I was hoping her instincts about the sheik were off. Because I wanted to see him again.
I wanted to do more than that.
The boathouse was a bootlegger’s dream. Sitting right at the edge of Lake St. Clair, it was accessible only by a bumpy dirt path off Jefferson Avenue that was so overgrown it was nearly invisible. Daddy hadn’t arrived yet, so after parking beneath a huge weeping willow, I wandered onto the dock. A light breeze ruffled my hair as I looked across the water to Canada, its tree line clearly visible on the opposite shore. The lake appeared unusually calm. We should have made a run this afternoon. I glanced at our motorboat bobbing in the water before turning toward the boathouse door. It was partway open, the rusty padlock unlatched and dangling.
Confused, I looked around, but mine was the only car in sight. Daddy must have taken a streetcar then, I thought, stepping inside. Despite the hot day, the interior of the boathouse was shadowy and dank, empty but for the sacks of whisky and crates of scotch at the back. I was heading for them when I heard footsteps behind me.
“I made the deliveries,” I said, picking up a burlap sack of Canadian Club by its bunny ears. “Mrs. Koehler was a little short.”
“I’m not sure you should be calling anyone short.”
I spun around as someone stepped out from the shadows into a narrow beam of sunlight slanting through a high window.
My breath hitched. “How did you get in here?”
The sheik smiled, hands in his pockets. “I have a talent for lock and key.”
“How did you find this place?”
“I followed you.”
The gooseflesh returned. Is Bridget right about him? “Why?”
“I was curious.” He walked toward me, slowly. His coat was unbuttoned. “And I wanted to see you again.”
I glanced at the open door. “You shouldn’t be here. If it’s whisky you want, I’ll bring it to you.”
He took the sack from my hands and set it on the floor. “What if I want something besides whisky?” His dark eyes were beautiful, but it was his mouth that fascinated me. My breath came faster as I stared at the sharp peaks of his upper lip.
“Such as?”
He tipped up my chin, but went no further, his mouth so close I could feel his breath. His slow smile sent my pulse skittering out of control.
I was done waiting for it. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to mine.
His arms snaked around my back, the heat of his body enveloping me. When he opened his mouth, I did the same, and my entire body hummed like a swarm of bees was under my skin. I’m kissing the sheik! I don’t even know his name! Daddy could walk in here any second! Damn, he smells good—like aftershave and tobacco. My breasts tingled and I rose up on tiptoe, trying to press closer. Wishing his skin was bare, I ran my hands down his vest and twined my arms around his taut waist. My fingers hit a hard object, and I froze.
He has a gun.
I pulled my hands back as if they had been burned. “We have to stop,” I said against his mouth.
He lifted his head and loosened his grip a little. “Why’s that?”
My blood was pumping way too fast, shock and desire battling inside my veins. Because you’ve got a gun in your trousers. “Because…my father is going to be here any minute.” I put my hands on his chest and pushed him away. Some instinct told me not to acknowledge the weapon. Willing my heart rate to return to normal, I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “What’s your name, anyway?”
He began buttoning his coat. “Enzo DiFiore.”
“I’d tell you mine, but you already know it.”
He smiled as he adjusted his cuffs, and I twisted my hands together to keep from launching myself at him and tearing the clothes from his body.
“Well, Mr. DiFiore, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I really have to ask you to leave now. My father will not take kindly to a stranger alone in the boathouse with me. Or his liquor.” I turned around to pick up the whisky sack, and by the time I straightened and faced him again, he was gone.
I moved to the doorway and looked out. Nobody. The air was hot and still and silent. What the hell?
Dazed, I walked from the boathouse to my car, opened the trunk and placed the sack inside it. Staring at the burlap, I brought my hands to my face, my belly tightening at the memory of the sheik’s mouth on mine. Enzo DiFiore. I thought about his arms around me, the commanding way he’d slanted his open mouth over mine, and the contraction moved lower in my body. Bridget had joked about spilling the details of my next kiss, but I could never tell her about this.
I wandered back into the boathouse, but instead of grabbing another sack, I plunked down on a crate of scotch and stared in disbelief at the pool of sunlight where we’d stood.
“Enzo DiFiore,” I whispered. Who was he? All I knew about him was his name. And that he’s a good kisser with a talent for lock and key. A laugh bubbled up in me. After all, if he’d wanted to steal from us, or harm me in some way, he could have done it. But all he’d done was follow me. Watch me. Kiss me.
My insides trembled with excitement. Would he seek me out again? At the sound of a car sputtering to a stop outside, I stood and smoothed my clothing. My rosy spirits withered when I saw Joey unloading the whisky I’d just put into the trunk. “Why are you doing that?” I snapped, marching toward him.
“Because this is the biggest space you have and we need it for the crates. The sacks should go under the back seat.”
He was right, which annoyed me. I yanked the whisky from his arms.
“Got your mind on something else?” Joey opened the back door and lifted the seat.
“Like what?” I shouldered him aside and dropped the sack in.
“You tell me. I saw you talking to a guy in the alley earlier. Who was it?”
I turned on him, hands on my hips. “None of your beeswax.”
He smiled at getting a rise out of me, his brown eyes lighting up. “Come on, Tiny, a guy like that, in a suit that fancy?” He looked me up and down. “You’re not his type.”
I lunged for him, giving him a hard shove with both hands on the chest. Joey wasn’t tall but he was solid, so I was surprised when he went over backward. Since I’d thrown all my weight into the push, I went over too and we landed in a heap of tangled limbs on the dirt. To my chagrin, my body betrayed me by tingling at the feel of our torsos pressed together. For one awkward moment, we paused, our faces inches apart.
“Kiss me, you fool,” he said, but then he burst out laughing.
“Go to hell.” I rolled off him and stood, brushing the dust off my skirt.
Joey popped up on his feet, still chuckling. “Good hit. Caught me off guard.”
“Did I hurt you?” I asked hopefully.
“With what—a pebble to the backside?” He readjusted his floppy cap.
I was tempted to keep sparring with him since I was so worked up, but just then Daddy arrived. We got to work emptying the boathouse into our cars, and then drove back to the garage, where we unloaded the booze into the hidden rooms in the basement. No one spoke more than one-word commands or responses, and Daddy looked over his shoulder more than usual. Not that I blamed him—the events of this afternoon had me on edge too.
By the time we were through, I was sticky and tired and my left hip ached. While Daddy went over the day’s take in the office, I sat on the stained cement floor and watched Joey bring in the last of the booze. His black pants hugged his butt as he moved, and a surprising little flutter swept through my belly. He set the whisky down and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. It left a trail of dirt smudged against his olive skin, but I had to admit he’d gotten better looking in the last couple years, sort of grown into his strong nose and wide mouth.
He caught me staring. “See something you like?”
I made a disgusted noise at the back of my throat, as if he hadn’t just read my mind. “No.”
“Joe,” called Daddy. “Come i
n here a minute.” When Joey stepped into the office, I hopped to my feet, counted to five and followed, stopping just out of sight of the open door.
“Just keep your ears open,” Daddy was saying. “And let me know what you hear.”
About what? I wondered. Did this have anything to do with the letter from Enzo?
Daddy dropped his voice. “And keep an eye on Tiny, too. She needs it.”
Like hell I do. Especially that eye.
Joey came out of the office, giving me a slug on the shoulder as he headed for the back door. “See you around, Little Tomato.”
I ignored him. “Daddy,” I said loudly, drawing him out of the office. “What’s going on?”
He was still shuffling through the stack of bills and didn’t meet my eye. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“What was in that letter? The one I gave you earlier.”
He didn’t even lift his head. “Nothing to worry about.”
He was lying, but Daddy was stubborn as a one-eyed mule. If he didn’t want me to know what was going on, I wasn’t going to get it out of him. Maybe I could snoop around for the letter tomorrow. “I guess I’ll walk home then, see what the girls have cooked up.”
“A heap of trouble, no doubt.” He flashed a quick smile in my direction, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
#
Later that night—after making supper, washing the dishes, breaking up a fight between my sisters over whose turn it was to dry them, running the carpet sweeper, and putting out the trash—I took a cool bath, put on my nightgown, and flopped facedown onto my bed. Our home wasn’t large by any means, but keeping it clean and running smoothly was exhausting, not to mention keeping two younger sisters fed, clothed, and out of trouble. Daddy did what he could, willing to cook the occasional pot of soup or scrub the tub from time to time, but as the oldest daughter at home, I had the most responsibility. Sometimes the weight of it all threatened to drag me under.
It was probably crazy to attempt nursing school too, but my mother had always talked about how she’d have liked to be a nurse if only she’d had the opportunity. She was a poor Irish girl who grew up on a farm—she hadn’t even finished the eighth grade, let alone high school. I felt closer to her, knowing that I was fulfilling a dream she’d had for herself. Plus, a nursing degree would allow me to get a good job and make my own money. My first plan was to get an apartment, but after that I wanted to go places, and I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else to take me.
From my nightstand, I picked up a dog-eared Photoplay magazine. I’d already finished reading it, but I loved looking at the advertisements boasting of grand hotels, luxury rail lines, and exotic locales. Too hot for covers, I flipped to my back and lay atop the sheet, thumbing through the tattered pages, grateful for a moment of peace.
“Tiny!” Mary Grace burst into my room without knocking. “Molly’s going to Electric Park tomorrow, but she says I can’t go along. Tell her she has to take me too!”
Sighing, I tossed the magazine back onto the nightstand and braced for an argument.
“I won’t take her,” said Molly from the doorway, arms crossed. “Last time she embarrassed me terribly by telling my friends I wet the bed until I was eight.”
“Well, you did,” insisted Mary Grace. “I can’t help it if that’s the truth.” She looked at me and pouted. “She just doesn’t want me there because boys are coming.”
“You be quiet,” snapped Molly, leaning in to slap Mary Grace on the shoulder.
“Girls.” I got off the bed to separate them. “It’s late, and I’m tired. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Now go to bed before I find some chore that needs to be done yet tonight.”
“But she—”
“OUT!” I shoved them both through the door and shut it behind them. Half-expecting them to bang on it again, I waited a moment before switching off the light and crawling under the covers.
Certain they were scared off by the threat of more housework, I closed my eyes. Enzo’s face appeared. Breathing deeply, I replayed the scene in the boathouse in my head. When I got to the part where he first touched me, I slowed down to savor every delicious morsel—his fingers under my chin, his smoky breath, his lips on mine, our chests pressed together. Even the memory of discovering the gun gave me a peculiar kick that radiated from my stomach throughout my limbs.
Like the buzz from a cocktail mixed with equal parts fear and fascination.
#
Several hours later, the ringing telephone jarred me awake. I stumbled down the stairs and into the darkened hallway to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Tiny,” a male voice rasped. I thought it might be Daddy, but he’d spoken so softly I couldn’t tell for sure.
“Daddy? I can’t hear you. Hello?”
“The garage,” said a smooth new voice. “Come alone. And bring the money or he’s dead.”
“Who is this?” The phone went dead before I could get an answer, and my stomach turned over. Trembling, I set the receiver back on the switch hook. What money? Or who’s dead—Daddy? Racing up the steps up two at a time, I opened his bedroom door. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated an empty bed. I dashed back into my room to dress without turning on any lights. The first outfit I got my hands on was the red blouse and black skirt I’d worn today, which I threw on over my chemise while questions pummeled my brain. Who was that? Should I really go alone? Should I call the police? Is this about a gambling debt? Does it have something to do with the letter?
Damn it, Daddy! What have you done?
I didn’t have any money at the house, and my tip envelope was at Bridget’s. The last thing I wanted to do was to alarm her or put the kids in danger—I’d have to see who it was and find out what they wanted first. If I ignored the instructions and involved the police, I might put Daddy in more danger than he was already in.
I shoved my bare feet into shoes and moved quietly down the stairs. As I let myself out the front door into the warm night, I tried to place the voice I’d heard. Daddy’s usual bookmaker was a cock-eyed sleaze called Ralph the Bookie, but he had a distinctive nasally whine. This voice was deep and smooth, with a slight accent. Was it Italian?
My stomach churned. The cops found unidentified bodies in the Detroit River all the time these days. Almost nightly, said the papers. Guys who’d been shot, beaten, drowned. I fought off the nausea by quickening my pace.
As I ran past darkened houses, a memory surfaced without warning—Daddy surprising me with a new Hawthorne bicycle on my ninth birthday and teaching me how to ride it. Running alongside me down this very street shouting encouragement. Clenching my fists, I dug my nails into my palms as I reached the end of the block and stopped to catch my breath.
Then with fear lodged like a hatchet in my chest, I turned the corner and inched through the alley toward the garage, my feet crunching on the gravel. At the back door, I closed my right hand around the handle and twisted—unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped in, hearing nothing but my own quick breaths. Seconds ticked by.
I was beginning to wonder if it was all a joke when I heard a rusty voice behind me. “Glad you could make it.”
The door slammed and a meaty hand clamped over my mouth. An arm snared my waist. Cackling, the man walked me deeper into the garage, pushing my legs with his own. Too terrified to resist, I moved forward like a rag doll in his grip.
When we reached the office door, he kicked out a leg and it creaked open.
I was struggling to make sense of the shadowy shapes in front of me when someone switched on the lamp—I gasped behind the sweaty, smothering palm.
On the chair was my father, slouched and bloody.
At his temple, the barrel of a gun.
Thick arms like iron chains held me fast when I struggled to get to Daddy. I whimpered against the hand over my mouth.
“Well. No one told me you were so lovely,” said the man holding the weapon. Even in the low light I could tell he hadn’t been
the one to deliver the beating. Daddy’s face was a swollen red and purple mess, but not a speck of blood marred this man’s white shirt. Not a black hair was out of place.
He nodded to my captor, who released me. I rushed over to my father and put a hand on his neck. His skin was warm, but I couldn’t find a pulse. “Is he dead?”
“Looks that way, don’t it?” snapped the voice behind me. I glared at him. He was younger and stockier than the well-dressed man, and his jaw was shadowed by whiskers where the older man’s was clean-shaven. His wrinkled blue shirt stained with blood.
“Now, now.” The well-dressed man spoke very gently for someone holding a gun to a person’s head. “He isn’t dead yet. No need to be cruel.”
My fingers finally located a pulse. Thank God. “What do you want?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Is she armed, Raymond?”
Raymond started to grope me from behind.
“Stop it! I’m not armed!” I shook him off. “Please! Why have you done this?”
The older man put the gun down and picked up his black suit coat from the desk, brushing it off before slipping into it. “Your father has refused to acknowledge my offer of protection.” He adjusted his cuffs. “He’s testing my patience.”
“That’s right,” put in Raymond.
“Raymond, please.” The man tucked the gun inside his coat.
“Protection…protection from what?” I asked.
“From anyone who might wish to harm him or his business, of course. These days it could be anything—bombing, arson, the murder or kidnapping of a family member.” He listed these things as if he were reciting the menu at a roadhouse diner. I shivered, even though I was sweating.
“I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to harm us or the business?”
“It’s nothing personal, piccolina. In fact, it’s a compliment. Your father is a small fish, but he runs such a good operation, he’s caught the attention of bigger fish.”
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