was veiled, but the meaning was obvious. Bozzelli was not one of the main families.

“We’re what you might call,” the Toad waved his hands dramatically, “behind the scenes people.”

“In our line of work,” the kid with the shotgun said, “that ain’t necessarily a bad thing, y’know what I mean?”

The Toad lashed out in strict Italian, waving at the young man. He then turned back to Young.

“You must forgive my rudeness. I am Agatipo Bozzelli. That is my son, Francis.” Shotgun nodded and winked at her. She glared back emotionlessly.

“My driver is my most trusted friend, Stephen Basso,” the driver turned from the road for only a moment to nod severely. “And my protector,” Bozzelli said this was particular emphasis – Young substituted protector with bodyguard and the sentence all the sudden made sense, “Paulo Cicatrice.”

Pinstripe smiled eerily as he examined Young’s switchblade.

“Sam Young,” she said to those gathered, waving her hand casually. They nodded at her, then looked at each other. “Thanks for posting my bail,” she said, breaking the awkward silence. “And I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I have to ask why?”

Bozzelli Senior paused a moment, looking at her appraisingly. Young wondered if somehow she had asked the wrong question – but why merely asking why the Jersey Mafia would pay for little old Sam Young’s release would be inappropriate was beyond her.

“Let me tell you a story, Captain,” Bozzelli said. “A story I am sure you will appreciate. You have a very fine collection of something, let’s say artwork. Now the way you have gotten this collection is nobody’s business,”
Young interpreted – I stole my collection from someone else.

“Now a man, a handsome man, comes to you and offers to get some more for you through the same means you got the rest of them, kapesh?”

Young nodded. “Now the man instead betrays you – takes your money, steals your collection, and runs away. You have no recourse – you cannot visit the authorities, it is not their business. You cannot find him – it is his business not to be found.”
“It’s a sad tale,” Young said, still not entirely following Bozzelli.
“And the reason you bailed you. You see, this fine young handsome man is a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

Suddenly Young’s body flooded with hate. Her fists balled, her jaw tightened – she knew this man.

“Funny,” Young said. “I’ve got another story for you if you care for such things. This man puts the stolen paintings on someone else’s plane for transport. He tells her it’s oranges headed from Florida to New York – an easy job. He befriends her, teaches her, regales her with stories of flying and heroism – all the things she loves. He maybe even seduces her. Convinces her that it is love, convinces her that maybe he is the one for her. She trusts him, opens up, lets down her guard. Then when she wakes up the next morning instead of finding him next to her it’s the cops. They opened the oranges – the oranges she had been too trusting to check – and found what was within. He’s gone and without anyone else to ping for the crime they put her away for a year.” She nodded, leaning back in her seat. “Yes, I’ve heard that story.”

“But you haven’t ended it yet,” Bozzelli goaded. “What did she do? Did she roll over, let the feds have their way, let him have his way? Did she allow herself to be used and abused by the system?”

Young shook her head. “She came out with a hardened heart, lesson learned. Trust no one – not even the law.”

Bozzelli nodded happily. “It’s good we can come to an agreement. We have been hurt by Edgar Wallace. You have, I have. We have a plan to take him down. Are you in?”
Young looked at the floor of the car a moment, a smile creeping onto her lips, shaking her head.

“I’m in.”

“In two days Wallace is taking a painting from a private collector in Munich. He’s stealing it for the Family in New York. You steal it first, he can’t deliver, see what I mean?”

Young nodded.

“Second, he’s going to Canada in five days to steal another painting, same Family – same job. You do the same there – he can’t deliver again. Kapesh?”

Young nodded.

“And here is the real brilliant part – the portion of the program I really enjoy.” Basso started chuckling. “Shut up. The Family has him stealing all this for a big art auction they are having in one week. The bidders – all going to be family, see? You steal paintings from the auction, peg it on him – and he’s in for a fate worse than death if you catch my meaning.”

All four of them chuckled darkly at that. Young enjoyed the mental image of Wallace in concrete shoes.

“So you still in? You ready for your vengeance?”

Young raised a finger in question. “Just one thing – why me?”

“Our plot involves wrecking Wallace’s reputation, but in doing so we will be indirectly negatively affecting other members of the family, vis-à-vis, preventing them from getting their goods.” Bozzelli looked at her in mock innocence and raised a hand in Boy Scout pledge. “This would be dishonest. We are not dishonest.”
Young nodded. “So you realize that I have never done anything like this before?”

They nodded, seemingly unfazed by this reality.

“That I have no skills or experience in this?”

“Young,” Cicatrice said gruffly, “you are a woman scorned. Ain’t nothing more useful than one o’ them.”

Young leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees. “Can you get me to Newark Airport?”

Bozzelli smiled, and then thumped Basso’s seat and said something to him in Italian.
Young watched as Sing Sing Prison disappeared behind them. She could see Bell’s sneering face, the face that had welcomed her to Sing Sing a year ago, the face that had accused her of crimes she did not commit – the beady eyes that laughed at her, the mouth that had spewed the lies that put her in prison. She smiled back at the prison, praying he could see her, or at least sense her broad smile, promising the
crimes to come.