by Debra Dunbar
Vincent eyed the Capo raising a freshly filled glass of red wine as others joined him.
“It was supposed to be me, Lefty. There was no risk that way.” He added with a sigh, “I wasn’t trying to put the screws to you. You have to believe that.”
Lefty shrugged. “Well, it don’t matter now. Does it?” After a long glare, he turned to walk away. “I have some calls to make.”
Chapter 9
Hattie hopped onto a street car on Maryland Avenue, glancing back at the Cathedral of the Annunciation as she took a seat. The enormous circular edifice loomed on the corner, its granite blocks hewn into a bulbous knot of Greek architecture. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow as the street car lurched forward, her stomach rumbling, and a wave of nausea sweeping through her body. She’d used a lot of magic inside that building, and now she was paying for it.
Her practice had come in handy. The long-bearded Orthodox priest inside had turned her away when she asked for a word, yammering something about women and rules. And so, she spied one of the young Greek men walking along Preston and followed him for a couple blocks to digest his voice and inflection. With that, she pinched light over her face to create the illusion of being a Greek lad. Whether it was because the old priest was hard of hearing and nearsighted, or whether the practice Hattie’d poured into performing her illusions had paid dividends, the man proved more cooperative the second time around. And Hattie had the information she wanted.
She fished the handwritten card stock from her pocket, eyeing the Greek text scribed with polished loops—text she had just translated.
Know thyself.
It wasn’t a threat, after all. Rather, the message became an urging. An admonishment.
Perhaps even a rebuke.
Hattie had lost herself inside her own illusion because she’d underestimated how deeply the fantasy of a normal home life had rooted into her psyche. She’d always assumed that, should her powers overtake her, she would pass out before the magic levied a lethal price. She was wrong. It was a learning experience, and it could have been her last. Whoever had sent Hattie this note seemed to understand that.
And didn’t want to see her repeat it.
Lifted by the line of thought, Hattie took the streetcar to the end of the line, stepping out near the harbor. The walk to the warehouse would be reasonable, and the weather was warm and clear. So, she set out along the dusty trail around the fingers of the harbor toward Locust Point, shuffling off the illness from her light pinching as a wave of optimism swept through her.
She caught sight of Tony’s car as it kicked up a plume of dust on its way back up the road and into the city. Hattie waved the dust away from her face, tucking her shirt over her nose until she emerged into cleaner air in front of Liz’s warehouse. The sliding door had been left ajar, and she spotted the Runabout parked in the front. Looked like the joint was open for business. Too bad. Hattie was looking forward to some private time with Raymond to discuss her findings at the Greek church.
She stepped through the story-and-a-half opening left by the sliding door, into the cool air of the warehouse. Twelve pallets of crated bottles sat in a neat row, waiting for transport to Winnow’s Slip and points beyond. Probably two good runs, there—enough to keep them busy for the rest of the week. More business from the Crew would be along by Saturday. They always moved more hooch on the weekends, when the treasury men took time off for their families.
But something was wrong.
It was Raymond that Hattie noticed first. He paced in the center of the warehouse shaking his head, grumbling refusals to no one in particular. His eyes were narrow, and his forehead sported more sweat than usual. This was his nervous pace. She’d seen it before, specifically the nine months prior to the birth of little Douglas.
Was Nadine pregnant again? That was certainly possible, but there was an edge to Raymond’s posture. This wasn’t simple jitters. This was anger.
No, this was panic.
Before Hattie could clear her throat to ask what the hell had crawled up Raymond’s shorts, she eyed Lizzie leaning against one of the hooch crates, arms folded in front of her. Liz’s eyes were downcast, still, resigned—not full of calculation, as was her usual state. Her lack of movement was every bit as alarming as Raymond’s pacing.
Finally, Hattie managed to ask, “What’s the problem, then?”
Raymond nearly jumped out of his skin, pulling arms up to his face as Hattie stepped close enough to see. He shook off his alarm with an embarrassed sigh, then continued pacing. This time, he began swinging his arms.
Without making eye contact, or moving a single muscle, Lizzie replied, “We’re sunk.”
“Come again?” Hattie pressed. “What’s this all about?”
Raymond began shaking his head and making noises like he was about to say something, but never landed on anything intelligible.
Lizzie said, “Just got word from the Crew.”
“And that word is?”
“They’re bringing all Bay traffic in-house.”
Hattie stood motionless, waiting for Lizzie to look at her.
When Lizzie lifted her chin, eyes rimmed red, the weight of the words hammered Hattie in the chest.
“The what, now?”
Raymond barked, “They’re cuttin’ us off!”
Hattie shook her head. “That’s insane. What do they know about the Chesapeake?”
“Nothing,” Lizzie snapped, turning away.
Hattie stepped carefully around Raymond, reaching for Liz’s shoulder. “How’d this happen? Wasn’t that Tony, just now?”
“Yes,” Lizzie replied with a sigh. “Yes, it was. You just missed him.”
Raymond grumbled, “Shoulda snapped his neck.”
Hattie lifted a hand to shush Raymond and glared at Liz.
The woman rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Seems old Vito was just waiting for the dust to settle with the bootleggers in West Virginia before cutting us out. He’s convinced we’re leaving him open to some sort of infiltration from outsiders. Hell, we are the outsiders according to him. And he’s done with us. It’s just that simple.”
Hattie sputtered, “Well, no. No, it’s not. What do his goons know about Bay trafficking? Fuel points? Treasury patrols? He’s putting his business into the hands of amateurs because of his ego?”
Lizzie spun on Hattie, eyes filled with jagged glass. “Yes. That’s it exactly.”
Raymond stopped pacing, lifting a hand at Liz.
The three stood in silence, heaving breaths from Lizzie the only sound filling the cavernous warehouse.
Lizzie rubbed her face briskly. “Yes, that’s the situation. Until I can figure out how to salvage it.”
Raymond released a single dry chuckle. “Good luck! The Crew ain’t known for bein’ easy to talk to.”
“I know people on the inside. Maybe I can sniff around, find out what our options are.” Even as she said it, she knew Vincent wasn’t in a position to help.
Lizzie sniffed. “I have an insider, too, unless you’ve forgotten. Fat lotta good that did.”
Hattie tucked her chin and glanced at her shoes.
Lizzie continued, “Tony’s broken up about this. At least there’s that.”
Raymond grumbled, “Shoulda broke his nose.”
“Stop,” Hattie urged. “This can’t be happening. We have a contract with the Crew. Right?” She repeated to Lizzie in a lower tone, “Right?”
“There are no contracts in our line of work, Hattie. I think you know that. And even if there were, who would we go to? The government? We’ve been playing a game with Vito Corbi these past few years. And now he’s changing the rules.”
“Well, what’ll we do then?” Hattie rasped. “I need this job.”
Raymond threw his hands onto his hips, cocking his head in an angle of exasperation.
“We all need this job,” Hattie added.
“I’m working on it,” Lizzie crossed her arms and leaned once again against a crate, e
yes burrowing a hole to China.
Raymond finally settled his breathing to resume a neat ten-pace route back and forth between the doors and the pallets.
Which left Hattie to stand alone, chills running up and down her arms. How could the Crew simply pull the stopper like this? They’d relied on boat-leggers for years. Who else knew the ins and outs of the Bay and its tributary rivers like they did? Even when they were in competition with the Solomons Island Boys, it seemed obvious that water traffic was a specialized field. One couldn’t simply farm the job out to any joker in a suit and fedora and expect him to know what days the Feds were sniffing north of Annapolis, or south of Richmond. When the Upright Citizens were transporting their own goods across your terrain, and when to let it rest. When the boys from Philadelphia were hot enough to ask for a run up the Delaware instead of going through Atlantic City like usual.
What would this mean for Hattie’s parents? Her father had just gotten well enough to refuse night shifts. Life had settled into a regular rhythm. They all ate breakfast together. They took dinner together, even when Hattie was running an overnight haul. Sundays were fish. Saturdays were the movie house with her father. Fridays were reading time with her mother.
Now? Now, there was no more boat-legging money. No more fish on Sundays. Their entire rent was barely covered by Alton’s wages, and the paltry sum that Branna brought home from the fabric mill wasn’t enough to feed them all.
And finding a new job, especially one that paid like this one did, would be next to impossible. Hattie could count the number of employment opportunities open for women on one hand and most of them she wasn’t skilled for. Jake had been enlightened enough to hire a scrappy Irish girl to help run product, but she was sure few others would be.
Losing this job wasn’t simply a matter of missing out on that little extra they’d enjoyed these past couple months. It would mean hunger. Real hunger—the sort that made people sick enough to slip even further into poverty. There was no end to it, this vicious cycle of want and will. Hattie would eventually grow desperate enough to take risks.
And with a free pincher, risks meant doom.
But then again… Hattie patted the lump near her sternum, where the dram of Aqua Vitae rested snug in the strap of her brassiere.
Sometimes you had to take a chance.
Hattie shook her head. No. This was stupid. Risking her freedom for the sake of a few extra dollars per week was no sort of solution. Sure, she had the magical elixir which could extend her powers. But at what cost? Every dose she took of that potion was another month of health she’d be stealing from her father.
Then again, without this job, what sort of life would they have?
A pitiful noise filled the warehouse, a sniffling moan rose to the rafters, sending a couple pigeons flapping away in alarm. Both Hattie and Lizzie turned toward Raymond, who had hunkered down onto the floor Indian-style, his face buried in his hands. He released a long sob, undulating as his breaths heaved against the baleful noise.
Tears streamed from Hattie’s eyes as if someone had turned on a spigot. This massive man had been brought low with a single slash of a pen. Despite his strength, his resolve, his knowledge of the Bay, he had no options, now. And he had a tiny baby to feed. As much as Hattie needed this job, Raymond and his family needed it a hundredfold.
Hattie covered her mouth with her fingers as her eyes stung with tears. She peered over at Liz, whose face remained dry, but was now further pinched in agony.
This wasn’t just about Hattie. It was about all of them. These two were as much her family as her parents. How could she withhold her powers if it could save them?
“What about these crates?” Hattie asked, pointing to the rows of cased bottles standing in a line behind them. “Are we not allowed to finish our standing deliveries?”
“Vito is sending men tomorrow to pick them up and take them to the wharf.”
Hattie lifted a brow. “Are we forbidden to finish the job, is what I’m asking.”
“I don’t know, Hattie. Tony seemed to think they wouldn’t cotton to us running anything over the water.”
“But he didn’t forbid it?”
“What’re you getting at?” Lizzie asked.
“I…have an idea,” Hattie replied.
Lizzie turned to face Hattie, though Raymond remained on the floor. “What?” The word was sudden and urgent. Clearly, she was grasping for something, anything, to make this right.
Hattie clutched the front of her blouse, gripping the dram of Aqua Vitae beneath the folds of fabric. “We have to prove to the Crew that we are better at distribution than they are.”
Lizzie shook her head. “They don’t care. We’re not one of them.”
“Yes,” Hattie whispered, before clearing her throat. “Which means boat-legging isn’t enough. We’ll have to become better bootleggers, as well.”
Raymond lifted his face from his hands with a long sniffle. “Huh?”
Hattie explained as she paced around Raymond. “Vito doesn’t respect us. He sees us as less than. Less than him. Less than his men. It’s a dogma to the man.”
“So?” Lizzie pressed.
“So, we’ve already lost the fight for the water. We have to take the fight to the land. We show the Crew that we are the best. More than them. More capable. More efficient. More daring. We get the land-based distribution, then work our way back into getting the water.”
Lizzie made a winding motion with her finger. “And how do you intend to do that? Get to the point, Hattie.”
Hattie waved at hand to the pallets of booze. “Where are these going?”
Lizzie replied, “Virginia.”
“Where in Virginia?”
“Alexandria.”
Hattie nodded with a squint. “How long does it take to run these over water? Raymond?” She snapped her fingers to capture Raymond’s attention.
He coughed, then replied, “’Bout a day. Three hours drive to the Slip. Six hours down the Bay. Then we have to wait for the tide, if we don’t time it right. And if the Feds are on patrol.”
“Rather a lot depends on the Feds, doesn’t it?” Hattie posited. “Adds time to the job.”
Lizzie groused, “It’s the only way to get the hooch to Alexandria. It’s right underneath the Feds’ noses.”
“Is it the only way?” Hattie asked with a smirk. “What if we simply threw these onto the truck and drove them down. How long would that take?”
Lizzie threw her hands in the air and spun away. “Don’t be stupid!”
Raymond offered, “Could make the trip in three hours, one way. Might take a couple runs, though.”
Hattie lifted a finger. “But if we weren’t stopped, and we had the stones to run these right through D.C.?”
Raymond nodded. “We’d have it in half a day.”
Lizzie turned back to face them. “What you’re proposing is suicide. There’s a reason the Crew won’t bootleg hooch across the Potomac. The Feds know we’re a wet state. They have every highway and byway into Virginia and the District locked down tight as a funeral drum.”
Hattie took a step toward Lizzie, a distant smile on her face. “Yes. Well, there’s one thing the Crew doesn’t have.”
Lizzie sneered at Hattie. “What?”
“A light pincher.”
Lizzie shook her head. “Parlor tricks are one thing. But you’ve told me again and again that you can’t hold down a broad daylight illusion big enough to cover a truck full of product without killing yourself.”
Raymond nodded. “She’s right, baby girl. You can’t do this to yourself.”
“Well…what if I could?”
Raymond cocked his head. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he blurted.
“I’m simply asking the two of you. If I could pinch light over the truck, both coming and going, would you be willing to take a gamble on me? Show the Crew that we’re the better option, even against their own?”
Raymond peered up at Lizzie.
“Do I want to know how you plan to accomplish this?” Lizzie asked.
“You surely don’t,” Hattie replied. “But, what choice do we really have?”
Raymond nodded to Liz.
With a grand exhalation, Lizzie Sadler declared, “Fine. If the two of you are willing to risk your necks bootlegging two truckloads of white lightning down Pennsylvania Avenue, then I suppose I’m willing to let you do it to yourselves.”
Raymond hopped up off the ground, dusting off his rear before reaching out to slap Hattie on the back. “We’ll get it done!”
Hattie lifted a finger. “One thing—don’t tell the Crew. Not Tony, not anyone. This has to be done before they have a chance to weasel their way back here and take the product back.”
Lizzie nodded. “I get it.” She added with a glance filled with doubt, “What’s your plan? We all know you aren’t strong enough for this sort of magic.”
With a smirk, Hattie answered, “Maybe I’m stronger than you think.”
After a long stare, Lizzie nodded. “Fine. We’ll play it your way, as long as you realize that if this goes sideways, you’re cooking your own goose.”
Hattie knew that. She knew it all too well.
The three worked together to load the Runabout with as many cases as it could hold without peeking over the sides. Three cases by four, for a total of twelve. That was nowhere near enough. Raymond scared up some jute and started stacking them two-high, lashing the boards together with the rope.
“This’ll be out in the air,” he grumbled as he snapped a knot taut. “You sure you wanna do this?”
“What choice have we?”
“I dunno. Find some work in the steel mill?”
Hattie frowned. “They don’t hire coloreds. Half the reason you got into this business with Old Jake was because you were treated properly. You had freedom to come and go. You’re respected on the water. Why do you think Jake left you the boat in the first place?”