Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1

by Debra Dunbar

Hattie chuckled. “It’s real money, Leon.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just bein’ cautious.” He pocketed the nickel and winked at her. “What’s ya poison today?”

  “Got any white lightning?”

  His eyes bugged. “Dat’s a six-foot drink for a five-foot woman.”

  She scowled. “Is that a challenge, little man? I’ll take you round for round!”

  “Nah. I don’t drink da stuff. I only flog it!”

  “Then less lip, more hooch. Aye?”

  He hummed a tune to himself as he poured a tiny portion of moonshine into a tulip glass, sliding it over to Hattie.

  She raised the glass. “Putting some pearls on this pig?”

  “Eh, I am a believer in beauty. All things are beautiful to those who—”

  “More of your navel gazing, then?”

  He laughed. “It’s a free service.”

  She took a sip of the hooch. It was fumey, strong, jagged. She winced and sucked in a cooling breath.

  Leon smirked at her. “You’re da one person in all God’s Green Earth who sips that.”

  “Cost me a nickel, didn’t it? I’m going to enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy,” he said. “What’s with da rotgut? Workin’ dat hard?”

  She sighed. “Yes and no. It’s just been a complicated week, is all.”

  He nodded and left her alone.

  Hattie cupped the tulip glass, watching the people as they came and went. No one seemed to notice her. If any young man cast a glance in her direction, she pinched the light around her face just enough to discourage them. That had almost become instinct for Hattie when she was in public. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to be.

  Hours passed, and she’d barely touched the moonshine in her glass. Leon had offered her replacements several times, but she wasn’t really interested. Liquor was something she liked to have in her hands, but not to drink. It was like having some sort of power, an option to do something…whether or not you did it.

  As for actually drinking the sauce, she wasn’t sure what her reservations were. Perhaps it was fear? Fear of losing control? Fear of being discovered?

  An orange haze of sunset plowed through the windows, and the crowd had swapped out a third time. All new faces, many of them dressed up a bit nicer for the evening.

  Leon had left her alone for quite some time, as if she’d finally faded into the wall. But as a few young gentlemen took seats at the bar beside her, the bartender gave her a questioning glance.

  The young man sitting beside Hattie cast a quick peek at her glass, then to her. She popped up the illusion of an older, unattractive woman, but he didn’t seem dissuaded.

  “Evening,” he chimed. “Drinking alone?”

  She said nothing.

  “What’re you having?” he prodded.

  Leon approached. “My friends…what’ll ya have?”

  Hattie appreciated the deflection. It was an opportunity to leave discreetly. But even as she pivoted to leave, the notion of going home fell heavy onto her shoulders, pressing her back down onto the stool. Home had been prison, lately.

  Instead of giving an order, the young man gestured to Hattie’s glass. “This gin?”

  Leon leaned in. “I think maybe this young lady’s having a private moment. So, what can I get ya?”

  “Young?” He turned to face her with a smirk…quicker than she could restore the illusion over her face.

  His eyebrows lifted. “Huh.”

  Leon tensed.

  Hattie sucked in a breath, then replied, “It’s white lightning, boy-o. Think you’re game?”

  His face erupted into a joyful smile. “Absolutely.”

  Leon cocked his head at Hattie, but she tapped her fingers on the bar top, smoothing out his confusion. He turned to pour both of the young men a single finger of the moonshine.

  Hattie’s neighbor turned to face her fully. “Cheers.”

  She lifted the tulip.

  He pounded the hooch, shaking his head with a wince. And then he watched her.

  Hattie put the glass to her lips, then upended the entire contents into her mouth and down her throat.

  The burn was intense and immediate.

  Hattie pinched light over her face as she stuck out her tongue and made all sorts of repulsed expressions. But to the man watching her, she’d simply quaffed the moonshine and offered a steady, challenging lift of her brow. It was a tricky illusion to maintain, distracted as she was with the fumes choking her from inside her own gullet. But she managed it.

  He shook his head and laughed. “You’re alright.”

  The man turned back toward Leon, ordered a gin fizz, and tipped his hat to Hattie.

  And that was that. No more conversation. No pressing. No flirtation. He’d just had a fine moment with a stranger and now he was back to chatting up his friend. Hattie smiled. The weight on her shoulders eased. It shouldn’t have been such the revelation that not every individual in the city was out for her blood. Maybe she didn’t have to hide all the time. Maybe sometimes she could be one of them after all—a regular, normal person.

  The moonshine hit her stomach, spreading like a brush fire through her chest and arms. The smile on her face remained.

  The poor old fellow on the piano called it quits, easing off the bench with arthritic care, nursing his fingers as he reached for his cane.

  The men beside Hattie turned to watch.

  Her neighbor muttered, “Aw, nuts. Music’s gone off to die of old age.”

  Leon nodded. “Kirb’s been at it all day. Can’t say I blame him.”

  The young man said, “You should get some dame in here. Real songbird, y’know? That’ll pack them in.”

  Leon shot a glance at Hattie.

  She’d spent one or two Sundays at the Fontainebleau when there was no one around singing a few tunes to an empty room. She’d even convinced Old Kirby to bang out something from the Old Country. He only knew one or two Irish songs, so it was rare.

  Hattie sighed, and leaned back on her stool to stretch. Her brain fuzzed a bit, sending a quick jolt of blithe joy into her body.

  “Well,” she announced, “I don’t know if I qualify as a songbird, but I’m dame enough.”

  Her neighbor peered over his shoulder at her. “You can sing?”

  Hattie nodded to Leon. “You play, don’t you?”

  Leon nodded.

  “Know anything from my homeland?”

  “Which land dat be?” Leon asked.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  He lifted his chin. “If ya so eager, I could stagger my way through something modern. Ya ever listen to a radio?”

  “If I could afford a radio, I wouldn’t be drinking moonshine, would I?”

  Leon shot her a sharp smirk, then tossed his apron onto the bar top. “Right, then.”

  He wound his way out onto the floor and took a seat at the piano.

  Hattie sat rigid on her stool. How…how did this happen?

  Leon gave her a beckoning gesture with his finger, and the two young men at the bar beside her began to applaud.

  Several others joined in.

  Hattie felt a blush spread across her cheeks. The iron-vice dread that usually clamped down onto her lungs softened. It may have been the moonshine, but instead of fleeing she found herself slipping off the bar stool and inching her way toward the piano. Leon took a couple passes before he managed the pickup to “Everybody Loves My Baby.”

  Eyes fell onto Hattie.

  She cleared her throat, turned to face the piano rather than the audience, and sang.

  Afterward, she ran home. Bolted up the stairs. Sprinted past her parents who looked on in surprise. After Hattie had shut the bedroom door behind her, she lingered by the window, staring out at the night sky at the rising moon, and laughed. It was time to rejoin the world. If she could find the courage to stand up before a bunch of strangers and sing, then she could certainly handle running booze on the waterfront for the mob. Besid
es, what were the chances that she’d ever see those two gangsters again?

  Chapter 16

  A knock on the door jarred Vincent from a midday nap.

  He leapt from his sofa, turning to the door. Lefty tended to knock with one rap, then two, then one more. It was just some stupid thing he did, but Vincent had come to recognize it.

  This was different…just four heavy pounds, not from the knuckles, but from the meat of a fist.

  Vincent scanned his apartment, considering his options. He owned no guns, and every piece of iron he’d liberated during his duties to the Crew, he’d discarded with precious little emotion. His typical go-to was to pinch time and turn his opponents’ weapons against them.

  Another pound.

  Vincent crept toward the door and eased it open against the chain, keeping his body mostly behind the wall. He found two besuited fellows in the hall. They were unarmed and looked a bit familiar.

  “Can I help you gents?” Vincent asked through the crack in the door.

  “We’re here to collect you,” one of the men replied.

  “Collect me for what?”

  “The Capo.”

  “Vito?” he blurted. “What’s the angle?”

  “We’re just here to collect you.”

  Vincent squinted. “Where are we going? Where’s Lefty?”

  “Havre de Grace,” the man responded with an air of gravity. “I think Mancuso’s already there.”

  Vincent’s stomach dropped. Panic tore through him.

  Havre de Grace. That was Vito’s private estate. No one was called to Vito’s home unless there was something so serious that it couldn’t wait for him to come into the city. That always meant bad news. Had Cooper decided he didn’t mind looking weak in order to rat Vincent out, or was there something else he’d done wrong? Vincent quickly ran through the last few days, the trip to Deltaville, the conversation with Capstein, the boat trip with the rum. When it seemed like just breathing was enough to cause offense, anything could be the reason for this summons.

  Knowing better than to keep the Capo waiting a second longer than was necessary, Vincent pulled a jacket and hat off the chair next to the door and joined his unfamiliar escort downstairs.

  The drive out to the hillsides northeast of the city took longer than Vincent had imagined it would. Maybe that was because he’d spent the entire trip questioning whether he was about to die. They’d already summoned Lefty. That was another bad sign. Lefty was Vincent’s handler, and escorting him back and forth was Lefty’s specific job, not these two goons. If Vito wanted Lefty there without Vincent, it was to discuss Vincent.

  Cooper. It had to have been Cooper. Or maybe someone had lied and told Vito that he’d been receptive to Capstein’s overtures and was planning on running off to join the Upright Citizens. One could possibly be an offense punishable by death. The other definitely was.

  The sun had bowed toward the west, sending warm light of the Golden Hour across fields of stakes and vines running in rows across the gentle hillsides. An imposing villa stood at the end of a stone-paved lane, built in the style of Italian architecture, nestled at the fore of the vineyard surrounding.

  The driver parked the car, and the two men escorted Vincent away from the villa and up a gravel-dusted lane into the rows of vines. This didn’t feel right. The hill swept up behind them as they progressed, blocking the view from the estate. Who the hell would be out here? Vincent considered his options for the first time. He could, in all truth, pinch time and make a run for it. None of this was strictly compulsory.

  Or…was it? If he ran, where would he go? What would be his purpose? What would Vito do to Lefty?

  Vincent knew he had at least one option. Capstein had made insinuations, but Vincent had dismissed them at the time. Richmond already had two pinchers. Adding a third would put them higher than Philadelphia in terms of the balance of power. Sure, Vito could conceivably launch all-out war on Richmond, but he would have to rely on other famiglia to shore up his efforts.

  All this musing sent Vincent into a swell of anxiety. Pinch and run? Join the Upright Citizens? Or just face his fate as he’d been trained his whole life to do?

  The anxiety ebbed as they turned a corner around a knoll, and a plaza of flagstone slipped into view. A lumber arbor covered half the plaza, vines trained up and along the posts and beams. A single wood table stood at the center of the stones with two folding chairs pulled haphazardly away.

  Vincent sucked in a breath as he spotted Lefty standing to the side of the plaza, his arm folded in front of him. Beside Lefty stood Fern, clad in a bright yellow dress and gloves. Her hair belled out from beneath a white cloche, covering the bruised side of her face.

  Well, at least now he knew for sure what offense he was here to account for.

  Lefty gave Vincent a long glare before nodding to the center of the plaza, where Vito stood holding a glass of red fluid to the light of the sunset. A mousy young man lingered at his elbow, holding two glass carafes.

  Vito swirled the wine and sniffed it.

  “Last year’s cabernet franc,” the mousy man said.

  Vito wrinkled his nose.

  The man added, “The phenolic notes are still…problematic.”

  Vito tossed the wine out of the glass to the side of the stones, then presented it to the mouse, who poured a bit from one of his carafes.

  As Vito took a sniff, then a tiny sip, from the second choice, he nodded. “This is the Meritage?”

  “I feel we should continue with the blends.”

  “Agreed,” Vito said, handing the man his glass.

  The mouse man bowed and withdrew, disappearing down the gravel path.

  Vito shook his head and gestured to Vincent without really looking at him. “Come.”

  Vincent complied.

  Taking a seat at the table, Vito spread his hands flat against the wood. “I cannot grow proper grapes in this state. Winters are too long. Too wet. Ah…to plant fields of Nebbiolo. But I must settle for these Bordeaux cultivars. It depresses me.” He finally looked up to Vincent. “Sit.”

  Vincent took the second chair, pulling it across to the opposite side of the table from Vito.

  The old man ran a hand along his broad face. “I hear things, Vincenzo.” He popped Vincent’s name with Italian flare. “Troubling things.”

  “What do you hear?” he asked flatly.

  “That you have eyes on someone who is not yours. Someone who belongs to one of our family.”

  Vincent peered over his shoulder at Fern, then sighed. “Only rumors.”

  Vito’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth drew into the slightest of scowls. “You choose your words carefully. While I respect that, I need to hear more.”

  “Apologies, Capo. Who accuses me of this?”

  “Not two hours ago, I received a visit from Luigi Capucci.” Vito snarled. “He calls himself Cooper, now. I had words with him regarding that.”

  Vincent lifted a hand. “We had a disagreement, Capo. That’s all.”

  “Is it?” He gestured for Fern, who stepped across the stones toward them, her hands trembling by her side. “He tells me that you threatened his life. Held a gun to his face. Told him to leave this girl, because you wanted her. Do you deny these things?”

  Vincent peered up at Fern. She stared straight forward, making eye contact with no one, her face ghostly pale.

  “I deny that I expressed an interest in Fern to Cooper.”

  “Then you know her name?”

  Vincent shifted in his seat. “I do. She helped me recover from our encounter with the Dryfork family.”

  Vito peered up at Fern, then back to Vincent with a grunt.

  Vincent added, “I noticed she had bruises. Like she’d been grabbed. Then I saw…” He gestured to her face with a lift of his finger. “Someone socked it to her, and she looked like she needed help.”

  Vito pushed away from the table and stood before Fern.

  “My dear,” he cooed. “May I see
your face?”

  Fern reached up with a shaky hand to pull aside the locks of hair covering her eye. She sported bold eye shadow, and lots of foundation. The bruise under her eye was almost, but not quite, covered up, yellow-green now instead of deep purple, and beside it on her cheekbone was a fresh set.

  Vito nodded. “Grazie.”

  Vincent stared down at the table, the anger he felt at Cooper resuming its fire in his chest. Had Cooper gone back to Fern after their “talk” and done this to her? Had nothing he’d done had any impact whatsoever?

  Vito paced around the back of Vincent’s chair. “But you do not deny you attacked Luigi?”

  “He’s hitting women, Capo. Someone needed to get involved.”

  “And who do you think should make that decision. Hmm? You? Or me?”

  Vincent nodded. “You.”

  “Correct.” Vito turned back to Fern. “My dear…does Luigi mistreat you?”

  She cleared her throat. “Sir?”

  “Does he hit you?” Vito clarified.

  She stood stiff. Vincent could hear her breaths as she struggled through the moment. Finally, she answered in barely more than a whisper, “No, sir. He treats me fine. He’s never hit me. I fell. I told Vincent I fell…that I was okay.”

  Wonderful. He’d put his neck on the line, and not only was Cooper still hitting her, but she’d just hung him out to dry. Why had he even bothered to get involved?

  Vito blinked at the woman, then smiled. “Thank you. You may go.” He snapped his fingers, and one of Vincent’s escorts stepped forward.

  Vincent continued to watch Fern. She didn’t look at him. She simply turned and left.

  Placing his hands on his wide hips, Vito marched back and forth along the stones. “We take oaths, Vincenzo. Every member of this family takes an oath. We do not kill one another. We do not covet another’s woman. It is proibito.” He stopped at the other chair and took a seat with a huff. “But you? You are not family. You have not taken the oaths. You are a tool. A weapon.”

  Vincent recrossed his legs and pulled his hands tight into his lap, watching the other man carefully for any sign of what was to come.

  Vito shook his head. “Do you know how the other branches of the family see me? Philadelphia has two stregore. Pittsburgh? Three. New York? Eight. And these are prized stock. All second generation, and they’ve had offspring.”