by Renée Rosen
I poured myself a drink, took a deep breath and began to sort through the envelopes, one at a time. I was overwhelmed by the mortgage and car payments. Plus, I still owed Marshall Field’s and Carson’s more than four thousand dollars for the items I’d bought months before while Shep was on trial. Shep had never questioned my spending; he’d never wanted to say no to me and now I wished that he had.
As I began making a list, trying to prioritize what needed to be paid first, my fountain pen started to leak. The sight of that black ink covering my fingers and the butt of my hand infuriated me. I didn’t know where this sudden rage came from, but it boiled up inside me. I slammed the fountain pen down, causing more ink to escape from the reservoir and it made me so angry that with a sweep of my arm I cleared the desktop, sending the bills flying to the floor along with the lamp, cracking the base in two. I was breathing hard, practically panting as I looked at the mess. I dropped my head to my hands and gave way to heaving sobs. The tears poured out of me, hanging from the tip of my nose, falling one by one onto the empty desktop.
When I was all cried out, I dried my eyes, blew my nose and gathered up the bills. The broken lamp would have to wait. The tears helped, and I was calmer now, able to face what I didn’t want to look at.
Among the envelopes were three letters addressed to Mr. Shepherd Green from Mr. Warren Steel in Milwaukee. Thinking they were urgent, I opened the letters and read through each one. Essentially they all said the same thing: He’d been trying to reach Shep for several weeks and had finally tracked down his home address. The long and the short of it was that Mr. Steel had a warehouse of liquor. Canadian whiskey. “The real stuff,” as he put it. He needed to move the merchandise. He’d been cheated in the past by some associates of Capone’s. “But I’ve heard you’re a fair businessman and that you cut a level deal. . . .” Obviously he hadn’t heard that Shep had gone away—apparently that news hadn’t traveled across state lines.
I set the letters aside, eased back in Shep’s oversize chair, and gazed out the window into the night. The wind kicked up and I listened to the tree branches scraping against the side of the house. It gave me a chill. I wondered if my mother had felt this frightened and helpless after my father was killed. What made her think she could have stepped in and learned to run his business? If I were a man—or if I were more like my mother—I could have taken up Warren Steel’s offer and told him I’d do it. I’d be the one who’d cut him a level deal. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Just how much was a warehouse full of “the real stuff” worth?
I got up and got the key to Shep’s desk. Unlocking the bottom drawer, I pulled out all the folders dating back to January of 1920. Scooting closer to the desk, I traced my finger down and across each column. The total revenue from importing liquor reached into the thousands, even the tens of thousands. I looked at the list of suppliers and the list of customers. One or two names sounded familiar, restaurants I’d either been to or had heard of. By the time I got to the 1925 file, there was a whole new set of customers and suppliers and still more new entries in 1926. Since the early 1920s, at the start of Prohibition, the dollar amounts had tripled, even quadrupled.
I finished combing through Shep’s files just as the sun was coming up, sending a haze of pale morning light through the windows. I should have been exhausted but instead I made a pot of coffee and paced back and forth in the kitchen, the wheels turning. . . . If I could make even a fraction of the money indicated in those files, I’d be okay. Hannah would be provided for.
I had watched Shep long enough to learn a thing or two. And my mother, too. In a lot of ways, the liquor trade was no different from the meatpacking business. Or any business, for that matter. It all came down to supply and demand.
It was crazy. Too risky. Women didn’t do this sort of thing. But then again, women didn’t run meatpacking plants, either. And there were those women bootleggers I’d read about in the newspaper, the ones who’d outrun the police. . . .
Another cup of coffee, two more cigarettes.
I was about to telephone Evelyn when Hannah let out a shrill cry. I dropped the phone and raced up to the nursery. Hannah’s face was red and blotchy. Her beautiful brown eyes were teary and unfocused. I felt the heat coming off her body even before I checked for a fever. She was burning up.
I lifted her from the crib just as she threw up on the front of my bathrobe. Balancing her on my hip, I rushed her into the bathroom and dabbed cool tap water on her forehead and the back of her neck. She continued to cry, and with each heaving shriek, I felt another stab to my heart.
Other than some teething pain and a stuffy nose or two, she’d never really been sick before and I couldn’t afford to have the doctor come. I laid her down on my bed while I rushed to the kitchen. With a pick, I frantically broke off chunks of ice from the icebox and wrapped them in a towel. For the rest of the day I kept ice packs around her but they weren’t doing much good. Her cheeks were still red and her tiny body was drenched in sweat. Poor thing couldn’t keep anything down. All I could do was rock her in my arms, saying, “I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m so sorry I can’t make this better.”
I was failing her. Again. And even though she was so young and probably wouldn’t remember any of it, I would never forget.
Six long hours later her fever finally broke. I went downstairs and made myself a fresh pot of coffee. While the percolator was brewing I went into the powder room and cleaned the dried vomit off my robe. I looked at myself in the mirror, disgusted by the dark purplish circles beneath my eyes, the grayish cast to my skin. It was the first time I saw a resemblance between my mother and me.
I couldn’t look at myself any longer. My child was sick and I couldn’t even afford a doctor’s visit. I couldn’t go on like this. I had to do something.
Was the idea of selling liquor really that absurd? Especially when the plan had practically fallen in my lap. Wasn’t that a sign? Thanks to Warren Steel, I had a source for the supply. All I needed to do was find customers. Customers who weren’t doing business with the North Siders. But I had the list, dating back to 1920. I knew who to stay away from and who was fair game. I knew that some former customers hadn’t been profitable enough for the North Siders, but they would be plenty big enough for me. The key to making this work was keeping it small, contained, and inconspicuous. If I could resurrect just one of those accounts, I’d be okay. I knew I could do it, but I couldn’t do it alone.
Evelyn thought I was kidding. I showed her Warren Steel’s letters, and once she realized I was serious, she set them on the table, glanced into her coffee cup, and said, “I’m afraid I’m going to need something stronger than this.”
“I’ve got it all figured out,” I said, taking down a couple glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “I have a list of speakeasies, hotels, restaurants, and private customers we can sell to.”
“What’s this we business?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but we can do this. We can. There’re plenty of small outfits out there—too small for anyone else to bother with, but it’ll put money in our pockets. Good money. And the other day when I asked if I could borrow a few dollars, remember you said you were tight? Remember? You said Izzy was cutting back on your spending money?”
“He doesn’t have the Meridian anymore and you know things have been tough since Hymie’s been gone, but—”
“Listen to me.” I reached over and grabbed her hands. “Dora tried to warn me a long time ago, but I didn’t listen. And now I’m telling you—if something happens to Izzy, you’ll be in the same boat as me. Do you want to go back to being a typewriter, counting every penny? You have to start making your own money.”
Evelyn freed her hands and took a long sip of whiskey. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Believe me, I know there’s risk involved in making liquor runs, but I’ve given this a lot of thought. I have a child and I’m not going to do something foolish. We just have to be smart about this.”
“Smarter than
the guys?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Are you forgetting that Izzy was shot driving a truck of liquor? They could have killed him.”
“This is different. Capone’s men were waiting for Izzy. And he was leading a caravan of trucks. I’m not talking about doing anything on a scale like that. All we’d need to sell is just ten or fifteen cases at a time. We’d put them right in the backseat of Shep’s car and throw a blanket over the top. Nobody would even notice us. And who would ever suspect a couple women of transporting liquor? I’m telling you, they wouldn’t even bother with us for ten or fifteen cases. It would be no different from you and me driving up to Wisconsin to see your aunt Millie.”
“Only I don’t have an aunt Millie.” Evelyn cocked her eyebrow and took a pull from her drink.
I gave her a jab with my elbow. “Let’s just go up there and talk to Warren Steel. For all I know he’s already found someone to work with. He may not need us. But let’s just meet with him.”
She stared into her glass, refusing to look at me.
“Please, Evelyn.” My voice began to crack. “I’m dying here. I’m flat broke. I have to do something. I won’t make it through the winter. I don’t know when Shep’s coming home. I don’t . . .”
“Shhh . . .” She gave me the same look she’d served up all our lives when I’d been able to convince her to do something she didn’t want to do, like pinch a chocolate bar or perfumed sachets from the corner store. “Okay,” she said, setting down her empty glass. “We’ll go meet with him.”
• • •
The next day, I pulled out a map and laid it down flat across the dining room table. Evelyn and I held down the corners with the heels of our hands and traced the roads we needed to take.
When we were set, I bundled up Hannah and dropped her off at Dora’s house.
“There’s my baby!” Dora picked Hannah up, bouncing her on her hip.
“We’ll be back late tonight,” I said, stroking Hannah’s curls.
“We’re going to visit my aunt Millie in Milwaukee,” Evelyn blurted out.
I shot her a look, though Dora didn’t seem fazed. She was busy fussing over Hannah.
“Well, we should get going.” I planted kisses on Hannah’s forehead and cheeks and waved good-bye.
Evelyn and I climbed back inside Shep’s car and headed toward Milwaukee.
“See,” I said to her as we were leaving the city limits, the skyline fading into the distance, “this is what it would be like. This is exactly what we’d be doing. Doesn’t seem so dangerous now, does it?”
After getting lost twice, we finally turned onto a long country road lined with evergreens, with shacklike houses peppered here and there. The street dead-ended at what looked like an abandoned barn.
“Are you sure this is it?” Evelyn asked.
I double-checked the address on one of Warren Steel’s letters. “This is the place.”
We found Mr. Warren Steel inside. He was a short man with a slight frame and a Dr. Grabow–style pipe planted in his mouth. I would have guessed him to be in his mid- to late thirties. He was clean-shaven with sprigs of reddish brown hair sprouting up from his glossy scalp. He wore coveralls and mud-caked work boots.
“You girls lost?”
“No.” I held out my hand and introduced myself using my maiden name. “I understand that you have some liquor that we could buy.”
He took a step back, pulled the pipe from his mouth. “This isn’t a speakeasy, miss. If you want a drink—”
“No, no, I realize that. But see, I have some people looking for whiskey and I’ve heard you have some you’d like to sell.”
“Where’d you hear that from?”
“Let’s just say I have some people looking out for me.” I had to keep Shep and the North Siders out of it.
He closed his hand around the bowl of his pipe and took a puff, squinting one eye. “I may have what you’re looking for.” He took another couple slow puffs and looked at our automobile parked out front. I hadn’t thought about it before, but I supposed pulling up in a new Cadillac hadn’t hurt our cause. “Follow me,” he said.
He led us to a musty back room, and when he reached up for the string hanging from a naked bulb, the scene came to life. There were rows of wooden crates stacked floor to ceiling, each plastered with a “Baker’s Flour” label on the side.
Opening one of the crates, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey, wiped off the dust, uncapped the top and handed it to me.
I held the bottle, studying the label: Distilled in Canada. Imported Genuine Canadian Blend . . . I looked up and gave him a nod.
“I assume you want to sample the merchandise,” he said.
“Of course.” I took a sip. It was the real stuff, just like he’d said. I passed the bottle to Evelyn, who looked like she could have used a good belt of whiskey. She hadn’t said a word since we’d arrived.
Warren Steel rocked back on his heels and eyed me first and then Evelyn. “I’ve never dealt with a couple of women before.”
I nodded. “I understand your hesitation.” I took a step forward and handed back his bottle. “But remember, I’ve never dealt with you before, either.”
He snickered.
I peered into the case he had uncrated and then looked him in the eye. “Mr. Steel, I know you’ve been cheated before, but you’ll find that I’m more than fair. I’m not out to chisel you. And between the two of us”—I gestured toward Evelyn—“we’ll get your merchandise moving. Unless, of course, you’d rather it just sit in your warehouse collecting dust.”
He struck a match and fired up his pipe, filling the musty air with the sweet smell of tobacco. Squinting from the smoke, he said, “I’ll let you have it for twenty-five dollars a case.”
I hesitated the right amount of time before I said, “That’ll be just fine.”
I detected a smile.
• • •
“Did you hear yourself in there?” Evelyn said once we got back to the car. “You sounded like a regular bootlegger. Where did you learn to wheel and deal like that?”
I pulled out a cigarette and tapped it to the center of the steering wheel. “Helps to have a mother who’s dealt with men all her life.” I sounded coy about it, but I was damn proud of how I’d conducted myself in there. I struck the match, holding it while it burned for a second or two.
“My lord.” Sinking down in the passenger seat, Evelyn propped her feet up on the dash and began to laugh. “Wow—was that ever fun!”
I lit my cigarette and shot her a surprised look. “Just remember, now we have to find some people to sell his liquor to.”
Before we’d left, Warren Steel and I had shaken hands and I was given a bottle for sampling. I told him we’d be back in touch to set up our first pickup and delivery.
Evelyn and I spent the rest of the week going over the list of customers from Shep’s files.
After a long drive to the west side of the city, we arrived outside a dilapidated building with boarded-up windows and a splintered sign that said, “Gaylord’s Fine Dining.”
“Well,” I said, putting the car in park and looking at Evelyn, “what’s next?”
Next came a string of abandoned saloons.
“How are we going to find a customer when everybody’s out of business?” said Evelyn, fishing a piece of chewing gum out of her pocketbook.
“Don’t lose hope. We still have more places to try.”
Twenty minutes later we pulled up to a modest-looking brick building on Sheffield near the el tracks. There was no sign outside, but the address matched up.
I pulled out my compact and a tube of lipstick. “Now just follow my lead,” I said, giving myself a quick touch-up.
Evelyn finished her cigarette and we headed inside, letting a wedge of daylight pierce an otherwise dark tavern. It smelled of stale beer and tobacco. A film clung to the glasses behind the bar and it looked as though they hadn’t been washed in a year. My shoes were sticki
ng to the floor.
Three grisly-looking men at the bar stared us up and down.
One of them stood up and circled around us. “You gals wanna drink?”
I shot a sideways glance at Evelyn. My pulse was racing.
“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a pudgy middle-aged man with pockmarked cheeks and gray stubble along his chin.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” I said. “I think we have the wrong place.”
I grabbed Evelyn and as soon as we cleared the doorway, we ran for the car.
Once we were a safe distance away, I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and threw the car in park. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I sighed. “You were right. This is crazy.”
“Don’t be discouraged. Who’s left?” Evelyn reached for the list and scanned down the names. “We haven’t tried this place yet.” She shoved the paper before me.
“It’s all the way up in Northfield.” I blew out another sigh. I was tired and my legs were stiff from sitting in the car all day. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”
“But there’re still at least half a dozen places to try.”
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Ev. You were right all along. This was a dumb idea.”
“Oh, c’mon! Don’t give up. We can’t quit now. All we need is one—just one person to give us a chance.” She cocked her eyebrow and gave me her best Billy the Kid. “C’mon, what do you say? I know we can do this. I know we can.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry but I don’t see how this is going to work.” Feeling defeated, I put the car in gear and headed back onto the road.
I dropped Evelyn off and then stopped at Dora’s to get Hannah. It was already dark, and the streetlamps were glowing like globes hovering over their neighborhood. I hoped Dora had fed Hannah, maybe even given her a bath.