Tasting the Apple

by Sherilyn Decter

  My, but he’s full of himself, isn’t he? I wonder how Joe manages to work with him. It’s all ‘I’, ‘I’, ‘I’.

  Captain Beckman steps up and explains the duties and responsibilities of the teams. Each of the police partners has been given the coordinates of the territory his team will be working. There are a few questions, and then it is time for the fitting.

  Maggie, Joe and the other participants head to the racks. Maggie slips off her woolen coat and stows it. Joe eyes the contraptions, eventually selecting one of the smaller, lighter models. Maggie slips the leather harness over her head. Hanging down from padded shoulder straps are two bands fitted with pouches and loops. Into this contraption, Joe adds some metal flasks and a tin cup to either side. The weight of it isn’t too bad. Joe makes her walk back and forth, then he adjusts a shoulder strap so it sits better on her smaller frame.

  There’s a bit of joking in the room as the others are similarly outfitted but, generally, there’s a business-like mood. It reminds Maggie of soldiers preparing for battle. Maggie has butterflies in her stomach as the excitement builds. She focuses closely on what Joe is doing.

  He holds an overcoat for her to slip on. It’s the smallest of the lot. Sewn on the inside are pockets for more metal flasks. Inside the front pocket is a leather billfold, with a few bills already inside. And there’s a coin purse in the other: her float for the evening. It suddenly hits home to Maggie that she’s actually going to be selling liquor. She’s been thinking about the entrapment part of the operation, a noble effort. Now she’s confronted with the tawdry reality of how they’ll be accomplishing their goal. Tonight she’s peddling booze.

  A police officer enters and announces that the trucks are ready to go. Maggie follows Joe, who seems to know which truck they should climb into. A man holds the canvas flap open and offers her a hand to climb in the back. It’s a bit awkward, with her now loaded harness clanking and weighing her down. She moves along and sits on the narrow bench that runs along the inside, facing others opposite. There’s a look of grim determination on their faces. Joe has explained that no one will be introduced or identified. They are all anonymous civilian operatives, a small school of minnows swimming in dangerous waters.

  The truck rattles along the streets. When it stops, a cop sitting at the end of the bench flips back the flap, and a pair of operatives jump out. When they get to Joe and Maggie’s corner, Joe goes first so he can help Maggie down. As her feet touch the pavement, she looks up at Joe. While her eyes sparkle with excitement, she sees that Joe’s are burdened with his work and the added concern of having her involved.

  Maggie checks their corner as Joe is handed a wooden box of bottles. Her extra inventory. It’s a main street in the other end of town, well away from her Northern Liberties neighborhood. Lights shine from the windows of apartments above the closed shops. A few people are out on the street; busy enough to be profitable, but not so busy to be noticeable when she fills a tin cup.

  “Excited?” Joe asks.

  “Nervous.” Maggie nods.

  “Perfectly natural. Look, I’m going to stash this box in the doorway over there, and that’s where I’ll be waiting. I can see up and down the street easily, and will always be watching. So don’t worry.” He pats her on the arm, causing her flasks to rattle. Maggie gives a nervous laugh.

  “We swept the street earlier for competition so, for tonight and any night we’re working here, you’ll be the only game in town. Now, you understand what you’re going to be doing, right? And you remember the signal: two fingers pointed down, like a baseball umpire.” Joe demonstrates.

  “All right then, I’ll be right over there.” Maggie nods and gives him a tremulous smile. He moves to his spot, settles himself on the crate, and pulls his collar up and his cap down. He dangles an empty bottle near his foot; a man that’s already had too much.

  She turns and strolls up and down the sidewalk. Her heart speeds every time a pedestrian approaches. She gives them her best ‘buy my booze’ smile, but they merely nod and walk past. Maybe I should be more direct?

  Her next opportunity comes when she spies two men walking toward her. Working men.

  “Hey there, fellas. You look thirsty. Care for a nip?”

  They exchange looks. “Sure, doll. How much?”

  “Two bits a cup. Whiskey and gin.”

  She keeps in mind Joe’s suggestion that she collect the money first, pocketing their two quarters into the change purse. Her hands shake as she pours out a tin cup of whiskey for one of the men.

  “So, you’re new here, doll. At least, I don’t think I’ve seen you before. What happened to Pete? The guy who usually works this corner.”

  “Oh, the police picked him up earlier. I was told to come down here to fill in the blank until he gets sprung.”

  She refills the now empty cup and passes it to the other fella.

  “We should be okay if the police have already been past. Drink up, Alfie. My old lady has supper waiting.”

  Alfie finishes the cup that Maggie has poured for him, then returns it. She shakes out the last drop and gives it a wipe with a rag. She doesn’t want any drips running down her leg when the cup is hanging from the strap. She’ll go home smelling like a still.

  “Thanks, sweetheart. It was a pleasure,” Alfie’s friend says, tugging at the brim of his cloth cap.

  My first customers. She desperately wants to turn and wave to Joe, to give him a thumbs-up signal, but knows that she shouldn’t acknowledge him.

  It’s slow at first. Walking back and forth gives Maggie plenty of time to think about her quarry; the crooked cop that will eventually try and shake her down. She feels some sympathy, knowing how poorly police are paid. She can also relate to what it’s like to be surrounded by others who are living well. Envy is like a worm crawling under the skin. Maggie shudders. Some things have to be more important than money. Like integrity. And honesty. But when a person is surrounded, every day, by corruption and temptation, it takes a strong person to say no, and accept the paltry pay packet instead.

  The slow night picks up as it gets later. Maggie refills her flasks a few times. Her shoulders ache. Her feet are sore. No sign of a crooked cop.

  Around 11:30, Joe ambles over. “I think we should call it a night, Maggie. What do you think? The truck will be by shortly.”

  “Well, I think I had a good sales night. Nothing to compare it to, of course. But I’m disappointed we didn’t catch anyone.”

  “Not to worry. We’ll try again tomorrow.” A slow, grinding engine comes into hearing range. “Sounds like our ride,” says Joe.

  The truck stops, and Joe tosses his much emptier box into the truck, then he boosts Maggie inside. She copies the others, slumping against the canvas side and closing her eyes. Gosh, this is hard work. I’ll soak my feet in a pan of warm water when I get home.

  Back at the church basement, Maggie sheds her equipment. She rolls her shoulders, working out the kinks. There’s a bit of chatter in the room. Some operatives compare notes. One dirty cop picked up, but a pretty quiet night all round. On her way out the door with Joe, she stops at a table where a policeman hands out small brown envelopes.

  Maggie unwinds the string wrapped around two cardboard discs on the back of the envelope. Inside is her pay for the evening. Not much. Surprisingly little, actually. Police are seriously underpaid in this city. Oh well. Regardless, it will help with the mortgage payment. And it was interesting selling booze on the corner. It’s just too bad I didn’t flush out a cop on the take. Ah well, maybe the fishing will be better tomorrow night for us minnows.

  Chapter 20

  T he sound of the clock on the mantle is like a drip from a tap. Regular. Annoying. Distracting. Maggie’s added the columns in front of her three times. The bottom line is always the same. She grips the pencil tightly, and does the math one more time. But the numbers do not lie. I’m going to miss the very first payment. The first one. That darn bank manager was right, I can’t afford this
. Where did the money go? Maggie stares at the traitorous numbers that refuse to change. Maybe I should go back to the bank and talk to McKim? Maybe I could make a partial payment? Is it possible he’d renegotiate the loan? Or does he want my house?

  “Troubles, my dear?” Frank asks, sitting in his chair in the living room.

  “Oh, Inspector. These numbers are not cooperating. I don’t know what to do.” And the washing machine? That wasn’t the best decision. What was I thinking? Did I really need to buy one? Sure it saves time and effort, and with three extra men in the house it gets a lot of use. Okay, it was definitely needed.

  Frank peers over her shoulder. “Oh, my. You have more expenses this month than revenue.”

  “That part I’ve figured out. What I can’t figure out is how to reduce expenses. And Tommy will be off school for the summer in a few days, which means more groceries. I can’t keep him out of the fridge. Look here,” she says, sliding another paper toward him. “Next month’s budget is just as bad, even with the increase in rent.”

  “I thought you were getting paid for helping Joe out with his sting operation?”

  “I am, but it’s not very much. And it isn’t regular. Just when they call me. You have no idea how poorly police are paid.” Maggie catches Frank’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, I guess you do. Anyway, I don’t know how Joe manages, even on a sergeant’s salary. No wonder cops are so easy to bribe.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that it isn’t going to help. You’re in a jam, Maggie. Any ideas?”

  Maggie gathers the papers in a neat pile on the dining room table. She heads to the kitchen. “The best idea I can come up with is to have a cup of coffee, Inspector. I’ll be right back.”

  Maggie is close to tears and wants to be alone. She’s not usually a violent person, but she’d really like to slam the door or kick the stove. To be caught short. So soon. She’s supposed to have better business smarts than this. Putting a mortgage on the house was a bad idea. If she could get the numbers to work going forward, she’d find a way to get through this month. But with it being an ongoing monthly shortfall, she’s trapped.

  There’s a pattern here: one moment of weakness, a bit of impulsiveness. Jack. This house. That stupid washing machine. It’s just not fair. She wipes her eyes on her apron. Shape up. What’s done is done; now to figure out how to fix it. She carries a cup of coffee through to the living room.

  Frank frowns when he sees how upset she is.

  “All right, my dear. Walk me through the options, because I know you have thought of a few.”

  Glancing at the list she’d picked up from the pile of papers on the dining room table, Maggie takes a deep breath. I’ve been here before. I can deal with this. I have to, for Tommy’s sake if nothing else.

  “Number one. Borrow money from my father.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you. It’s been what, seven years since you spoke to him? Is that actually an option?”

  “It has to be. He has the money. Even though it would kill me, accepting money from the man responsible for Jack’s death. And he’d love to be able to hold it over me. It would give him control, and he could say ‘I told you so’.” Maggie shakes her head. “Maybe you’re right. I put it on the list, but I don’t think I could give him that victory.” She scratches it off the list.

  “All right. What else have you got on your list?”

  “Number two. Sell the house,” says Maggie.

  “That doesn’t sound like a legitimate option.”

  “It’s either the bank or me. It’s now a giant anchor around my neck, dragging me down. I could sell it, find a new place, and start again. I’d take my lodgers with me, of course.”

  “Maggie, I know you. You’ll not lightly consider selling the house that you and Jack bought, that Tommy grew up in. Surely it’s not as bad as all that? It might be a bit premature to consider selling. It’s only been a month. What else have you got?”

  “Precious little. I suppose there’s a number three and I take in one more lodger. That would mean sleeping on the couch or in Tommy’s room.”

  “And is that seriously an option?”

  “It could work. It’s not ideal, but it could work.”

  “Perhaps for a short time, but this loan will be for many years. Didn’t you say five years? Tommy would be, what, fourteen? Could you really share a room with him for that long?”

  “I’m leaving it on my list,” Maggie says. “I like the idea better than talking to Father about a loan.”

  Frank holds up his hands in surrender. “Surely you can think of other options?”

  “Number four. I find a job.”

  Frank shakes his head.

  “You’re not being particularly helpful, Inspector. I need you to support my ideas, not knock them down. I’ve thought about it, and maybe it’s time I went to work. Other women manage. Tommy is older now. I could get everything done before I leave in the morning, and he could get supper started before I get home. I know I could get a sales clerk’s job. Or something like Fanny has, in an office.”

  “These all seem extreme to me, Maggie. I wish I could help you.”

  “Darn. Does that mean you’ve no hidden pot of gold buried in the backyard I could dig up? I’ll need to take that off my list,” Maggie says.

  “Alas, no. No pot of gold or hidden treasure, my dear. When do you need to decide by?”

  “I can’t go back to the bank and talk to Mr. McKim. It would be humiliating, admitting he was right. If I concede that I won’t make this month’s payment, I guess I’ll have a month. A month to figure out what to do, to decide between lots of bad options.”

  “Well, if you do decide to sell the house, at least it has a solid roof,” offers Frank.

  Chapter 21

  C offee cup in hand, stains already on his sleeves and pants, Captain Ralph Copeland makes his rounds, stopping by various desks to touch base with the officers. He is careful to make sure no one can tell how rattled he is. There was another memo this morning at the Precinct about the latest dereliction-of-duty suspensions. Colonel Butler’s breath is on the back of his neck. Ralph knows that it’s only a matter of time before they come for him. Nope, best to get out while the going’s good. He has an exit strategy, and it’s time to put it into action.

  Later at the Ritz, Ralph Copeland stares at the closed elevator door, feeling the floor shudder slightly as it begins to climb. He’s decided to talk to Mickey Duffy about a spot in Mickey’s organization. He’s going to need a soft landing someplace. On Mickey’s payroll for years, it’s time for the inside man to come out.

  The Ritz. He’d like to work in a swank place like this. Better than that dump of a Police Station. He’d get to wear those fancy zoot suits and he’d pick up a pair of two-tone brogues. He’d toss the police uniform that he had been trapped in for forty years, and those butt-ugly duty boots, into the river. Maybe he’d also pick up a swank felt fedora. He’d wear it with the brim pulled low over his eyes, mysterious-like. Being part of Mickey’s crew wouldn’t be so bad. At least he’d be good at it. And he wouldn’t need to look over his shoulder all the time. The honesty of being a bootlegger would be a welcome change, a relief from the double life of a crooked cop, especially when your superior officer is Colonel Smedley Butler.

  The elevator doors slide open. It’s easy to see where he’s headed, with the two men outside of a hotel room door. They stand when they see his police uniform, but relax when they see who it is. “Hey, Ralph. Here to see Mickey?”

  “Hey, gents. Yeah, I need to talk to him.”

  “He expecting you?”

  “A spur of the moment thing. He in?”

  Gus nods and slips inside. Fingers waits, loosely cradling the tommy gun that’s always in his arms.

  “Sure, Ralph. Come on in,” Gus says, holding the door open.

  Ralph steps into the Presidential Suite, imagining coming to work here every day. He tugs at the bottom of his uniform jacket, pulling in into place. Mickey and his acco
untant have their heads bent over some papers on the table. Henry Mercer’s relaxed on the couch with two guys from the crew, shooting the breeze over the latest box scores. In the corner, a couple of skirts buff their nails. Yeah, he could be part of this.

  Mickey looks up. “Copeland.”

  “Hi Mickey, can we talk? Somewheres private?”

  Mickey looks around the room. “I’m kinda in the middle of something here. What’s on your mind?”

  Ralph shifts his weight from one foot to the other. With the numbers guy sitting at the table, he can’t pull up a chair.

  “So, that information I gave you about the raids all worked out? I hear Butler was mad as hell.”