Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  He breathed in a nervous breath. “Right. Here it is. Shortly after I arrived, I got into a spot of trouble when I climbed into the car of a—”

  A black automobile with a white roof and a red dome atop it skidded to a halt at the curb beside them. The chrome grill shone in the pale streetlight and the word “Police” was displayed on the door.

  “It’s the coppers,” Lucy whispered fretfully.

  Already Pierce’s instincts were telling him that they weren’t stopping to have a friendly chat. Before the officers got out, Pierce discreetly unclipped Lucy’s purse, reached into it, and fished around until pulling out the flask. Just as he did, the doors opened. He had no time to toss the bloody thing away without their hawk eyes catching it, so he slipped it into his own pocket.

  Two cops stepped up onto the sidewalk, predatory looks on their faces. They were dressed in long black police coats with sterling silver badges pinned on them. One looked younger than his partner, with blonde hair and a scar on his cheek. The other had hard eyes that caught speckles of light even from under the brim of his hat. He had thin lips and a deep dimple in the middle of his square chin.

  The scarred cop tipped the bill of his hat up and asked, “Where are you kids off to at this hour?”

  Lucy breathed in deeply, blatantly concerned about the flask.

  “It’s pretty cold out for a stroll, wouldn’t you say, Dylan?” the scarred officer remarked to his partner.

  Officer Dylan said nothing, only stationed himself off to the side closest to Pierce.

  “We just came from the cinema,” Pierce answered.

  The younger cop tilted his head sideways when he spoke. “You from England, son?”

  Son? The bloke appeared to be his age!

  “Aye,” he answered, trying to remain compliant and not stir any shite up with them.

  “We have some Brits in our division. Every one of them walks around with a stick up their ass, don’t they, Dylan?”

  “That they do, Cian,” his partner finally spoke in a whimsical tone

  An Irishman.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Pierce said peevishly. “What is this about, eh?”

  Lucy’s grip on his arm tightened. She was getting more nervous, but Pierce’s patience was growing thinner. He didn’t much care for the bastards, and the feeling was obviously mutual from the moment he had opened his mouth.

  “We come across a lot of little night stalkers like you two going to and from speakeasies,” Cian explained.

  “We have our ticket stubs to prove where we were,” Lucy chimed in.

  The stubs were in Pierce’s pocket but instead of asking, Officer Cian snatched her pocketbook from her. These cockers were clearly aiming to bring someone in. Pierce only hoped Lucy hadn’t anything else incriminating on her.

  After rummaging through her purse with his partner shining his torch into it, he tossed it to her and huffed. “I couldn’t find any ticket stubs in there.”

  The light shone on Pierce’s face, forcing him to turn away.

  “What about you?” Officer Square Chin demanded. “Got anything?”

  Anything meant anything, but Pierce doubted they were talking about movie ticket stubs. He gave a crestfallen sigh, knowing he was about to make their night.

  “I have them in my jacket pocket.”

  He thought about reaching for them but knew from experience not to do so without having guns drawn on him. With Lucy present, he sure as hell didn’t want that to happen.

  “Can I get them?” he asked hopefully.

  The answer to his question was a swift shove against the wall—face first. Hands went into his pocket. He was only thankful he hadn’t a gun. In this century, it wasn’t customary to carry a firearm as he had initially believed.

  “What’s this, then?” Officer Cain grilled him, showing Pierce Lucy’s flask.

  She gasped.

  Pierce acted fast and said to her, “Sorry, darling. I know I promised I wouldn’t bring it with me, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “You knew nothing about this, ma’am?” Officer Cian asked her.

  She gawked at him, clearly reeling from the migration of her flask.

  “No,” Pierce interposed. “She bloody condemns the stuff. Before you arrest me, though, let me point out that this came from what I’d brought over from England. I’m not bootlegging anything.”

  “And the law states it isn’t illegal to drink personal alcohol,” Lucy rejoined, finding her voice again. “He’s broken no laws.”

  Pierce turned from the wall. Both officers gave them a hard look that suggested that they weren’t going to be easily detracted from their mission.

  “Even if we believed you,” Officer Cian objected, “public drinking is still a crime.”

  Shite!

  Dammit to all, he was off to jail. For once, he’d like to step outside and not fall into any bloody trouble. It just seemed to follow him as relentlessly as a curse.

  “No,” protested Lucy as Pierce was shoved against the wall again. “Don’t take him away.”

  “Stay out of it, ma’am,” Officer Dylan warned. “Or we’ll bring you in for interfering with police business.”

  “Leave her alone, you cocker,” Pierce seethed from over his shoulder. “She hasn’t done anything.”

  “What does cocker mean, you British prick?” Cian seethed.

  “The meaning lies in the insult, chum,” Pierce grumbled.

  “It means cock,” Officer Dylan explained.

  “Calling my partner a cock, huh?” Officer Cian growled, pulling Pierce’s arms back and handcuffing his wrists. “Well, we’ll see how that smart mouth of yours does as you sit in our jail cell for a while.”

  Pierce only imagined the sort of ruffians he’d meet. He needed to get the word out to someone somehow.

  While the cuffs were being clamped on, he said as calmly as he could, “Lucy, darling, would you be so kind as to tell my ride what’s happened? You’ll recognize him. Big fellow, crooked nose. His name is Frank.”

  Officer Cian yanked him off the wall and was about to lead him to the car when his partner stepped in. “Wait a minute. Big guy with a crooked nose? Are you talking about Frank Garcia?”

  A spike of fear pricked his heart. Pierce gave no answer to the arse for he wasn’t going to give Frank up although he feared he might just have done it.

  “Do you work for Kelly Quinn?” Officer Dylan demanded in a whisper.

  The wanker’s voice trembled when he spoke.

  In a posh, old-world manner, Pierce replied, “I, sir, may or may not have acquired service under said name.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” Officer Cian hollered, shaking him.

  “I think it means yes,” the other, smarter, officer clarified. “Let him go.”

  Pierce was rather surprised by the order. Yet, just like that, the cuffs were off and he was free.

  “Give Mr. Quinn our best regards,” Officer Dylan said before heading for their automobile.

  “Here,” the other grumbled, tossing the flask to Pierce. He touched the bill of his hat and said to Lucy, “Have a good night, ma’am.”

  The officers returned to their car and drove off, leaving Pierce and Lucy standing on the sidewalk, completely gobsmacked.

  “That was a lucky break,” he said.

  “They’re on the take.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Bought,” she explained.

  “Ah.”

  Lucy faced him. “Isaac. How did my flask end up in your pocket?”

  “I slipped it out of your pocketbook,” he answered with a casual shrug.

  “You did so without me noticing?”

  “Well, er . . . ” He fought to find the words. “When I came here, I hadn’t a penny to my name. I robbed some bloke in an alleyway and got his wallet.”

  Her expression was hard to read as if she was trying to figure him out. “You’re a thief?”

  “Aye. I thieve to survive. T
o get by.”

  “You paid for our date with stolen money?”

  Her voice never rose and her expression never changed.

  “Frank gave it to me.”

  “The cop mentioned Kelly Quinn. Do you really work for him?”

  Pierce hiked up his eyebrows. “You know who he is?”

  “I hear his name in the area from time to time. He isn’t as popular as Al Capone or even Leon Clark.”

  A stiff breeze ran down his neck. He wished he’d brought his scarf.

  “Leon. Aye, him.” Pierce walked on, folding his arms.

  Lucy followed beside him, “You’ve already heard of him, I take it.”

  “He’s the bloke I stole the wallet from.”

  “You did what?” she exclaimed, stopping. “Are you insane?”

  He turned and threw his hands up. “It’s not as if I knew who he was at the time. I was freezing and half starved. I needed cash or I’d most likely be dead by now.”

  Pierce honestly heard the shovel hitting the ground as he dug his own grave. He lowered his arms. “C’mon. Let’s head on over to the diner, eh?”

  They walked on in silence. Pierce figured he’d lost his chance with Lucy, which kept his mood low. When they reached the diner parking lot, they stopped.

  “Are you going to be all right here?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The joint will be closing soon. I’ll ask Ashley for a ride on her way home.”

  Then, in that sweet soft voice of hers, she said, “Thank you for what you did. If I’d gone to jail, I could have lost my job and a lot of my savings to pay the fines.”

  “No worries, love.”

  Lucy was a complicated lass. She seemed to want to keep her nose clean, and yet there was a restless mischievousness about her.

  “So, erm, do I dare ask?”

  “Ask what?”

  Nervous, he began rubbing behind his neck. “Can I, er, call on you again?”

  “Call on me? Is that what the British mean when they want to call you?”

  He really needed to practice speaking more like a person from the twentieth century. It was a spot of fun to fuck with the coppers, but around Lucy, he was only embarrassing himself.

  “Sure,” he answered simply.

  Lucy mulled it over before asking, “What exactly do you do for Mr. Quinn?”

  It was a serious question despite her soft-natured tone.

  “I’m apparently his errand boy. He’s sending me out to Rum Row.”

  “Rum Row?” she repeated, her voice barely past normal. Clearly, she had heard of it. “You’re going out there?”

  “Aye. Come morning.”

  She considered him a moment. “Is that all?”

  “At the moment. In case you’re wondering, though, I’m not a murderer. I merely fell into this racket just as I fell into becoming a thief. I never sought out any of it.”

  Again, silence came over her as she thought. She bowed her head slightly and said quietly, “All right. You can call me again sometime.”

  He was over the moon. “Really?”

  She raised her chin to him. “Be careful out there, Isaac Chaplin.”

  She surprised him with a quick kiss on the cheek before heading for the diner. The lights went out and Ashley and the horrible cook stepped out.

  “Hey, Lucy,” Ashley greeted her as the cook locked the door. “Need a ride home?”

  Pierce watched her leave while taking out his pack of cigarettes. They drove off and he waved to Lucy.

  A short time later, Frank arrived. Punctual cocker.

  Pierce got into the car and Frank turned to him and asked in his enchanting manner, “Get any ass?”

  Ten

  The Tank

  Sergeant Hawk Geo screamed into the police car radio. At the wheel was a rookie, Ethan Perkins. The kid was a newbie but also a damn good driver.

  “I don’t care if they’re shooting at you, Gardner! You stay on their tail!” Geo commanded the officer in the vehicle ahead of them.

  The day was young. The morning light had barely made an appearance. The streetlights gave the most illumination. Snowplows had already carved out paths through the thick layers of white in Hell’s Kitchen, which made this chase both easy as well as difficult. If the cops were lucky, the bootleggers would hit an unsalted patch of ice, throwing them out of control.

  The roads weren’t yet populated. There were mainly milk trucks and trolleys about.

  “We’re not letting these pricks get away. Do you hear me, Gardner? That’s an order!”

  “Yes, sir, I—”

  Geo clicked off the radio and the bulbs on the transmission box dimmed. He threw down the handheld microphone speaker instead of hanging it on the cradle, thereby allowing it to hang freely by its spiral cord.

  “Gardner is going to lose his nerve,” he told Officer Perkins. “Drive in front of him.”

  “Yes, sir,” the rookie said with a grin.

  Geo hoped the kid wouldn’t get cocky and blow the pursuit by losing control of the car.

  Shots from the bootleggers sounded ahead. He spotted a silhouette of the gunner aiming a handgun at them, sending off flashes of gunfire in their direction. At least the gunner didn’t have an auto-rifle. If Gardner was about to soil himself over potshots from a handgun, Geo could only imagine what he would do if a volley of bullets came at him.

  Perkins accelerated and pulled past the other police vehicle before cutting sharply in front. Once they had secured a lock on the lawbreaker’s bumper, Geo grabbed his auto-rifle. Too many of these bastards had escaped. Today, Geo was getting his collar one way or another.

  The gunner kept firing off potshots even as the automobile he was riding in skidded around a corner and onto Forty-Ninth Street. The cop cars did the same, rounding the corner in time to see the bootleggers heading steadily toward a trolley as they drove on the wrong side of the street. The slick road made it difficult for the driver to take quick action. Geo clenched his teeth in anticipation, something he hadn’t done since the war. In the second before impact, the car swerved out of the way and veered into the proper lane. The automobile steadied and picked up speed once again.

  “Closer,” he demanded the rookie.

  Perkins shifted into fourth and accelerated toward their quarry. The near miss with the trolley had apparently rattled the gunman and he’d retreated inside like a gopher down its hole. It granted Geo the advantage he needed.

  He yanked back the bolt and leaned out the window. A fire-storm of lead sprayed from the gun, its barrel lighting up with flashes. The kickback caused his muscles to tighten. His aim, though, wasn’t on the bootleggers, but on the rear tires. A weapon such as the auto-rifle didn’t require great marksmanship in order to find the target. Bullets riddled the trunk all the way down to where the tires were rolling beneath the car. Both wheels burst with loud bangs, sending the automobile into a helpless tailspin. Unable to maintain control, the driver swerved and jumped the curb, crashing straight into the front door of a small grocery store.

  “Stop the car!” Geo screamed.

  Perkins skidded the vehicle to a slippery halt near the wreckage just as five people clambered out. Before they had a chance to flee, Geo got out and shot at them. The bootleggers opened fire as they retreated into the store. Geo and Perkins headed for the rear exit with the sergeant ordering Gardner to guard the front.

  Geo ran through the short alleyway, the hard soles of his shoes clanked loudly against the icy concrete. In the war, he had run through icy fields, and though not as slick as the pavement, ice was still ice, and Geo had learned how to move across it no matter where it lay.

  The grocery store merged into two different structures, creating an extra stretch of narrow lane by several yards. When he neared the end of the store, he saw the bootleggers were already rushing out. Geo slid to an abrupt halt and aimed his auto-rifle.

  A volley of deadly force caused the leader of the pack to arch his back when a line of lead pocketed it. The one b
ehind him caught a bullet in the arm but managed to retreat into the building, ducking out of Geo’s sight.

  “Go inside!” the bootlegger called out. “Go back in!”

  When Geo and Perkins reached the door, they found it was already closed and locked.

  “Bastards!” Geo cursed.

  His bloodlust boiled him to the bone. Geo ran around behind the grocery store and opened fire on the door. He kept pressure on the trigger. The auto-rifle held a hundred rounds and he never let up until the terrible blasting turned into a whirling sound as the empty drum spun. When he finally released the trigger and the shrill sound of the running drum ceased, he discovered cries were echoing from within the shredded structure. The door was in tatters but continued to stand. Countless holes had penetrated the brick exterior. Geo believed he’d gotten them all, but then someone shot at him and Perkins through a gap in the door. Perkins pulled back on his trigger as the officers scrambled back beside the grocery store. The return fire had caught Geo off-guard, but he recovered quickly. Fortunately, the shadows of the taller surrounding buildings helped obscure the gunman’s line of sight. Or, perhaps he was wounded. Either way, it was a lucky break for the officers.

  Hardened by battles and bloodshed, Hawk Geo was not a man to be crossed. Geo was forty-six and he looked the part of a soldier with a strong, brick-like face and a body nearly as firm as any youth. He’d been a major until a string of winning battles against the Machine Men earned him the rank of lieutenant general.

  “Stay by this corner,” Geo instructed the rookie. “If any of those sons of bitches tries for another escape, put a bullet in ’em. Got it?”

  He yelled it loud enough for the bootlegging rats to hear. He wanted them to stay in the building until reinforcements arrived.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Geo hurried to his police vehicle and switched on the radio. The moment the bulbs lit up, he snatched the speaker from where it still hung. “Dispatch! This is Sergeant Hawk Geo. Come in. Over.”

  He eased off the button and waited a few moments before a crackly voice came through. “Dispatch. What can we do for you, Sergeant?”

  “My officers and I have a handful of dangerous criminals trapped inside . . .” He looked at the name of the store. “. . . Alon Grocery on Forty-Ninth Street. We need assistance. Get a tank here.”