“No, it’s not,” Ty agreed. “Not when it’s done legally.”
Roger guffawed. “Legally.” He shook his head. “Not even legal businesses do it legally. Our fine government sees to that. Why do you think Rockefeller, Carnegie and Morgan bought the presidency in 1896? And it’s still happening today.” Roger’s expression turned hard. “I’m not saying every man should become a bootlegger, or a gangster, but let me tell you something, when a man has a mouth to feed besides his own, he’ll do damn near anything to put food on the table. I know. I did it. I worked eighteen hours a day at the brewery and brought home seven hundred and fifty dollars a year. A year. And let me tell you about extortion. The government was already extorting a good portion of my salary, but that wasn’t enough, they took the entire job away from me.”
Ty couldn’t say Roger was bitter, but he was serious and frank in his belief. It reminded him of his own father, how he’d struggled to have enough left over after taxes to buy the supplies to bake the bread he sold.
“When a man sees his children, his wife, the people he loves more than himself, going to bed hungry, he’ll do anything, legal or illegal, to put food in their bellies, clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads. If he doesn’t,” Roger said with a loathing Ty had rarely heard, “he’s not a real man.”
Nightingale was silent for a moment, and out of respect, Ty held his own tongue.
“When there are no jobs,” Roger continued, “men have to get creative and that’s what happened around here. Unlike in the city, there are no soup kitchens in rural areas. Right now a cow is worth less than a jug of whiskey.” With an indulgent gaze, he added, “It doesn’t take a college degree to figure out which costs less to produce.”
Ty wasn’t exactly sure how the conversation had turned around. By the time Roger was done, Bodine would have come and gone and Ty still wouldn’t have told Nightingale he was a federal agent.
Chapter Thirteen
“Stilling brew is just a small piece of the pie, Ty,” Roger said. “Just like every other business, even legal ones, bootleggers need a way to get their product to market, to the big cities and beyond. That is where the mob comes in. It’s an underground world as intricate as the one aboveground, and in some cases, just as cutthroat.”
Ty rubbed the back of his neck, where tension was making it burn and ache. “Last night,” he said, “when I told you I wasn’t the man for you—”
“I thought I convinced you, you are,” Roger interrupted.
Shaking his head, Ty crossed the room, but didn’t sit down. Instead he stood in front of Roger’s desk. “There’s more to it than that. I am a federal agent.”
Roger Nightingale was too smooth to reveal how that news affected him. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his beefy arms.
“I’m not a prohib agent,” Ty said, “here to break up stills or arrest bootleggers. I’m not a revenue man, either, after tax money.”
“Then what are you, and what are you after?”
“I’m a federal private investigator, here to see a specific gangster is arrested,” Ty answered. “One I believe is behind Dave’s poisoning, among other things. Ray Bodine.”
Roger shook his head and cracked a bogus smile. “You’re barking up a fallen tree, boy. Bodine’s dead. Has been for a few years.”
“No, he’s not,” Ty answered. “His brothers are in the pen, but Bodine didn’t die at that shootout. The coffin paraded down the streets in New York, the one newspapers across the nation published pictures of, held sandbags.”
“How do you know?”
“I opened it.”
Roger didn’t attempt to hide his surprise at that. “Hell,” he said, eyes wide. “You’re him.”
Ty knew Roger didn’t mean Bodine, so he asked, “The snitch Withers reported?” He was ready to clear up that falsehood, too.
“No,” Roger said. “The bounty hunter. The night stalker. The mole. The phantom. Some claim you don’t exist, but there’s not a man with a bounty on his head that’s not looking over his shoulder, wondering if he’s your next target.”
Ty didn’t respond. There was no need. His reputation had preceded him. He’d acquired many nicknames over the years. As long as no one ever saw his face, he didn’t care what they called him.
“You’re a man with no past. Never leave footprints of where you’ve been, apart from the deaths or arrests of gangsters. But you don’t do those yourself. You call in the locals. They get the credit for it, claiming only that they’d received an anonymous tip.” Roger ran a hand through his hair, which looked to be growing whiter by the minute. “My background checks, they’re all false?”
“No,” Ty answered. “I am just who they say. Tyler Bradshaw, born and raised by Irish immigrants in New York City, although my father was English. I served in the army, attended law school afterward while serving on the New York police force, and then became a private investigator.”
“Are you really only twenty-eight?” Roger asked. “That’s a lot for a man so young to accomplish.”
“I am,” Ty answered. “I never stayed in one spot too long.”
“Just long enough to make a footprint,” Roger said.
Nightingale was nervous, and Ty couldn’t say that pleased him. “I stayed in one spot long enough.” The flashbacks were too strong to ignore. “Might still be in New York if Bodine hadn’t wiped out an entire block of the neighborhood where I’d grown up. Where my parents had lived since moving to America.”
“And now you’re here,” Roger said, wiping at the sweat beading on his temples.
“And now I’m here,” Ty repeated. “And only three people know that,” he pointed out. “The two of us and my boss, who rarely leaves his office in Washington.”
“Why?” Roger asked. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ty took a seat and drummed his fingertips on the chair’s armrest. He was on virgin soil. Not once in five years had he taken someone into his confidence, and proceeding was like taking the first step on a narrow log laid out as a bridge over a fast-moving river. “Because,” Ty started, “Bodine will arrive at the resort this week. He’s rented your farmhouse under the name of Ralph Brandon. His henchmen have been in St. Paul for a couple of weeks, scouting out an in to the Minnesota Thirteen trade.”
“He’s really not dead?”
“He’s really not dead,” Ty assured him. “And I do believe he’s behind Dave’s poisoning.”
Roger sat quietly, lips pinched, most likely running scenarios through his head. With a heavy sigh, he nodded. “You bring Bodine down here, at the resort, and I’m ruined.”
Ty couldn’t deny that, nor could he offer an alternative. Despite his desire to shield Norma Rose, to somehow preserve the resort she cherished, his goal hadn’t changed.
“I told you last night this resort doesn’t just feed my family,” Roger said. “The business we do here feeds this entire area, and beyond.”
Ty understood the resort didn’t just employ a lot of people, but that the popularity of the place helped other local businesses thrive. He didn’t want to put a stop to any of that. Not even the bootlegging. That wasn’t his job. The making and transporting of illegal alcohol was too big and vast to ever be stopped completely, and within his inside circle, no one wanted it to end. They focused on catching the real villains of the world. “Bodine wants in, Roger,” Ty said. “In on the money being made by Minnesota Thirteen and he knows you’re the key.”
Roger’s distress was made clear by the heavy sigh he let out. “I told you the mobsters I deal with are not in the business of killing innocent people. They aren’t interested in owning entire cities. They’re just out to put cash in their pockets.”
“Up to now,” Ty argued. “But it’s getting bigger, and Bodine wants in. He wants that money in his pocket and he doesn’t care who’s in his path.”
Roger stood and walked to the window, his shoulders slumped. “I’m ruined either way, aren’t I?”
Ty couldn’t lie, therefore chose to remain silent.
* * *
Norma Rose stayed in bed later than usual. Sleep hadn’t eluded her, as she’d feared. The dream she’d been having had been too good to leave. Now, awake, lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, she couldn’t recall exactly what it had been about, other than it had been wonderful. It left her feeling warm and tranquil and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out slowly, relishing even that—just breathing—as a smile remained on her lips.
Her lips quivered and the smile slipped. What did she have to be this happy about? Memories overrode the mingling aftermath of the unknown dream. The dance-off. Ty. Sheriff Withers.
Norma Rose groaned. A deep and hollow sound that echoed off the walls.
Definitely nothing to be happy about.
Completely foreign to the way she normally reacted to anything that needed to be done, she pulled the covers over her head and seriously considered staying in bed all day.
The knock on her door wasn’t what changed her mind. She’d never spent the entire day in bed and wouldn’t today, no matter what she might have to face. Pulling the covers off her head and tucking them beneath her arms, Norma Rose said, “Come in.”
Twyla, dressed in a yellow-and-black outfit that made her look like a beautiful sunflower in full bloom, bounded into the room. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Plopping onto the bed and kicking her heels to make the bed bounce, Twyla added, “Still tired from last night? You were magnificent.”
Norma Rose bit her tongue just in time. She’d been about to say last night shouldn’t have happened, at least her dancing, that is, but if she said that, she’d have to mean it, or at least pretend and that she did not want to do. For reasons she still had to discern. “Thank you,” she said instead. “For all you did last night.”
“You’re welcome,” Twyla said prudently as she stood and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “You can thank me for what I do today, later.”
Throwing back the covers to climb out of the bed, Norma Rose swung her legs around and planted her feet on the floor. “What are you doing today?”
“Stay seated,” Twyla said, holding up both hands, “until after I speak.”
Norma Rose’s stomach fell, from past experience.
“Okay?” Twyla asked.
Considering she was rather frozen from fear, Norma Rose agreed. “Okay.”
Twyla planted her feet as if she was prepared to defend herself, and her shoulders rose with a very deep breath. Norma Rose’s stomach hiccupped. Last night had been a bad idea. Whether it had worked or not, she’d pay for it today. Only the good Lord knew how.
On the end of her exhale, Twyla began to speak swiftly. “Father spoke to Brock this morning. Don’t worry, Ginger’s fine. I think Father is actually relieved she’s not here. At least that’s how it seemed. Anyway, Brock suggested we hire Slim Johnson for Al’s party and Palooka George’s birthday, and considering you and Forrest haven’t spoken since that incident a million years ago, which really doesn’t matter now that you have Ty, I told father I’d go talk to Forrest, to see if he’ll let Slim out of his contract long enough to play for us.” She huffed out a breath and flinched, as if waiting for the sky to fall. “What do you think?”
With her head spinning, Norma Rose was only able to ask, “What do I think?”
Twyla nodded.
Blinking or shaking her head didn’t clear Norma Rose’s mind. The entire world had gone crazy, that’s what she thought. She didn’t say that, nor did she agree with Twyla’s suggestion. It was her job to get musicians, and she would, regardless of who that meant she had to talk to, and—she clenched her teeth to combat the little voice screaming in the back of her mind—she didn’t have Ty. That single point of her sister’s breathless announcement had struck hard.
Needing a few moments to put things into perspective, Norma Rose slipped on the robe lying across the foot of her bed and crossed the room to her closet, where she blindly chose a dress hanging among many. From the dresser she chose underclothes, fully aware of Twyla watching her every move, waiting for an answer.
“I’m going down the hall,” Norma Rose finally said, once her hands were full. “I’ll meet you in my office when I’m done.”
Twyla agreed with a delayed and baffled nod, and Norma Rose left the room, completely confused. Once shut in the bathroom, a single glance in the mirror told her a bath was in order. She’d gone to bed with hair damp from sweating on the dance floor last night and she now looked as if she’d been electrocuted.
After soaking in the tub, she sprinkled powder on her legs to ease the work of putting on the tight silk stockings, which she clipped to her thighs with garters, and then used a good amount of styling cream to secure the waves she created in her side-parted hair. She added cosmetics, liner and mascara, powder and lipstick, as well as two round dots of blush on her cheeks. Satisfied the makeup made her look more confident than she felt, she stepped into her silk tap pants and eased her cami top over her head, cautious of her face and hair. Turning to the dress she’d hung on the back of the door, she paused. Why had she chosen that one? It was purple, lavender really, with several layers of fringes on the skirt and thin straps over the shoulders. Much more suitable for evening wear and nothing like the conservative black dresses she was known for wearing.
The purple dress had leaped off the page of a catalog last winter, when snow had covered the ground. The only reason she’d ordered it was because it reminded her of the warm days of summer. Once it had arrived, knowing she’d never wear it, she’d almost given it to Ginger.
The hallway that contained the family’s bedrooms was closed off from the guest rooms by a solid door, but she still didn’t roam the area half-dressed and insisted her sisters never did, either. She glanced at the robe lying in a heap on the floor, but in the end, chose the dress.
Entering her bedroom, the full-length mirror caught her image as she closed the door. Norma Rose took a moment to examine the reflection. The same single question that had arisen while she’d been putting on her makeup entered her mind. Would Ty think she was pretty? Did he think so already?
Disgusted, she turned away. With everything else going on, that was the one thing she thought about. The earth must have tilted on its axis, tossing the entire world cattywampus. There was no other explanation. Not for her thoughts and not for last night.
Norma Rose didn’t change her dress. Instead she slipped on a pair of white shoes and gloves, and added a headband with a silver butterfly to flutter over one ear. The world had most certainly shifted. She wasn’t even worried about facing Forrest. The time had come.
The resort was quiet, as it usually was on Sundays. Mondays were like that, too, and she normally enjoyed the time to catch up and prepare for the week ahead, but today she was primed to take on the world and set everything back in its rightful order. She couldn’t say if the bath had revived her or if it had been the purple dress. Either way, the first place she stopped was her father’s office.
He waved her in as he hung up the phone receiver. “Aw, Rosie girl,” he said, plastering a smile as false as those she so regularly used on his face. “I’m glad to see you’ve recruited your sisters to help out more around here. That’s how it should be, this is a family business.”
He looked disheveled, a rare occurrence. Though faint, the air held a scent that sent her heart racing. Ty had been in this room. Just a short time ago.
“Dale Emmerson will be out here this evening,” her father was saying by the time her ears started functioning again, “with some papers for you and your sisters to sign. I’ll have a proxy for you to sign on Ginger’s behalf.”
An alarm, louder than any fire bell, went off inside her head. “What sort of papers?”
“I’m putting the resort and the other land I own in you girls’ names,” he said, pushing away from his desk.
He wasn’t wearing
a suit coat and sweat circles darkened his white shirt under his arms and between the suspenders on his back as he walked toward the window.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because it’s time,” he said. “Past time.”
“What’s happened?” Her mouth had gone dry. “Did some runners get caught last night?”
“No.”
The bottom fell completely out of her stomach. “You’ve uncovered the snitch, haven’t you?”
“Not the one Withers is worried about.” Her father’s sigh filled the room and hung heavy in the air. “I hate to do this, Rosie—involve you—but I need your help.”
“I’ve been involved since the beginning, Father. The resort—”
“I’m not talking about the resort,” he said, eyeing her directly. “I want you to leave that to Twyla and Josie for the next few days.”
She braced against the shiver rippling her spine.
“I need you to help Ty, whatever he needs, no questions.” His steady gaze was serious and grave. “The less you know, the better.”
“Wha—”
He held up a hand. “No questions, Rosie.” Crossing the room, he said, “I’ve done a lot of thinking and it’s the only way. We could lose everything, Rosie. Everything. I’m setting things up so you girls will be fine, but a lot has to happen in order for it to work.” He’d arrived at his chair and landed in it as if the world was crashing down around him.
“You can’t say that and expect me not to have questions,” she said.
“I don’t expect you not to have questions, I expect you not to ask them. When it’s all over, you’ll understand why.” He waved toward the window that overlooked the front parking lot. “Ty’s waiting for you out front.”
* * *
Ty was leaning against his truck like the world was his, cattywampus or not. His black suit didn’t host a wrinkle, and his black suede shoes didn’t hold a speck of dust.
Norma Rose closed the front door behind her, but stopped on the porch, eyes locked with his. “Questions, my ass,” she whispered to herself, clutching the keys in her hand. This man was the root of all her problems, and would not be the one to bring down her father. Or her.
The Bootlegger's Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 1) Page 18