Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “You prepared to go on record with that?”

  “No.” He swallowed. “Because I can’t prove it. But when I do… You’ll be the first to know.”

  “Gee, thanks—you’re a pal.” Mick turned on his heel, heading for the doors. “Hey, where are you going?”

  “To do my job.”

  He’d gotten everything he needed—the grisly mess here had no more secrets to give. Mick told the officers outside he’d have the Bureau ‘call them with any developments,’ and slipped into the crowd away from the bank.

  And not a moment too soon. While turning the corner, he saw men with brown coats like his and identical badges push through the horde, heading for the stairs. Another minute inside, and he would have been made by his “fellow agents.”

  Mick allowed himself to feel smug, just this once, as he watched the Bureau boys arguing with the cops, who were clearly confused.

  “Not good enough for the force,” my ass. We’ll see who’s not good enough, when I crack this case.

  Making his way up Main Street in the sunshine, the garish scene still painted on his mind, Mick Vance clenched a fist. He was going to solve this one. For the Company, for America—but most importantly, for himself.

  If he didn’t, the Great War would be back on. And a few dead bankers would be the least of his problems.

  CHAPTER 3

  ROSE WAS PISSED. Gus had always known she had a temper, but now it was out in full force. She was holding the telephone like it was Frank Wallace’s neck… and he didn’t blame her.

  They’d had a rough morning.

  Shot in the arm before breakfast. He sipped from his flask, the Greed and bourbon tasting like greased molasses.

  Well, he thought, I’ve had worse days.

  “Yeah, he’s looking rough,” Rose was saying, her voice tense. “I got him some bandages, but he’s out for today… Yes, I’m sure it was the Family.” A pause. “Compensation for your goods? We almost got shot!”

  Steady Irish brogue oozed from the telephone receiver, as Gus eavesdropped on the couch. “I told you, it was an ambush! We didn’t get any Draughts!”

  Gus closed his eyes, the pain in his shoulder tugging at him. He was watching Rose ‘negotiate’ from the living room. Outside, the waves of Revere Beach and the yells of children echoed on the air. He couldn’t see them, but he knew what they were shouting about—the Los Angeles, a Navy blimp, was hovering offshore. It had been there for days, testing radio frequencies. At least the locals were properly distracted, he thought. The less eyes on their little triple-decker, the better.

  This safehouse was a temporary stop, a place to cool their heels—and dodge the Family. Gus was high on Greed, wondering how much everything in the room would go for.

  This couch, ten dollars. Those ratty curtains, one dollar. Rose’s suspenders, fifteen cents. Sixteen, if we shine the buttons first.

  It seemed shallow, but the practice helped him focus, and he needed that. Because sooner or later, someone was going to come for them—the boss, or their enemies. And whoever it was, they had to be ready.

  Rose’s south came out as her voice rose. “I told you, someone set us up! If there’s a rat in your house, Frankie, that’s not our fault!”

  Finally she straightened, as if someone had slapped her. “Yes. Yes, we’ll find more. By tomorrow night. Yes, sir.” The last phrase was clipped and hateful. She slammed down the phone, receiver jangling on its brass hook.

  “You need to work on your people skills,” Gus slurred.

  He took another hit from the flask as she glared at him. He’d kept it hidden under the floorboards for just such an occasion—the one in the car had helped seal his wound, but he needed to hit it regularly to keep the scales hard.

  Ceiling fan, fifteen dollars. Old pots and pans, maybe twenty cents.

  “Don’t need your crap right now.” Rose stormed into the kitchen, searching for food—they hadn’t eaten since sun-up. “Don’t need it from you, don’t need it from that goon on the phone. We’re gonna eat, rest, and find replacement goods. Tonight.”

  “No one’s gonna sell us that much Grief. Not on short notice.” Gus straightened up, wincing. Even through the fuzz of alcohol and pure, distilled emotion, his shoulder still hurt like a bitch. He’d been lucky it was only a flesh wound.

  Rose paused. “King Solomon might.”

  “No. Absolutely not.” He rubbed his shoulder. “We’re not working with Solomon. If he didn’t kill us, the Wallace boys would, for talking to him.” His mouth tasted like the back of a dollar—it always did, when the Greed started to wear off. “It might be time to skip town.”

  She chucked an onion at him. “No quitting.” Gus rolled his eyes. Rose lit the old stove with a match, pulling sprout-covered spuds from below the sink. “We’ll find a way to pull through, Gus. We always have.”

  “You always do. I gotta piss away my cash on ‘medicine,’ because if I don’t, the cancer comes back, and I’m in deep shit.”

  Rose brandished a potato at him. “The Lord hates a cusser.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You didn’t complain about cussin’ back in the woods.”

  “Too busy getting shot at.” The hiss of the potatoes frying gave him strength; she might be a self-righteous Bible thumper, but Rose could cook better than half the chefs in town. “We’re not quitting. I’m too far ahead in this business to fold, Gus. Who else can we ask?”

  He ticked the options off on his claws. “Ponzi could work us an angle, for a price—but she’s in jail. Lulu got raided, the Coast Guard bought out Doc’s supply. The Family owns the distilleries from here to Maine…” He shook his head. “There’s no one else. I’m telling you, it’s time to go.”

  In the silence between them, the doorbell rang. They stared at each other, arguments evaporated.

  “Don’t answer that,” said Gus, struggling to rise. “If it’s the Family, or Wallace’s boys…”

  “Nobody followed us. I checked.” Rose popped the Mauser’s clip—five rounds left—and slipped it into her pocket. Then she paused. “Why would the Wallaces send someone after us?”

  Gus was reaching for his rifle on the coffee table. “We lost their shipment. For all they know, we might’ve taken it for ourselves.” He hissed with pain as he lumbered to his feet. “I’m coming with you.”

  “The hell you are.” She pushed him back down. As crude, as monstrous as he was, Gus was the closest thing to family she had in Boston, and she wasn’t putting him back in danger. “You sit tight. It’s probably the damn mailman.”

  He glowered at her. “Sometimes I wonder how you got involved in this racket, being so green.”

  “If I’m not back in two minutes, go out the back door.” Second-guessing the Mauser, she grabbed Gus’ rifle off the coffee table; if someone had come to put the screws on them, she would need intimidation to drive them off. And it had to be fear, not violence. If she actually had to shoot, the cops would be on this neighborhood like flies to shit.

  “Okay,” said Gus, looking at the gun. “Do what you need to.”

  Rose went down the stairs. New triple-deckers like these always felt claustrophobic, to her; maybe it was the stuffy air, or the wood around her swelling in the summer heat. The doorbell sounded: blithe and cheery. She descended to the landing, and peered out a window.

  “Ah, shit.” It was a cop.

  He looked as uncomfortable as she was, in his heavy blue suit and cap. His badge winked in the sun. Ruddy-faced and round, he had one hand resting on his holster, and was looking up and down the street, like he was waiting for someone… or watching for fugitives.

  Rose sighed. There was no way, as a black woman in Boston, that she could answer the door with a gun in her hand and not go to jail. She slipped the Winchester into an umbrella stand, within easy reach. In the dark of the foyer, hopefully he wouldn’t notice it. If he did… well, he had better not. After the Family attack, she couldn’t handle any more bloodshed. Rose opened the door.

&nbs
p; “Officer. What can I do for you?”

  “Top o’ the morning.” His accent reminded her of Frankie’s, and she felt a sudden certainty that he was a gangster in disguise. “Just need to ask a few questions. Are there any Italians in your… ah, domicile?”

  “Italians?” she said, genuinely surprised. “What’s this about?”

  “Italians, ma’am. You know… Wops.” He tugged on his nose, with zero subtlety. “We’ve had a bombing, down at Springfield Savings. Terrible business. Word is the Italians were involved. Just counting heads… for now.”

  She hadn’t heard anything about this—but then again, she’d just gotten back from their wild, violent ride this morning and hadn’t read the newspaper. Coolidge could be batting for the Sox, for all she knew. “No Italians here. Just me. The… help.”

  That sort of line reassured cops; she’d turned away many a snooping trooper with corny subservience. But this one wasn’t fooled. He looked her up and down, skeptical.

  “Does the help here always wear trousers?”

  Shit! She’d forgotten she was still wearing her driving clothes. A flannel shirt and pants were not the feminine attire du jour, in Revere. “Uh… Just trying to keep my skirts clean, sir. They’re on the line, see.”

  He nodded, his beady eyes flashing. “Right, miss. Mind if I come in?”

  “Certainly.” She let him into the roasting foyer, standing in front of the umbrella stand. If a fight broke out, she wasn’t sure she could get off a shot, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Aside from her dislike for violence, shooting a cop in the back would have consequences. Big ones.

  The pig tugged his collar. “Mighty hot in here.”

  “Yes, sir. Rather be on the beach today.” Stupid. Why did I say that?

  He fanned his doughy face with a hand. “Bet you would, lass. Which floor’s yours?”

  “Third floor.” The others were locked, and contained Frank Wallace’s mood-legging supplies.

  “Lovely.” He moved up the steps, chuckling. “People like you, on the beach… Perish the thought.”

  Goddamn nosy bastard … Rose followed him up, panic racing in her chest. The heat seemed to stifle her thoughts. She brewed a dozen lies, but none of them held water. So she kept her hands at her sides, and waited for a chance to get rid of him. Somehow.

  “What happened at the bank, Officer…?”

  “Malloney, Officer Malloney. Turrible business over there, just turrible. Fascists or summat shot up the whole place… People say were drunk on Draughts. Damn degenerates...” He opened the door to the flat, Rose steeled herself to go for his gun—

  But there was no one inside.

  The open window let in a sea-breeze. The couch was empty. Gus’ bottle of Greed had disappeared along with him, and his pistol. She scanned the room; he was too big to fit over the sill, and they would’ve heard him leaving by the back stairs. Where the hell did he go?

  Malloney grunted. “No one home, eh?”

  “Just me, sir. The… family, they’re off swimming.”

  “Are they, now.” Malloney made a short, lazy circuit of the room. He nudged the tomato she’d thrown at Gus. “Nasty stuff, those Draughts. Work of the devil. No surprise the Italians drink it.” He squinted at the kitchen. “Yer food’s burning.”

  She raced to the stove and turned it off, waving the smoke out the window. She’d never had a gas stove in Florida, and hadn’t expected how fast the potatoes would overcook. “Sorry.”

  “Someone in yer house partakes, I see.”

  She turned to see he’d pulled an empty bottle of Greed from under the couch. Well, almost empty: some of the yellow liquid swirled on the bottom, shifting and climbing the glass with a mind of its own. “This is a nasty brew,” Malloney said, eyes narrow. “Where’d you get it?”

  As she struggled for what to say, Gus climbed in through the window behind Malloney. Slithered was a better word: he oozed his bulk over the sill in complete silence, bending his limbs in ways she’d never seen before. Her pistol was in his hand. She knew he’d been to war, but hadn’t believed it until this moment: his silent stride belonged to a soldier, perhaps one about to stab a Kraut with a bayonet. His round, scaly face was rapt with concentration, and he raised her gun to the back of Malloney’s head—

  Without thinking, Rose grabbed the red-hot skillet and flung it at the police officer. Either Malloney was too astonished to react, or he was too stupid: either way, the heavy pan smacked him right between the eyes, and he toppled to the floor, stunned.

  Gus frowned. “The hell was that? I had him.”

  “You would’ve brought the whole neighborhood up here. Quick, tie him down.”

  Gus frowned. “Wasn’t gonna shoot him...” But he did as requested, flipping the man over and binding his wrists with cord from the hallway closet. He snatched Malloney’s revolver and wallet, dexterous fingers turning them over. “What are we supposed to do with him now?”

  Rose nursed her scalded palm. There were potatoes all over the floor. “I don’t know. I thought you had a plan.”

  He shrugged. “I was just gonna hit him. That was my plan.”

  They stood in silence, looking at the cop. Malloney groaned, then lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  Rose threw up her hands. “Great. This is wonderful. When he don’t report back, they’re gonna come for him. We need to leave—and we can’t go to Wallace. He’ll kill us, for bringing heat on him.”

  “Not to mention, this guy’s seen our safehouse.” Gus paused. “I could take care of him.”

  “No.”

  “It’d be easy. The cellar’s all dirt.”

  “Gus.” He met her eyes, and was frustrated but not surprised to find refusal there. “I said, no killing. We are not like those people—like Frank Wallace. We’re not murderers.”

  He grunted. “We shot those Family fellas.”

  She shrugged. “Self-defense.”

  Gus sighed. She could see he disagreed. But for both of their sakes, she wanted to get rid of this copper without killing him. It just wasn’t right to put man in the dirt, just because he’d knocked on the wrong door. Lord knew she had no love for cops, but it just wasn’t Christian to dispose of him like garbage.

  Gus sighed. “There might be another way. There’s bootlegged Rapture on the second floor…”

  “Rapture? We can’t dip into Frank’s supply.” But she hesitated. “Would… Would that work? If we gave him some?”

  “Maybe. The brew’s from a Bible camp, in Michigan. Distilled from hallelujah crowds… mixed with Jake.”

  Rose grimaced. ‘Jake’ was Jamaican ginger rum, an incredibly dangerous drink, eighty percent pure ethanol. Even in small doses, it damaged the user’s nerves, giving them “jake-leg,” among other horrible symptoms. “I don’t know...”

  “A few shots of that, and he won’t know where the hell he is, or remember much of anything.”

  Dammit. She’d gotten into this business to disappear, vanish from the world a while and make the money she needed to return to Florida. Yet every day, she seemed to get more visible—and every day she got deeper into vice. Forgive me, Lord. “Alright. Get a bottle of it. We need to loosen up our friend here… and then send him somewhere very, very far away.”

  CHAPTER 4

  FRAMINGHAM Correctional Institution smelled of socks, misery, and cigarettes. Mostly, it smelled of the first two. Its grim, gray bulk jutted out of the woods like a medieval castle, and Mick Vance didn’t like the look of it one bit. Chilly condensation clung to its stones, and even here he could taste the hopelessness of the inmates: their rage and despair.

  Hell hath no fury like a women’s prison.

  Mick was standing outside the front gates, waiting. He’d been waiting a long time. The guards weren’t familiar with Pinkerton; Mick had to make sure to check his watch often, and loom as tall as possible. He would have tried his B.O.I. routine, but even these idiots would have caught on to that. After several bribes, he was allowed insid
e—and if the smell was bad outside the gates, it was much worse inside.

  Bias had caused him to assume a women’s prison would be cleaner, more civilized, than an institution for men. Not so much. Several women spat on him as he passed, wild-eyed inmates threatening to “cut that big nose right off ya.” One of them, clearly destined for the sanitarium, flashed her breasts at him and cackled before slamming her head against the wall. Many said nothing, simply staring at him with haunted disinterest. These were women whom society had thrown away, who didn’t fit into the positions made for them or were simply too violent, too unstable or too nonconforming to live in the ‘polite’ world outside.

  Mick was extremely uncomfortable.

  His father was Polish, his mother a Jewish washerwoman from the Bronx, and he’d been raised to regard the opposite sex with something like reverence. This job did not allow him that reverence—a female suspect was just a suspect. Nothing more.

  “She’s one of our favorite inmates. Gets Christmas cards every year,” explained Warden Nunez, as he led Mick down the cell block. He was a thick-set man, with a mustache wider than his face. Mick detested him on principle—men with large mustaches, he’d found, always had something to prove.

  Mick grunted. “From who?”

  “Admirers,” Nunez said. “And investors who worked with her husband. Nutty bastards, all of them.”

  “Didn’t these people get screwed out of a life’s savings?”

  “Doesn’t stop them sending love-letters to her. I wasn’t surprised, when you called to bail her out—sooner or later, someone was going to do it.” They entered the minimum-security wing; here, the smell was less painful, the tang of human fear less agonizing. Mick felt himself relax… slightly.

  “What about her husband? Where’s he?”

  “Suffolk County. It’s life, for him—acted as his own attorney. Couldn’t talk his way out of a paper bag, that one.” Nunez led Mick down a cramped concrete staircase and into a short hallway. There was a single cell there, with light streaming through the barred windows. “Not like her. She can talk your ear off, and then sell it to you. Be careful, Agent Vance.”