Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  His eyes were wide and wild, his mouth working against the water to keep his breath.

  “You…you okay, baby girl? Can ya…get to shore?”

  Hattie nodded and kicked her legs closer to the surface, then made overarm strokes, swimming toward the Virginia side of the river. The current eased as she made her way to the muddy bank, stepping onto semi-solid ground. Her feet squished through thick mire until she reached straw-like grass just above the bank.

  Raymond’s head continued downstream, easing its way toward shore as he dog-paddled his way inland. Hattie picked up the pace to catch up with him, finally reuniting almost a quarter-mile downstream. Raymond sat on the bank catching his breath, hands on his knees.

  “Hey, boy-o,” she said, uncertain how much of the water on her face was from the river or from tears.

  “Guess that didn’t go so good,” he grumbled.

  She sniffed, wiping her nose on a wet, muddy sleeve. “No.” That it hadn’t.

  “Are you sick?” he asked without looking up.

  She shook her head, then reached to her blouse for the vial. A familiar lump greeted her fingers near her sternum. Good. She still had it.

  At length, Raymond caught his breath and got to his feet. Together they wandered through the brush, avoiding roads, until they reached Alexandria, negotiating a ride with a dark-skinned fellow with a truck full of fabric bolts. They hitched a ride farther south, carrying on and out of the reach of the Feds. At last, they ditched their ride and found their way to a friendly landing along the Potomac not far from Aquia Creek. There they talked their way onto a boat heading back to Baltimore.

  The sun set while they were on the water. Raymond was quiet for the most part, as was Hattie. Crippling shame weighed on her shoulders. This had been her plan. Now, they’d lost an entire load of the Crew’s moonshine, as well as Liz’s Runabout. That alone would put her out of business.

  By midnight, Raymond and Hattie found themselves at the Locust Point warehouse. No cars. No gangsters. Maybe word hadn’t hit Baltimore just yet. If it had, Hattie figured there would be a trap waiting for them inside that warehouse.

  “Well?” she asked Raymond. “Shall we face the music?”

  Raymond reached for her hand, gripping in his massive fist. “Let’s do this.”

  They marched up to the warehouse, sliding the door open on its squeaky rails.

  They found Lizzie sitting in one of her office chairs in the direct center of an empty warehouse. Her face was leaden.

  Hattie stepped forward. “So…”

  “I’ve heard,” Lizzie stated.

  “We’re alright, if you were wondering. All in one piece.”

  Raymond nodded his agreement.

  “We lost the truck in the Potomac though,” Hattie added softly.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Lizzie stood up from her chair. “It’s gone to shit anyway.”

  “Does the Crew know?” Hattie asked.

  Lizzie released a laugh. More of a cackle. “Of course, they know! Everyone knows!”

  “Everyone?” Raymond repeated.

  Lizzie thrust her hands onto her hips. “Yes. They all know there’s a bootlegger who tried to run a load of hooch through the center of D.C. and almost succeeded. They know this bootlegger was carrying moonshine that was magically disguised as olive oil.”

  Hattie caught her breath. “They know about the illusion?”

  Liz’s face finally fell into something approaching sympathy. “Yes. They know there’s a free pincher somewhere in Baltimore. They know she…” she pivoted to Raymond, “…or he can create mirages. Illusions. Whatever.”

  Hattie’s stomach dropped into her feet.

  Raymond muttered, “That means…”

  Lizzie completed his thought. “That means Vito knows Hattie exists. And he wants her.”

  Chapter 10

  A curtain brushed against Vincent’s cheek, wafting in the humid summer night’s air as he sat in his open window. The city spread away from him, the avenue twinkling with gas lights and a few electric lamps toward the downtown. It was like some oil painting, murky and dark. A couple cigar-shaped clouds hung close to the harbor to the north. They eased across the sky, gossamer fingers lit from below by the city lights. Someone’s phonograph scratched out the languid oboe strains of the Liebestraum, courtesy of Paul Whiteman Orchestra. The music was bouncy but hollow, echoing off the buildings across the street, half-committed to making music while simultaneously declaring that it was too damn hot for Listz.

  Vincent’s thoughts stampeded through his brain, ramming into one another like overweight men crowding a doorway. More than anything, he wanted to know if he could trust Alexander Smith. He’d taken a gamble with the man and his intelligence. After the fact, Vincent simply couldn’t fathom what he was thinking, bringing Smith’s warning up in the middle of the meet like that. It was reckless and it might have put both Vincent and Lefty behind the eight ball.

  And yet, as Vincent closed his eyes and listened to Paul Whiteman snap his baton to the forced mirth of the ditty, he recognized that if given the choice, he’d do it again. This sort of gamble had been a long time in coming. How long had he attended to the Capo—first under Jim D’Urso, and then lately under Vito? How often had he been forced into a situation he’d rather avoid at their behest, only to receive a begrudging nod at best, and a public dressing down at worst? They’d jerked his dignity from him, dragged it into the back alley, and shot it between the eyes. He’d been called a freak. He’d been treated like he was nothing more than a tool for their use. He had a handler, for Christ’s sake.

  Something had to change. This could be it, the catalyst that changed everything.

  But only if Smith was on the up-and-up.

  A car careened down the street, sliding to a halt just below Vincent’s window. Lefty and another member of the Crew stepped out, rushing for the door to the row house. They looked to be in a hurry, which tied a knot in Vincent’s intestines. This was too early. The hit on Masseria wouldn’t be until tomorrow night. Was Smith off by a day? Had Lefty’s phone call only served to cast the Crew in a suspicious light?

  Was that Smith’s plan all along?

  Vincent pulled himself out of the window and slid it half-shut as knuckles hammered against his door. When he opened the door, Lefty rushed inside, his empty sleeve swiping Vincent’s vest as he strode to the center of the room.

  “Good evening?” Vincent stated with an interrogative lilt, hoping Lefty’s brusque entrance would be curtailed with a whiff of sarcasm.

  “Get your jacket,” Lefty gasped. His tone wasn’t angry, nor annoyed. It was simply direct. Urgent.

  “What’s going on?” Vincent asked.

  “We’ve been summoned to Havre de Grace.”

  Vincent sucked in a breath and lifted his chin. “What…happened?”

  “They won’t tell me,” Lefty grumbled.

  “Is it Masseria?”

  Lefty leveled a weary glare onto Vincent. “Just get your damn jacket, yeah?”

  Vincent hopped into the back seat of the car as Lefty rode shotgun. The driver was a young man Vincent didn’t really know but recognized from the hotel. The driver didn’t have much to say and looked arguably more panicked than Lefty did.

  As the car turned down Fayette, angling for the county road north toward Havre de Grace and Vito Corbi’s vineyard, Vincent leaned forward over the front bench seat.

  “If it was New York, they’d probably have us in bags, by now.”

  Lefty nodded soberly.

  Vincent added, “Gotta be big business, if we’re going to the vineyard. Who else got hooked for this?”

  “Tony. That’s all I know.”

  “Tony, huh?” Vincent nodded. “Then it’s probably some harem scarem over the Bay runners.”

  Lefty twisted in his seat to face Vincent directly. “Okay, so level with me, huh? What’s going on between you and that boat-legger girl?”

  Vincent blinked at the question,
feeling something cold settle down deep in his stomach.

  The driver peered over to Lefty, who turned to bark at the young man, “Eyes on the road, you mook!”

  The driver snapped his attention back to the road.

  Vincent shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Lefty squinted. “I gotta know, Vincent. Before we walk into this…whatever it is. I gotta know you ain’t seeing that…” Lefty frowned, clearly catching himself and rethinking his choice of words. “That redhead.”

  “I’m not.” His heart hammered in his chest. What had Hattie gotten herself into?

  Lefty fixed him with a glare. “So you’re not seeing her is what you’re saying? You’re not in communication with her? You haven’t had any contact with her in months?”

  “If I was seeing her, I’d have told you. When have I ever been able to keep a romance under the table with you?”

  Lefty stared at him a moment then nodded. “Okay.” He turned back around in his seat to glare out his window.

  Vincent swallowed hard. That lie wasn’t as hard as he thought it’d be. Lefty’s nose was usually more sensitive to Vincent’s particular vintage of horseshit. But Lefty’s concerns worried him.

  Because it meant this meeting at the vineyard was definitely about Hattie.

  Vincent gazed at the moon in the sky as it ducked behind one of those cigar-clouds, and felt ill as he wondered again what the hell Hattie had gotten herself into.

  The car swung onto the drive that lead onto Vito’s property, finally coming to a halt at the gravel half-circle drive that wreathed the marble fountain nestled before the stately Italian villa. Vincent and Lefty hopped out of the car, finding several goons ready for them. The front windows of the villa flickered with light. Seemed Vito was in the manse, and not somewhere out in the rows of grapevines. It also seemed that Vito hadn’t ponied up to have electric lines run out to his vineyard. Vincent found that odd. The man was all about reform. The new thing. He’d figured Vito would be first in line to get electric light into his palace north of Baltimore.

  Then again, as Vincent entered the villa behind Lefty and spied the reproduction marble statues and what was likely genuine Italian furniture in the lavish interior of the estate, he recognized how much reverence Vito paid to the Old World.

  Vito stood near an enormous fireplace, its mantel and surround carved out of green marble. The fireplace was absent a fire, and the tall, narrow windows of the gallery stood open to let in the fresh summer breeze off the undulating hills of vines. He was surrounded by a tiny clutch of besuited gangsters, including Tony, who looked sober for a change.

  Once Vito recognized the two, he ceased whatever tirade he was inflicting upon the gathering to stand stiff and silent. Stony. His eyes bore holes into Vincent—Vincent in particular.

  Lefty continued without a pause, though Vincent hesitated half a step.

  Vito lifted a hand in a beckoning gesture. “At last. Come.”

  The two shuffled forward to join the cadre surrounding Vito. Vincent took in his posture and his expression. The two were difficult to reconcile. At once, Vito’s face bespoke pure, seething outrage. On the other, his posture was forward, and he bounced on his feet. Either the man was livid, or excited. Perhaps both at the same time.

  Lefty eyed Tony, then turned to Vito. “Are we the last?”

  Vito nodded. “Thank you for coming.”

  “What’s the word?” Lefty asked, back full of steel.

  Vito gestured to Tony, who ran a hand through his greased hair. “We lost a shipment today.” He let the words hang in the air, probably hoping for one of them to draw him out. Lacking that, he continued, “In Rosslyn, Virginia. Right across the river from Foggy Bottom.”

  Vincent shook his head. “Who was fool enough to run booze that close to the Fed’s front door?” Even as he asked the question, the answer landed in his head like an anvil.

  Tony winced. “It…it seems that certain individuals…former contractors…made an ill-advised…” He trailed off, struggling for words.

  Vito took up the cause. “Two of his nitwit outsiders bungled it.”

  “The same ones running liquor over the Bay?” Vincent asked.

  “The very same,” Vito replied, his voice betraying a note of excitement. “A colored driver and a young woman in workman’s clothes.”

  Lefty asked, “How did we receive this information?”

  Vito replied, “I have people close to Georgetown. And a few more inside the Treasury.” His face eased into a smug grin.

  “They were boat-leggers, though. Right? And didn’t we just write them off? What gives?” Lefty scowled.

  Tony answered, “I want to be clear—Lizzie Sadler was not involved. Not directly. I spoke to her just an hour ago, and she says she wasn’t even at her warehouse.”

  “How bad is it?” Lefty asked.

  “We lost twelve crates of West Virginia corn liquor. Busted out right at the base of the new bridge. Right in front of the G-men. The two bootleggers made a run for it and bellied up right in the Potomac.”

  Vincent felt himself go cold. “Are they dead?”

  “No,” Tony replied. “No bodies were found. Probably swam off.”

  Vincent shook his head. “This is nuts. These people…” He took a breath to collect himself. “Based on our experience with this outfit just a couple months ago, these were professionals. They had their business down pat. Are we for sure they were the ones?”

  Tony nodded.

  Lefty shrugged. “Anyone gets desperate enough, they’ll take stupid risks.”

  Vincent glanced at Lefty, who met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. Fine. Message received.

  “According to the Capo’s insiders, a checkpoint at the Maryland border noted a truck with a black driver and a white female passenger just an hour beforehand,” Tony elaborated. “Said they was carrying olive oil. Point man at the Virginia border said it was olive oil—for a few minutes, anyway. Then one of the boys tasted it and suddenly instead of olive oil, they were staring at a whole bunch of shine.”

  “Your point?” Lefty asked.

  Vito lifted a finger, and everyone drew silent. With a long breath, the Capo said, “The girl used an illusion.”

  Vincent’s heart twisted. Damn. It had probably been too many eyes on the truck, too many senses involved, too much time. And twice within a matter of hours? Gutsy attempt, but clearly too much for Hattie too pull off.

  One of the besuited men behind Vito spoke up. “A pincher?”

  Vito nodded, his face now fully committed to the eager energy his posture exuded.

  “Yes. There is a free-born stregone among us. And she was here this whole time.” Vito turned to point a finger at Vincent.

  Vincent held a breath. But Vito’s face wasn’t drawn in anger. Instead, amusement.

  “And you stood right beside her for several days. It is too bad you stregone have no instinct for one another.”

  “You’re sure it was the girl?” Vincent asked. “Not the driver?”

  Vito sneered and waved away the comment. “Not possible.”

  “Because he’s colored?” Vincent prodded.

  Lefty broke into the sudden tension. “Is there any product left at their warehouse?”

  Tony moved to answer, but Vito cut him off. “Who cares? We have in our grasp a free-born stregone! And she nearly managed to deliver twelve cases of liquor right under the Treasury men’s noses. One such as her would be worth all the liquor in West Virginia!”

  Vincent straightened a bit at this comment, hoping it was the value of pinchers in general, and not simply Hattie, that Vito had lassoed onto.

  Lefty turned to Tony. “You think Sadler knew what she was?”

  Tony shook his head. “She denies it.”

  “That’s not saying much,” Lefty grumbled.

  Tony shrugged. “She inherited this entire business from Jake Sadler. We all remember Jake Sadler, right?”

  Heads nodded.

  Tony c
ontinued, “If you were to ask me if Jake knew this girl was a pincher, then I’d buy that. But Liz? Nah. She’s barely keeping her head above water, as it is.”

  Vincent breathed through the panic filling his chest. Sure, Tony was doing his best to pull his lover off the tracks. But every word coming from Tony only served to stoke the Capo’s fire. A free-born pincher operating right under their noses. Vito would be furious, if this hadn’t presented such a rare opportunity.

  “Vincenzo,” Vito declared.

  Vincent stiffened. “Capo?”

  “You know this girl. You know her name.” These weren’t questions, they were statements of fact.

  He winced. “Yes. Hattie Malloy.” The words felt like treason.

  “Then I charge you with acquiring this illusionist.”

  All eyes turned to Vincent.

  “I…” Vincent wheezed.

  Vito pressed, “She is a being of power, such as yourself. And we have a fleeting moment, I think. A moment to approach this stregone. Approach with open hands. Offer to her this moment, Vincenzo. A chance to join us.”

  Vincent nodded. Indeed, this was the pitch he’d been refining these past few months, though it was nowhere near as spit-polished as Vito managed on the fly.

  “Yes, Capo.”

  Vito stepped forward to lay both hands on Vincent’s shoulders. “You bring me this girl, Vincenzo. You do this, and we will be unstoppable.”

  Vito’s deep brown eyes reached out to Vincent’s. He stood in free fall for the barest of moments. The meaty hands on his shoulders sat like blankets. The Capo was drawing him in. This was his chance, even more of a chance than the nonsense with Smith.

  But Hattie…

  “I will,” Vincent intoned, his voice flat and emotionless.

  Vito smiled, then nodded. “Go get her!”

  The Capo withdrew to a sideboard to pour himself a glass of red wine from a decanter, keeping his back to the rest of them. That was their dismissal.

  Outside the villa, standing on the gravel drive, Vincent felt the earth tilt beneath his feet. Never before had the Capo deigned to address him with such familiarity. And Lefty was there, just beside him. It was like Lefty didn’t even exist. Of course Vincent was the pincher. The only pincher. And in this sort of affair, the Capo would send a pincher.