Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  But still, did she have to be a virtual prisoner?

  “You want me to talk to someone? I could,” Vincent pressed.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  Silence fell over the table, broken by the welcome arrival of the server asking for their order.

  Vincent froze. It was customary for a gentleman to order for his lady, but they hadn’t discussed the menu yet. Or, was he expected to just know what she’d want? His stomach gripped in a moment of panic as the server eyed him with thinning patience.

  He reviewed the menu once again. The only dishes he recognized happened to be the most expensive.

  “So, what’re you thinking?” he asked Fern, venturing her opinion.

  “Whatever you like is fine. You choose.”

  Wonderful. No help from her at all. Vincent took a breath and ordered a brie en croute as a starter and lamb for mains, hoping she ate lamb. Once the waiter disappeared, Vincent took another stab at conversation.

  “You like the wine?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Vincent balled his toes inside his shoe, hiding a wince as he tried to keep the conversation moving along. “It comes from the Capo’s vineyard.”

  “I know,” she said with a hollow stare. “I was there.”

  “Oh. Right.” Another unpleasant memory. That was the day she’d tossed him under the train. How much of that had been loyalty to Cooper, and how much had been fear, Vincent wasn’t sure.

  The arrival of food did nothing to improve the conversation. Every attempt at small talk was met with flat charm. Every effort at deeper conversation was met with dismissive silence. Everything was “fine.” By the time they’d finished their mains, and Fern had excused herself to powder her nose, Vincent was left with the notion that she was bored…and so was he.

  He peered around the atrium restaurant. So many familiar faces, though these were the Old Guard. Proud members of the Baltimore Crew, who remembered a time before Vito Corbi had taken the reins. They remembered Jim D’Urso, and the empire he’d scraped together with his own hands. Vito’s tenure was still relatively new, by their reckoning. When they made eye contact with Vincent, he found little more than disdain. No one took him seriously among the Crew. Many probably felt it unseemly that he would spend outlandish amounts of money here, in their temple, dining a woman who had belonged to one of their own.

  Vincent rubbed his forehead. This dinner was painfully expensive. What was he thinking? He could have taken Fern to any hole-in-the-wall. This had been as much about his standing among the family as it was about getting to know her, and he’d failed on both accounts.

  When Fern returned, she pulled her chair around the table to sit closer to Vincent. He lifted his brow but said nothing. As the woman took a seat, she wound her hand around his arm, squeezing it tight.

  Huh. Perhaps this wasn’t a failed evening, after all.

  “Dessert?” he offered.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she just sat tight-jawed, staring at the candle as her grip tightened.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “We should leave,” she whispered.

  Vincent repeated his question, peering over his shoulder at the path she’d taken through the hotel atrium. Near the wood-carved bar tucked into the side room Vincent spotted a ruddy-faced man nursing a martini glass. He scowled as his eyes latched onto Vincent’s.

  Cooper.

  Beside him was a well-dressed man with a beak-like nose, gesturing with a glass as he made his way through what appeared to be a thick conversation. Cooper’s eyes left that conversation as they bore into Vincent.

  “Did he say something to you?” he snarled.

  “No. But we should go.”

  Vincent nodded, then signaled for the bill. He tossed down more dollars than he’d been prepared to spend that night, then pulled Fern’s chair for her. As they left the atrium, he shot a steady glare back at Cooper, who turned back to the fellow chewing his ear.

  The mood inside the car was quiet and tense. Vincent knew better than to attempt to draw out the evening. Instead, he returned Fern to the mansion, and walked her to the door.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she stated, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll see you around.”

  Vincent returned Lefty’s car, parking it on the street in front of his house and walking the rest of the way home in the humid night air. What a bust this whole evening had been. Frustration and indignation swirled inside Vincent’s chest as he thought about Cooper. There was no sensible way to remove him from the situation. Cooper was Crew. He was there to stay.

  Vincent grinned as he wondered if the Russians couldn’t start back in the gambling business, just to put the boot to Cooper’s gambling parlor. Maybe they’d remove Cooper from the situation?

  Such dark thoughts evaporated as Vincent spotted a familiar Model T Runabout swinging down the lane. A young red-haired woman drove the truck past Vincent, not spotting him.

  Hattie Malloy.

  She’d be on her way to that warehouse of Lizzie Sadler’s, probably returning from some liquor run up the Chesapeake. He was to have another meeting with her next week, and the remembrance lightened Vincent’s mood. Hattie was a stubborn Irish river rat with spunk and a quick temper. Conversations with her were occasionally contentious, but he’d laughed more in the time he spent with her than he had in the sum total of his life. With Hattie he could talk about what it was like to be a pincher, about the Crew’s business. She infuriated him, and sometimes left him speechless with her bold wit, but she was never boring. With her, he never had to resort to conversing about the weather, or the potholes on Light Street.

  He’d just seen her a week ago, but found himself longing for next Sunday. Maybe he didn’t have to wait for next Sunday. After all, he actually had some information, for a change. A demon in Amish country, possibly the location of a Hell pincher who could explain this strange bond between Vincent and that headstrong light pincher.

  That surely warranted moving their meeting up a bit.

  Chapter 5

  By Tuesday, a cold front brought a solid morning of rain to the city. The skies had only just cleared as Hattie exited her house to walk downtown. Side-stepping a puddle gathering in the mud in front of the pharmacy on Light Street, she sneered thinking on how long it’d taken her to choose her clothes that morning. It was a rainy mid-week afternoon, and the mud would be everywhere. There were no Bay runs for the Crew that day, but it made no sense to bother with one of her dresses. No sense whatsoever.

  All she was doing was meeting with Vincent.

  He’d left a message with Lizzie by way of a courier. Apparently, he’d made some progress on their personal inquiries so it would be an interesting meeting with the time pincher. Although if she were to be completely honest with herself, every meeting with him was interesting.

  To date, their rendezvous had mostly consisted of spirited conversation peppered with speculation. Sometimes Vincent would go on and on about the “connection” they had, wondering how it was that they were immune to each other’s powers when that had never been the case with any other pinchers he’d heard of. Did it have something to do with their particular abilities? Or did the mutual immunity have to do with that demon down in Deitaville? Vincent always seemed far more invested in this whole thing than she was. Although…she’d looked into that creature’s eyes. She’d seen something vast, endless, celestial. There was beauty within that tortured being of flesh and flame.

  Maybe she was just as invested as Vincent, after all.

  In her reverie, she wandered near the edge of the street just as a car came swinging around the corner. Its tires slashed into one of the puddles pooling up in the muddy street. Hattie sucked in a breath as a wave of filthy water sprayed into the air. She clamped her eyes shut and turned her face.

  The sounds on the street muffled, pulled long and dark like rubber. Then silence. Nothing but her heartbeat. T
he air was suddenly thick, nearly unbreathable. Hattie smiled. She hadn’t felt this sensation for months. Not since Deltaville.

  When she opened her eyes, she found the muddy water had crystallized in midair. Rather than a sheet of muck, the water glistened like tiny diamond beads hanging on invisible strings from the sky. The car stood still as a statue, its driver squinting through thick glasses at the street ahead. And just past the arch of suspended puddle water stood a dark-haired man in a gray suit and hat, hands in his vests pockets, a playful smirk painted on his face.

  Hattie tried to say something, but her voice couldn’t manage anything more than a muffled gurgle. She rolled her eyes and nodded. Right. Can’t talk inside one of Vincent’s time bubbles.

  Stepping past the splash that would have doomed her to misery for the rest of the day, she wove around an older couple walking arm-in-arm, then stood before Vincent with a cock of her hip and a lift of her brow.

  He took a hand from his vest pocket to hold it for a second in the air, then snapped his fingers.

  The water careened over the side of the road, reaching clear across to the building. Car engines roared to life. The older couple continued their stroll, pausing as the mud washed along their path.

  “I suppose I should thank you for that,” Hattie said.

  Vincent shrugged. “I’m just bein’ a gentleman over here. They don’t hand out medals for that sorta thing.”

  “Well, boy-o, you’re my hero for the day then.”

  He chuckled and turned to walk alongside her as they approached a café. The outdoor seats were still beaded with rainwater from the morning’s downpour, and the owners hadn’t made an effort clean them off. Hattie suggested they move on, but Vincent held out a hand for her to wait. He stepped inside the café for only a minute, after which two young men hopped out with towels to wipe one of the tables dry, along with two chairs. Once they were done, Vincent held a chair out for Hattie, who took a seat with a snicker.

  “I hope you didn’t threaten their families, or anything,” she said.

  Vincent sat across from her, pulled off his hat to hang it on a chair post nearby, then shook his head. “I don’t play with people’s families. That’s dirty work. No stomach for that sorta thing.”

  “Good to know.” She knew better than to press the issue of family further. That was a raw nerve she had no interest in poking.

  They ordered coffee from one of the panicked young men. When Vincent offered to pay for it, Hattie added a scone to the order. His eyes widened with the barest flicker of alarm, and she regretted the move immediately.

  “No, forget the scone,” she told the waiter.

  “Bring the scone,” Vincent told the man.

  “I changed my mind. I don’t want it.”

  “You do, or you wouldn’t have ordered it.”

  The waiter’s head was swiveling back and forth. Hattie resisted the urge to smother Vincent with her napkin. Drat the man. Here she was trying to let him save face, but his stupid pride wouldn’t allow him to take the gracious out.

  “I don’t want the scone,” she ground out.

  “Well, you’re getting the scone.”

  She fixed him with a glare. “If that scone shows up on this table, it’s going right up your nose, boy-o.”

  The waiter sucked in a breath. She saw the corner of Vincent’s mouth twitch up before he clamped his lips down tight.

  “Fine. No scone. And can we possibly have one conversation where you don’t get your knickers in a twist and threaten me with bodily harm? Just one?”

  She sat back at batted her eyelashes at him. “Well, okay. Just this once. And only because I’m not wearing any knickers.”

  The waiter took off as if she’d set him on fire. Vincent’s cheeks flushed, a disconcerted expression on his face. Hattie grinned.

  “I…you aren’t serious, are you? No! Don’t tell me.” He waved his hands in front of his face and shut his eyes tight. “I don’t want to know.”

  “You sure?” she asked.

  He sputtered, then opened his eyes and started to laugh. “What, are you going to show me, right here on the street in front of the café? Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “You’re adorable when you’re flustered, you know?” She smirked. “So, time pincher, how’s life in your corner of the city?”

  He began by telling her about an issue at one of the gaming establishments, then went on about a situation in New York that was rapidly escalating. The tension fell from his shoulders, the lines around his mouth easing as he spoke. By the second cup of coffee, he was imitating Lefty making a fuss over some subpar chowder, waving his hand around and duplicating the other man’s dour tone and expression.

  Hattie wiped the tears from her eyes, trying to catch her breath from laughing. “You shoulda been an actor. Either on stage, or the new talkies I hear about. You’d a been famous.”

  “Valentino famous?” he teased. “Probably not. I don’t have his looks.”

  She opened her mouth to contradict him, then thought better. The man had a big enough head without her inflating it further. Although as she’d gotten to know him, she’d realized that his cocksure attitude didn’t extend much beyond his pincher abilities.

  “You’d have held your own,” she told him instead.

  His smile turned wistful. “Maybe if things had been different. What about you?”

  “Me?” She shrugged. “I’m happy with what I do. I like being on the water, and working with Lizzie and Raymond. Can’t imagine anything I’d rather do than be a boat-legger.”

  He reached over across the table and tapped the end of her nose with his finger. “Well, wear a hat then, girl. You’ve got a touch of sunburn.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I do wear a hat. It’s the curse of Irish skin. Sunburn and freckles everywhere.”

  “Everywhere?” he teased.

  And now she was the one flustered and choking on her coffee. “Wouldn’t you like to know, mister.”

  He grinned, leaning back in his chair and cradling his cup of coffee in his hands. “Yes, I would. They’re cute. I like freckles.”

  And now her whole face probably looked like it was sunburned. Her eyes met his and they both smiled, something warm and electric sparking through the air between them.

  “More coffee?” the waiter asked, breaking the spell. Vincent nodded, and the man filled both cups to the brim, checking to make sure they had adequate sugar and cream on hand.

  “So, time pincher,” Hattie said once the waiter had left, “what’s all this exciting news you were hinting at in your note?”

  Vincent thumped his hand down onto the table for effect. “Right. So, there’s a new pincher up in Philly by the name of Arnoud. I’ve been nosing around the campfire, digging up rumors and such. Most of it was bushwa, but time-to-time I got a nugget.”

  “What, you talk to people? Complete sentences and everything? Amazing.”

  He crossed his arms, leaned back, and with an exaggerated sigh asked, “You done?”

  “Not even remotely.”

  “Anyway, this Arnoud let slip some details about a run-in with a sort of demon up in Pennsylvania. So, I decided to pay him a visit.”

  “And it turned out,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows with conspiratorial mirth, “he was no more than a drunk old bastard who’d gotten pissed on country wine and was seein’ things. Am I right?”

  Vincent chuckled. “Not quite. He’s a touch pincher, according to DeBarre.”

  “And who’s he, then?” she asked.

  “The old guard. Philly’s original pincher. Met the man a while back. Good enough fella, though I think he and Lefty both got their charm from St. Cecilia’s Finishing School and Knife Fighting Academy for Sour-pussed Heels.”

  Hattie nearly choked on her coffee. She set it back onto the table gingerly, and leaned forward. “Is this Arnold for real, then?”

  “Arnoud. I think he’s from Canada, maybe. Anyways, yeah. This guy doesn’t look like the
type to spin a yarn.”

  “So, either he’s real or he’s insane.”

  Vincent nodded. “And he’s no one either of us want to cross. Trust me on that count.”

  Hattie laughed. “Hell, boy-o. I’ve trusted you with plenty already.”

  His face darkened, and he unfolded his arms to lean in. “On that point, there’s something you should know.”

  She took a breath and braced for whatever could draw him so quickly out of his good mood.

  Vincent cleared his throat. “There’s some heat out on the streets, right now. Things aren’t so settled in the city as we’d like. It’s probably best if you keep your head down, you know?”

  “Head down?” she repeated.

  “Up the coast, the families are getting some push-back from the Russians.”

  Hattie squinted. Russians. Bratva. “Is that a fact?” she whispered. “I thought you people put a good drubbing to those Russians a year or so ago.”

  Vincent closed his eyes. “Yeah. We did.”

  When he opened his eyes, they seemed more haunted than usual. Hattie sipped her coffee, letting the moment pass.

  Vincent continued as he gathered himself, “Which is why it’s not so much a problem in Baltimore. Up to New York? P.A.? Not as quiet.”

  “Well, if it’s out of state, then what’s with this storm crow harangue?”

  “Problem is that when the heat gets turned up, the families start looking hard for pinchers.”

  Hattie’s smirk faded. “Oh.”

  Vincent nodded. “Vito’s trying to find pinchers through the usual back channels, but there are none to be had. Word is, there’s a buyer’s market on pinchers, so, free elements such as yourself are in demand.” He added in a softer tone, “I want you to keep your light pinching to a bare minimum. You understand?”

  She rolled the thought around a bit as cars passed on the street. “But there’s nothing specific, eh? Vito hasn’t put out a fresh new crusade?”