Prohibition

Chapter 32

"What do you know about the Hell Hounds?"

"What?" Walter looked up as Raymond entered his office.

"What do you know about the Hell Hounds?" Raymond repeated.

Walter's eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously. "How do you know about the Hell Hounds?"

"They've been burning down boathouses belonging to syndicate members," Raymond said, sitting down in front of Walter's desk. "My friend is in the hospital because of them."

Walter shifted in his seat. "My condolences."

"Thanks, but shouldn't we be worried about this?" Raymond asked. "A few days ago, I spoke to someone about the Hell Hounds. She warned me that they were a dangerous force, not to be messed with. She told me that my life would be forfeit if they ever found out what I knew about them. And, judging by the boathouse burnings, they seem to have a vendetta against the syndicate. Do you know anything about this?"

Walter smiled. "Your informer highly exaggerated what she told you," he said. "Perhaps to those living in the poorer areas of the city, they seem a formidable force. To us, however, they are almost harmless."

"Really?" Raymond arched his eyebrows. "So harmless that they burn down two of the syndicate's boathouses, hospitalize my friend, and force two other bootleggers to leave town—all in the space of a few weeks?"

"That's only three people affected," Walter replied. "Practically nothing. Given that your friend was involved in all this, I know you're inclined to react emotionally. But these attacks—if they can even be called that—may actually be a good thing."

"How?" Raymond demanded.

Walter shrugged slightly. "It may force the syndicate leader's hand; get him to reveal himself, somehow."

"If those attacks are really as insignificant as you think they are, then why would they trouble the syndicate leader?" Raymond asked. "They're not hurting him, just a few insignificant men—men who happen to be my friends." His voice growing harder, he said, "I think we should do something about it."

"No." Walter shook his head. "Absolutely not. We don't have the time—or the resources—to deal with something like this. We need—you need—to be focused on our real enemy: the syndicate."

"I am focusing on the syndicate," Raymond snapped. "But I don't see why we can't do something about the Hell Hounds too."

"Really? You're focusing on the syndicate?" Walter leaned forward, his sharp gaze boring into Raymond. "Tell me, what exactly have you accomplished? What do we know about the syndicate that we didn't know several months ago?"

Raymond swallowed hard. "We know the Hell Hounds...dislike the syndicate for some reason?" he offered.

"Will you stop with the goddamn Hell Hounds!" Walter exploded. "You have accomplished nothing, Raymond. Nothing! What are you doing?"

"You think this is easy?" Raymond snapped back. "You think I'm not trying?"

"No. I don't." Walter's voice was cold. "If you can't give me something, I'm going to replace you."

Raymond scoffed, tilting his chair back so it balanced on two legs. "You can't afford to do that."

"Actually, I can." Walter's eyes were hard and sharp as chips of slate. "Agent Riley has just finished his last assignment and has offered to take over yours. Given that you don't appear to be doing anything, I'm inclined to let him."

"I bet you are," Raymond ground out through gritted teeth. He had looked forward to being rid of Walter's golden boy for a foreseeably long while, as Walter had assigned him to break up a smuggling ring in New Jersey about the same time he had put Raymond on the syndicate case. But, apparently, he was already back, after only a few short months, no doubt as supercilious and ingratiating as ever. And now Walter wanted to give the assignment—Raymond's assignment—to him!