by Debra Dunbar
Tom Ed nodded. “Ain’t no one got killed in these hills for just talkin’.”
Hattie winced. If only the same were true in the city.
As the moment threatened to pass, Hattie dug deep for one final gambit.
“Shane, you have a little one on the way?”
He nodded.
“What if…” This was a huge thing she was offering, but somehow in the last few hours, this trip had become more than just putting a spoke in the Crew’s wheel. It was about taking the wheel off their axle. It was about ensuring people got a fair deal for their hard work. It was about taking the bloodsuckers out of the mix.
What she was about to propose would be part of a long game—a very long game, but if she could pull it off, then the world would be a better place, at least this corner of the world, anyway.
“What if I helped you? If I were your eyes and ears? What if I were to use special skills that I may or may not have to keep you safe? Would that change your mind?”
The sun dipped below the hills west of Cumberland, bathing the landscape in shadows lit from above by a still-bright evening sky. The tone of the trip was far less sagacious than when she’d joined the Greelys on their climb up the hill. Now, they were in business—and a deadly business at that.
They’d stopped in Shepherdstown to use a friendly telephone. One call was made to Shane’s contact in Pennsylvania. It seemed the Greely scion had done more than simply “think this through.” Tom Ed remained at the wheel, and as if acknowledging her complicity in this turn in their fate, they’d relegated Hattie to riding in the bed of the truck in place of Shane. Three crates of fruit brandy rattled behind her—product of decent quality. Far better than they’d send the Crew. It was meant for a family wedding, according to Tom Ed, but Shane talked him out of it. Selling this brandy could but them the copper they needed, maybe add a second still, maybe add a second truck.
But there were risks if they made this sort of thing a regular occurrence. Setting these men into a discreet side business with Pittsburgh would set them against Corbi. And if they weren’t careful, it would end in bloodshed.
The sky darkened as they made the trip toward the Pennsylvania state line. This was a bit of a dog leg in Smith’s plan. He’d meant to arouse a distraction among the distillers in the West Virginia hills. But this? This had escalated farther and faster than Hattie had anticipated. A man like Smith should have seen this coming, she mused as the truck kicked on its headlamps.
Indeed.
A man like Smith was a master of options. Planning, strategy. That’s all the man was—a ghost of gambits. So, why had he pushed so hard for Hattie to run this thankless errand? Her powers were wholly unnecessary for the job. If anything, Lizzie would’ve been the better choice here. But that was never on the table, it seemed.
Nor was having Raymond drive her to the job in the first place. How would that have played with the West Virginians? Hattie wasn’t sure how welcome a black man would have been on that hillside. She had no way of knowing for certain. Too often, bigots were as charming as peacocks as long as it was a fellow peacock they were crowing to.
As the sky darkened, so did Hattie’s thoughts.
What if there was more than Raymond’s complexion at play? Smith might have had his eye on Hattie, ever since her training day with Raymond where she’d nearly killed herself with her own magic. What did that mean? If it was he who’d sent her the notes, then he’d helped her. He’d endeavored to keep her one step ahead of the Crew at each turn.
Excepting, of course, for those steps when Vincent was out in front of her.
She stiffened her spine, peering around the cab of the truck with a squint.
She’d relied on Smith’s information as if it were exclusive to her interests. But what did Smith want, after all? She’d pieced together more than one suspicion regarding his “condition.” In the back of her mind, the man was looking out for a fellow free pincher. Clearly, he had a knack for being in more than one place. Either that was superior skill at names and dates, or something more magical.
But what if that cursory instinct had been dead wrong this whole time? What if Smith’s motivations were far more cynical? Far more mercenary?
Where would he find a grander payday? If he wanted money, hauling her in was the big score. If he truly wanted to bring down the Crew, not just weaken them, but bring them down, then the best way to do that was take away their advantage. With her and Vincent dead, there would be no magic within Corbi’s quick reach, and he’d be vulnerable, just another mob with guns.
Hattie nearly shouted for Tom Ed to stop the truck but swallowed her words before she made a scene. This was raw speculation. Hattie was prone to this. God knew she’d twisted her guts into knots over nothing more times in the past than she cared to admit. Still, she adopted a standing posture, eying the road ahead as the headlamps illuminated each curve.
Her instincts proved annoyingly astute as the truck whipped around a grove of black walnut trees. The headlamps caught a reflective surface, sending a flash at Hattie’s eyes. It might only have been visible from her elevation, and Tom Ed may have missed it. But there was no mistaking…there were at least two cars huddled behind those trees.
With a wide, grasping motion, Hattie reached into the air rushing over the truck and pinched both light and sound. She clamped her eyes shut, whispering, “Disappear.”
When she opened her eyes, she spotted a line of three cars and a mob of at least a dozen men with guns, all eyes forward on the road. Among them was Serge, Smith’s driver.
Hattie snarled as the truck whisked past the hit squad under the protection of her light pinch. The drain on her was enormous, but she stoked the furnace in her chest with a newfound hatred for not only Serge, but Smith as well.
She was never meant to bring these men safely to Pennsylvania. She was meant to fall, along with these moonshiners, in a hail of bullets. Smith had given, then he’d taken. What would the payday be for wrangling these errant bootleggers, she wondered? What would he offer Lizzie once the news of Hattie’s demise reached Baltimore?
Was Vincent next?
Hattie slumped into the bed of the truck once it was out of earshot of the ambush and released her light pinch. Never had she assumed that she’d meet a greater bastard than Elmer Capstein.
She was wrong.
Chapter 20
Vincent spread some fig jam onto his toast as Tony spouted off in his mid-Sunday manner, railing against the families to the south who had just challenged the Baltimore Crew. Lefty exchanged glances with Vincent as Tony continued on, the two recognizing how much drama he’d pumped into the speech. Tony knew there was, in fact, no war with the Upright Citizens. At least…there was no actual pretext for war. And yet, the battle was coming.
“People are gonna die ’cause of this, Lefty,” Vincent whispered.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid. Half these goons are itching for a fight anyway. Gives ’em something to do.”
“But the other half? And these Virginia mooks who aren’t gonna know what’s going on when we hit them?”
“You wanna stop this? Bring in that girl and tell Vito this was all her doing.”
Vincent caught his breath at the thought of what Vito would do to Hattie. “He’ll… he’ll…”
“He’ll nothing. Maybe smack you and Tony on the side of your heads for being such rubes and getting taken in. He’s not gonna string her up for trying to save herself. In fact, he’ll think she’s even more valuable if he knows she pulled one over on us and managed to pin the blame on the Citizens. Proves she’s got skill, guts, and smarts.”
Vincent took a bite of his toast. Lefty was right. This game of cat and mouse had to stop. He needed to bring her in before they launched a full out war against the Upright Citizens, and before she got them—him—into who knows what other sort of trouble.
DeBarre strode into the middle of Shakes’s, the man the picture of comportment, his suit
buttoned down, his hair greased into submission. Nothing was out of sorts for the man. It was another sunny Sunday afternoon. If anything, he was a tourist, simply holding back to collect the obligation that Corbi would owe Philadelphia once Vincent found some way out of this mess.
“There is, as far as we know, only one pincher in Richmond,” Tony declared. “She’s a glass pincher—which, if you bother to use your imaginations, is a hell of a weird thing. But that said, she’s fallible.”
A few grunts and snickers rose from the long table as Tony leaned back in his chair to take a long pull from his mug of coffee. The man was still dry, as far as Vincent had seen. Good for him.
DeBarre took a seat next to Lefty. “Still rattling sabers?”
Lefty nodded. “That’s all right now. Trying to hold this off best as we can.”
“Still no word from your mystery man, Smith?” DeBarre asked with a lift of his brow.
Vincent shook his head. “He’s gone to ground. I expect he’s greasing wheels with that retainer Corbi cut him a few days ago.”
DeBarre snickered. “You Baltimore men have a strange way of doing business.”
Vincent lifted a glass to toast. “Here’s to improvisation as a business model.” He and DeBarre clinked glasses and shared a nod. Lefty sat between them, sullen as usual, sipping a glass of water.
A youth stepped into the bistro, eyeing the gathering with confusion until his gaze landed on Vincent. He approached like a mouse at a cat convention, and pulled his hat off his head.
“Uh…excuse me, sir? Mister Calendo?”
Vincent leaned back to greet the youth. “That’s me.”
“A Mister Smith wishes to see you?” he said in the manner of a question. The lad was barely over eighteen, and was visibly trembling from the upper echelon represented in the room.
Vincent nodded. “He can come get a plate of eggs with the rest of us.”
A few gangsters nearby chuckled, though the lad remained stiff.
“He…requested that you, uh…like, just come out and talk to him alone?”
Vincent twisted in his chair.
The youth appeared close to fainting.
Lefty grumbled, “The man’s got a full-blown fetish for privacy. Better bring some napkins with you.”
DeBarre released a laugh, and took a long drag of his drink.
Vincent nodded. “Fine, fine. Give me a second.”
Once Vincent had extricated himself from his lap napkin, the gathered company, and had drained his glass, he marched through the dining room toward the concierge station at Shakes’s. The youth nodded for the door.
“What?” Vincent blurted.
“He’s up the alley, sir. Please…please don’t ask me to go with you. He told me—”
“I get it,” Vincent grumbled, fishing out a coin to tip the youth.
He stepped out into the bright sunshine of a Sunday afternoon, scanning back and forth for Smith, and finally spotting a figure huddled next to a row of refuse bins near the side entrance, up an alley wide enough for a truck to cart produce up to the kitchens.
With a roll of his eyes, Vincent marched up the alley, away from the street, behind the row of bins where no one could witness the skullduggery intended forthwith.
“All this side-stepping, I better get some solid info this time, you son of…” His voice trailed off as his eyes landed upon a figure shorter than Smith, though bedecked in a full suit. Trousers. Shirt-sleeves. Vest. Jacket. Fedora.
All of it tailored to fit. And all dressing the slight figure of Hattie Malloy.
She peered at Vincent from behind the bins, a literal white flag in her hand. She gave it a wiggle as he stood gobsmacked.
“Top of the morning, boy-o.”
Vincent’s blood dropped into his shoes.
“You…” He took a few hurried steps backward.
The light pincher reached for her hat to pull it closer to her brow, further occluding her face. “One word that I’m here, and I’ll disappear.”
“I’ll know better,” he reminded her.
“Aye. But the rest of your sorry lot will be none the wiser.”
This was the first time he’d seen Hattie since she’d whacked him with his own pistol and run off into a stormy night. Vincent crossed his arms with a smirk, his eyes trailing her from shoes to lapels. He’d seen her in baggy homespun pants and a loose shirt. He’d seen her in a dress. But this snug-fitting suit…it was scandalous. It was lurid. It was as sensual as if she’d stood before him in a dressing gown.
“I gotta tell ya,” he muttered, “this look makes an impression.”
She rolled her eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
He lifted his fingers to his chin. “What? Me think indecorous thoughts?”
Hattie snickered. “Indecorous? What, have you been reading, all of a sudden?”
“I read,” he countered, marching around her like a lion sizing up a zebra. “Trousers, huh? I’ve seen you in working pants before, but this is something…”
She lifted a hand. “It’s a disguise, ya daft bastard. Don’t take a shine to it. Barking up the wrong tree, if you are.”
“Am I really? Because I think you should wear this again sometime. Maybe when we’re somewhere a bit more comfortable than the back of an alley.”
“Vincent!” she squeaked. “Focus!”
She was adorable when she was flustered like this. Vincent held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You have to give me a moment. Didn’t expect to see this today.”
“No, I suppose not.” Hattie adjusted the jacket. “It’s just that, in broad daylight, this is easier to—”
He lifted a hand. “No, I get it. Cheaper magic.”
She nodded, then took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”
Something tightened deep in his chest. The moment he’d wished, but never dared wish for, had finally arrived. She was giving in. Willingly. Excitement bubbled through him. As much as he’d claimed he could never work with her, he was unexpectedly thrilled at the prospect.
And he was happy to just see her. Alive. Unharmed. Wearing an indecent outfit.
“Well, thank God. You’ve finally come to your senses, have you?” he retorted with a bend in his knees.
“You…alright there, boy-o?” she mumbled.
Vincent composed himself, brushing off his sleeves. “Oh, yeah. I was just thinking that the Crew couldn’t handle yet another war against some city or another.”
She shot him a puzzled look. “Aye. I suppose not.”
“I figure we should talk terms before we end up sending men south. That business with the Bianco Fiore. That was your idea?”
She squirmed, then replied, “It was a group effort.”
“A group, huh. Your pals at Locust Point?”
Hattie squinted. “Vincent?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m done playing games with you.”
He pulled his face into a frame of sobriety, nodding with a cleansing breath. “Yeah, okay.”
Hattie continued, “I know you have a man who’s feeding you information.”
“The one you’re trying your damnedest to impersonate? Yeah. You’re a sight prettier than he is, though.”
Hattie’s expression seemed unchanged. “You should know—he’s double-dealing on the Crew.”
Vincent’s smirk melted. “What?”
She nodded. “He’s been in contact with me from the beginning. I’ve received handwritten notes.”
Vincent’s stomach dropped. “Notes?”
“Aye. You think he’s working to bring me in? He’s working to keep me free. Actually I think lately he’s working to see me dead.”
Vincent scowled. “The hell you’re saying?”
Hattie withdrew, urging Vincent to follow. He complied, now almost entirely concealed from the view of the street.
“Did this Smith urge you to set upon Raymond’s home?” she asked.
Vincent held a breath, then simply nodded.<
br />
“What did you find there?” she prodded.
Vincent reached into his jacket to produce the note. Waving it in the air, he enunciated with an astonishingly poor Irish brogue, “Too late, boy-oh.”
Hattie grinned. “Know why that was the case? Smith tipped me off.” She produced another slip of paper, brandishing it in the air.
Vincent glowered. “That makes no sense.”
“Oh? Well, then. After you rummaged over the creek like a feckless toad, you braced yourself for a drubbing at that hotel.”
He filled in the blank. “The Moravia?”
“Would it shock you to hear that I was there?” she asked.
Vincent soaked in the words. “You…were there?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t believe you,” he mumbled. “I would have seen you…noticed you.”
“You sidled up to the bar with your one-armed keeper, Liz’s paramour, and that shiftless peacock, Smith.”
Vincent took another step back. “Uhh…”
“I was there,” she urged, closing the distance between them. “Before I ran out so you wouldn’t spot me.”
Vincent’s guts pulled inward, cold chills sweeping across his back. “Why would he play both sides? That makes no sense at all.”
“It does, if you know how to milk Vito Corbi. There’s money in the chase, it seems. So, he keeps the chase alive.”
Vincent scowled as he crossed his arms. As he leaned against the side of the building, that scowled eased. His brow crept higher as he began snickering.
Hattie shook her head. “What’s so amusing to you, then?”
He waggled a finger at Hattie. “Oh, you are too good at this, Hattie Malloy. I respect it, but for the sake of all that’s sacred, ease up on the war drums, huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t believe me?”
“Smith is a sharp-minded businessman. And yes, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head when it comes to his motivations. But double-dealing on Vito? That’s…” He devolved into unrestrained laughter.
“Stuff it, Calendo,” she growled. “I’m telling you the truth. He sent me to West Virginia.”