Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1

by Debra Dunbar

  Hattie watched the lead man as they swiveled back out to open water. He stood there with his torch held at face level. Jesus, that illusion had worked far too well. That was closer to these brigands than she ever wanted to get.

  After a few minutes, Raymond finally spoke. “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “Raymond?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “You still carry a pistol with you?”

  He squinted. “Not for a while. Ain’t seen no snakes for a bit. Figured it wasn’t worth it.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Well, we seen some snakes tonight. Best you keep yourself prepared, no?”

  He nodded slowly and steered the tiller with a thoughtful cast.

  At last, as they rounded the neck of Cherrystone Inlet, Raymond declared, “I don’t know about you, baby girl…but I need a drink.”

  She shook her head. “What?”

  He nodded up the bank to a ramshackle building hanging over the water, tucked between two marsh flats. Several figures stepped in and out of the pool of light sifting the smoky windows. As the boat eased closer, the plinking of a jazz piano filled the air along with low-murmured conversation.

  “What’s this, then?” she asked.

  “Maudite’s,” Raymond answered. “Best little gin joint on the water. Come on. We stared down Feds and ignorant-ass fools today. We earned ourselves a little cheer.”

  Hattie smiled and didn’t protest.

  Maudite’s could barely be described as a building. Several hand-hewn timbers ran in uneven lines along a series of pilings, bolstering a siding of corrugated tin and dimensional lumber that was weathered with age. A series of hurricane lamps flickered inside the half-opened space. A dozen or so dark-skinned patrons sat at planks strewn across barrels or milled about the pier with drinks in hand.

  At the near end of the bar stood a warped upright piano, its strings clearly distressed from weathering. Their tones were sour, dulled…moist and damp as were the surroundings. Aside from the cacophony of the piss-poor tuning, the sound suited the music. This wasn’t the usual radio tunes, the up-tempo swing of big bands from Radio City or the West Coast. Nor was this the old-timey twang of the mountain stretches, with their mandolins and yodel-like refrains. No, this was the new music.

  Jazz.

  The discordant tones washed over Hattie as Raymond steered her toward the bar with a large but gentle hand on her shoulder. It wasn’t so much the melody, or lack thereof, that hooked her in. It was the rhythm. No simple down-beat, up-beat. This was pitter-patter. Syncopation. It matched her heartbeat, the chaos of her thoughts, the random collision of smells from the Bay and the sweating bodies and the hooch they were swilling.

  Raymond ordered two cups of something, and Hattie lifted her pewter mug to Raymond’s.

  “Aye, may the bastards never grind us down.”

  He clinked her cup and took a hard pound of the liquor.

  Hattie sniffed hers, regretting it instantly. She took a tiny sip, fluttering it past her lips. Her sinuses filled with thick fumes, and she coughed immediately, spraying a fine mist of whatever poison was in that cup.

  “Just shoot it…damn,” he admonished.

  “Not sure that’s wise,” she said. “But…hell. Here it goes.”

  She shot the liquor, then stood stiff, waiting for the paroxysm of coughing to overtake her.

  When it came, the effect was utterly humiliating.

  Once she’d calmed down and taken a seat, and Raymond had ordered some fruit wine for the both of them, he gestured at the dark faces gathered around them.

  “Man says my kind got no place on the Bay. What’s he know?”

  Hattie nodded in sympathy. “There will always be people cut from his cloth. Best to just ride them out.”

  “Maybe I don’t wanna ride them out,” he grumbled.

  “And maybe that sort of thinking will get you killed,” she warned.

  He shook his head and they sipped his wine in silence, finishing all too soon and heading back to the boat.

  The sun rose in three hours, and they coasted into Winnow’s Slip in time to watch the eastern clouds catch fire. Hattie had finally mustered the twine free of the brown paper on their return trip, checking that the Upright Citizens hadn’t joined Little Teague in some conspiracy to screw them out of their business. Thankfully, the contracted amount was there in small bills. She’d bring the payout back to Lizzie tomorrow, after some well-earned sleep. Giving Raymond a quick hug as he shut down the engine, she hopped onto dry land. The smokestacks to the north were already belching their soot into the sky. Back to the city air.

  Hattie’s home was a two-bedroom apartment in the Irish quarter of Hampden. She trotted up the three flights of stairs until she reached her front door. Stepping inside, she was greeted by the aroma of fresh-brewed tea. Releasing a tired sigh, she wove her way toward the kitchen where her mother stood at the stove, stirring what smelled like a pot of porridge.

  “Long night, was it?” Her mother smiled as Hattie kissed her on the cheek then went to sit at the table.

  “Aye, Ma. Too long.”

  Her mother brought her a cup of tea, which Hattie gripped for dear life.

  “I haven’t changed my mind about this business of yours,” she chided.

  “Where’s Da?” Hattie deflected.

  Her mother pointed to the main room. Her father, Alton, sat slumped in his chair, his head cocked at an awkward angle. His lips quivered as he released a light snore.

  Hattie frowned. “When’d he come home?”

  “Just past midnight.”

  “Da’s working nights, now? Even with his lungs?”

  “Just for this week. Least, that’s what they tell him.”

  Hattie sipped her tea and managed her way through half a bowl of the porridge before fatigue overtook her. She surrendered the remains to her mother, who dropped it back into the pot. Finishing the tea, she set the mug onto the table, then stepped lightly into the main room to plant a kiss on her father’s brow.

  “Good night, Da,” she whispered, before trudging to her bedroom and collapsing.

  Chapter 4

  Vincent peered out the windshield of Lefty’s Alfa Romeo to gaze at the moon, shining brilliant white high in the sky. As the road eased to the left, he jerked his attention back to the driving.

  “Eyes on the road, you mook,” Lefty chided.

  “You wanna drive?”

  “Sure,” Lefty grumbled. “You think I can’t drive? I can steer and shift just fine.” He waved his arm in the air. “I never let this get in my way, so you want to pull over? I can take the tiller.”

  Vincent shook his head. “Didn’t mean anything by it, Lefty.”

  Lefty glowered in his seat. “Then just keep us on the road.”

  The road weaved in and out of a couple forested bends before heading up the side of a hill. The long, wavy curtains of the Appalachians swung into view, and Vincent kept driving west.

  “So, who’re we meeting this far out?” Vincent asked.

  “Tony and Cooper.”

  “Hell’s bells. We’re gunning for them? What’d they do to Vito?”

  Lefty shook his head. “They aren’t the job.”

  “Then what is the job?”

  “Dryfork Brothers,” Lefty said. “They’re moonshiners from West By God. Like to tend their still up in the mountains and run barrels into Maryland on account of the governor giving the Feds the shine-off. Easy on them, since they don’t got to sweat the Gee. Harder on them, since Vito takes his cut. It’s an arrangement that’s suited everyone well enough.”

  “I suppose that’s changed?”

  “We got a man on the inside, sent word the Brothers have been bootlegging their hooch straight north, cutting across Cumberland to sell direct to Pittsburgh. Cutting Vito out completely.”

  Vincent scowled. “How violent is this likely to be?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” He gave Vincent a sharp leer.
“You’re the one with the crystal ball and the fez.” Once he realized Vincent didn’t find the comment even remotely humorous, he continued, “It’s just a conversation. A Come-to-Jesus meeting. We’ll set ’em straight, then bring whatever they’re hauling back with us as a tax for revenue lost, or some monkeyshine along those lines.”

  The engine whined as the grade up the hill increased. Once they rounded the bend, a narrow valley opened up below. A spattering of lights greeted their eyes in the distance.

  Cumberland.

  “Where’s Tony and Cooper?” Vincent asked. “In town, or outside?”

  “Just east. Our man on the inside says they found a back lane they like, keeps them out of plain sight.”

  Lefty directed Vincent along the narrow roads between cow pastures until they reached a copse of white oaks, dark shadows rising above the moonlit fields. A Triumph two-seater sat parked beneath the trees, its former occupants leaning against its hood.

  Vincent parked Lefty’s car alongside the Triumph and remained behind the wheel as Lefty stepped out. This sort of company time was typically meant for the famiglia…not Vincent, so Lefty convened with the others while Vincent kept an ear peeled.

  “What’re we lookin’ at?” Lefty asked.

  The taller of the two, Tony, replied, “Oughta be blowing through here in about a half hour. You guys took your sweet time.”

  Lefty gestured at the car. “Blame the pincher. Got all moonstruck.”

  Tony crouched down and gave Vincent a nod. When he straightened, he said in volume not that much quieter than before, “He gonna sit in there all night, or what?”

  Lefty pounded on the passenger door. “Vincent. Stop putting these gents off their feed.”

  Vincent sucked in a breath, released it in a slow hiss between his teeth, then stepped out of the Alfa Romeo. When he rounded the front of the car, Tony gave him a second nod.

  “Heya, Vinnie. How’s tricks?”

  “It’s Vincent,” he replied in a tone that was sharper it should have been.

  The shorter of the two, Cooper, shook his head. “Freak’s getting insulted, now. That’s just cherry.”

  Vincent stuffed his hands into his pockets before balling fists.

  Tony snickered. “Well, keep your shirt on…Vincent. We got some backward-ass hillbillies about to blow through here with six barrels of white lightning. We’re here to teach them the error of their ways, bring them back into the fold, and keep the peace.” He added with careful enunciation, “You know your part in this?”

  Vincent replied, “Yeah. I’m here in case they don’t want to keep no peace.”

  “Right. So, keep your eyes open. We got a mole riding with them, so we want this to stay nice and civil.”

  Lefty regarded Vincent, then turned to Tony. “He knows what to do.”

  Cooper spat onto the road. “Don’t need none of his mumbo jumbo, anyways.”

  “You have a problem with my pincher?” Lefty asked, taking a step past Tony.

  Cooper squared up on Lefty. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Maybe I think Vito’s got enough muscle without this spook.”

  “It’s Vito’s call,” Lefty stated. “Unless you’ve been promoted to Capo and no one told me.”

  Tony offered, “Coop’s just a little religious, is all. Don’t let him get you lathered up.”

  Lefty squinted and took another step into Cooper. “Right. Religious. I never see you at Mass.”

  The other man paled a little, then set his jaw. “I’m Protestant. Jeez. Get outta my face with this.”

  Lefty remained in his face. “Protestant?”

  “Methodist, not that it’s any of your business.”

  Lefty nodded. “A Methodist named Lou Cooper. That sounds unremarkably American. Now, a good Catholic by the name of…Luigi Capucci?”

  Cooper took a step away.

  “That,” Lefty concluded, “sounds like famiglia. What’s the matter with you, Luigi? You’re too good for your heritage now? Too good for the Church?”

  Cooper huffed through his nose as Lefty leveled onto his face the intractable glare Vincent knew so well.

  Tony tapped Lefty on his good shoulder. “Alright, tuck it in. Car’s coming.”

  A lone clunker with tall wooden rails straddling its bed rattled around a farmhouse in the distance, slapping against some of the high grass on the side of the road.

  Tony and Cooper reached into the Triumph to produce two Tommy guns, housing a magazine in each.

  As they strode out onto the lane, Tony urged, “Keep your chopper friendly, Coop. We’re here to talk.”

  Cooper angled his gun toward the dirt to mirror Tony, though his shoulders were considerably more drawn.

  Lefty brushed Vincent toward the trees.

  “Just hang back. We’re not here to do any lifting. We’re just here in case it all goes sideways.”

  “Like usual?”

  Lefty nodded. “Like usual.”

  The two gangsters remained in the road, adopting an almost casual posture. The clunker swung around the last bend before the lane straightened to reveal the two. The old truck was a Ford, but it had been through so much hell and rebuilding, Vincent couldn’t recognize the model. And he wondered if the driver would see Tony and Cooper at all, since they were running with their lights dark.

  The wheels locked up and slid along the dirt and gravel on the lane, and the truck managed its way to a stop underneath the weight of the six barrels slung in the back.

  Tony held his ground and turned. Cooper withdrew six or so steps.

  No one in the cab made a move. They just sat there, staring.

  Finally, Tony snapped his fingers in the air. “Why don’t you boys step on out?”

  They remained frozen.

  Cooper took those six steps forward, the nose of his gun lifting inch-by-inch.

  Both doors opened, and three men stepped out into the moonlight. Their faces were drawn, eyes wide. Beads of sweat lined their foreheads.

  Tony grinned. “There, fresh air. That’s better, right?”

  No one responded.

  “So,” Tony barked. “That’s a lotta liquor! I can’t help but notice you got that liquor pointed north. Not east.”

  One of the Dryfork Brothers, the driver, took a shuffle-step forward as he pulled his hat off his head.

  “We, uh…we’re not goin’ North.”

  “That a fact?” Tony asked. He turned behind him, and made a slow, histrionic turn. “See, thing is this road noses straight north all the way up to Pittsburgh. You missed the Pike headed east by at least ten minutes.”

  “Oh?” the driver asked. “I, uh…must’ve missed the turn.”

  “I appreciate your humility, I really do. But I want to have a real grown-up conversation with you boys. So, maybe we dispense with the bushwa?”

  The back two flinched and seemed ready to jump back into the cab…but the driver spun on his heel and held a palm out to halt them.

  “Er, Mister…”

  “You can call me Tony,” he said. He nodded at Cooper. “And this one? Don’t call him anything at all, because he’s about ready to ventilate you mooks right now. So, keep your eyes up here.” He whistled and pointed at his face.

  The driver nodded.

  “We happen to know you’ve been cutting the Crew out for the better part of a month, now. Which baffles me, because you people have a sweet deal riding east into Baltimore. No Feds. No cops. No grief. And a guaranteed buyer on our end.”

  One of the back two shouted, “Your prices are shit!”

  The other…—Vincent figured they must be the actual brothers…—added, “Yeah, and you tax us whenever we sell to anyone else! Ain’t fair.”

  Tony nodded and stared at the ground in deep contemplation.

  Cooper sneered. “Let’s just shoot ‘em and be done with this. Teach them all a lesson.”

  Tony ignored him, still focusing on the Dryfork men. “I hear you. And I understand what you’re saying. But the
fact is, this is a volatile climate to do business in, gents. Supply and demand are not the only considerations for our industry, vis-à-vis the Volstead Act.”

  Vincent grinned, and looked over at Lefty. There were times Tony spoke like a college professor, a carryover from his honest-to-God college education.

  Lefty just shook his head.

  “Now look,” the driver said with outstretched hands. “We don’t want no trouble from the Crew. We just want a fair price.”

  Cooper rolled his eyes and lifted his weapon a few inches. “Well, trouble is what you’ve got.”

  Tony waved him down. “A fair price as compared to what? What you get from the boys up in Pittsburgh? Well, let me tell you this. What the Crew pays for your hooch accounts for protection. Surety, if you will. Man-hours devoted to keeping the streets clear.”

  One of the brothers in the back said, “It’s less’n half what we get in Pennsylvania.”

  Tony’s eyes lost their mirth. “Yeah? And you know who runs Pittsburgh? The famiglia. You know who owns the Crew? Famiglia. You think you’re being so clever, but you’re just robbing Peter to pay Peter. You think this goes unnoticed? You think we don’t make one phone call and shut this down hard?”

  Tony was shouting, now. Cooper had taken two steps forward, lifting his gun a few more inches, his eyes hard on the men by the truck. The elder Dryfork held his ground, but the brothers had nearly retreated all the way back into the cab.

  Vincent watched them closely. They didn’t have the poise of the man who Vincent assumed was the patriarch of the Dryfork moonshiners. They were angry and afraid. A rotten cocktail for any business transaction that involved moonshine and guns.

  The driver nodded furiously. “You’re right, and I see that now. We just got a whole buncha Treasury men nosin’ around the woods these days. We need shorter rides and bigger paydays.”

  Tony sniffed. “That’s a supply-side issue, my friend.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” Cooper muttered. “Teach these hillbillies a lesson.”

  One of the brothers swiveled his head toward the cab, and his lips moved in short, discreet motions. Someone else was in the car.