by Mal Peet
Which is where he met Ray. He and Ray sat at adjacent tables watching the floor show. The waitress got their drinks muddled up, and in the process of sorting this out, the two got talking. Freddie was already high on highballs and cocaine. He had a tendency to get boastful in that condition and told Ray things he shouldn’t have. Ray was interested as well as charming; he had an easy smile that contrasted nicely with the dark solemnity of his eyes.
So when he told Freddie that he was going on to a private party catering precisely to tastes like Freddie’s and that Freddie was welcome to come along, Freddie accepted. Ray was pleased. He excused himself to check on the address.
When he came back he offered Freddie another cocktail, which Freddie refused. Ray laughed and ordered one himself, saying the night was young, and Freddie changed his mind. When he and Ray left the club he fizzed with fragmented music.
His condition altered rapidly when he arrived at the party. There were only two other guests, who, as soon as Freddie was inside the door, forced him onto a sofa. One of the young men sat beside him and held a Colt .45 against Freddie’s temple. The other sat in a chair facing the sofa and aimed another .45 at Freddie’s crotch. Ray made the introductions.
“These’re two of my brothers. Abe and Izzy Bernstein. You might have heard of us. They call us the Purple Gang. Boys, this is Freddie Weinstock. Freddie and his brother run a nice little operation outta Windsor, and Freddie’s gonna tell us all about it. That’s right, ain’t it, Freddie?”
Freddie made a sound, a whimper that might have passed for agreement.
“’Cause if you don’t, or if you bullshit us, we’ll not-quite kill you and put you in the trunk of a car and sink you in the river.”
Abe ran the back of his fingers down the sleeve of Freddie’s fur coat. “Nice,” he said. “It’d likely weigh you down in water.”
So Freddie told them everything. Where and when and how and who. Except he didn’t mention a boy called Beck, because he didn’t know about a boy called Beck.
At the end of it Ray said, “Okay, Freddie. Thank you very much for your candor. Now, here’s how it is. You gonna keep doing that business you got with Hiram Walker. Except you gonna be working for us now. Unless you wanna get dead and we put someone else in place.”
Freddie shook his head vigorously.
“Okay. That’s what we thought. So . . .”
“Please don’t hurt Lew,” Freddie said. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt Lew.”
Ray frowned and cocked his head. You could almost see his brain thinking that one over.
BONE THROTTLED THE engine back and brought the boat out of its slow curve. It was late afternoon on a day that lacked color. The fading light was a broad swathe of translucent steel above Grosse Pointe. One of the scows had gone; the other rocked uneasily in piebald water.
The boat carried twice as much hooch as the Ford truck, so Gus and Cole usually brought two vehicles, the hearse and a closed truck with GRAND MILLS FLOUR painted on its sides. Peering ahead, Bone could make out the both of them parked up on the quay.
“Okay, Lonnie?”
Standing at the bow, Lonnie hacked out a cough and flipped his cigarette into the water. He picked up a coil of rope. “Yeah.”
Bone burbled the boat into the dock. Three figures materialized out of the gloom. One of them called out. “That you? Lonnie, Bone?”
It wasn’t a voice they knew. It belonged to a tall man wearing a gray hat. His hands were deep in the pockets of his overcoat. One of his companions wore a leather jacket and a woolen cap. The third man leaned against the hearse, smoking, like he didn’t want to be there, or had just happened to chance upon the scene. He wore a plaid wool jacket and a flat cap.
Lonnie glanced at Bone. Bone put the lever into the neutral position and stepped out of the wheelhouse, keeping his hand on the wheel. He patted his coat pocket like someone checking his wallet was still there, and Lonnie nodded. The boat was thirty feet from the quay.
“Who’s that?” Lonnie called back. “Where’s Cole ’n’ Gus?”
“Capone’s got ’em on another run,” the tall man said. “Something came up. They lent us their wagons. Everything’s kosher. Bring ’er on in.”
Bone stepped back into the wheelhouse. As if checking the angle of the stern he turned his head and said, low, “Beck? Stay put and keep quiet.”
Beck was down in the hold, which had a gantry rigged over it. His job was to attach its hook onto the netted cases of whiskey.
Bone eased the boat alongside the dock. Lonnie lobbed the bow rope ashore and the guy in the leather jacket inexpertly looped it over a bollard. Lonnie walked to the stern. Passing the wheelhouse, he murmured, “Don’t like the look of this, Bone.”
“Just take it slow,” Bone said.
Lonnie threw the mooring rope up from the stern, and Leather Jacket made a dog’s breakfast of tying that up, too.
Bone eased the engine into a soft chug that matched the beat of Beck’s heart. He left the wheelhouse and stepped up onto the quay. Grinning like a fool, he offered his hand to the tall man in the hat. “Bone. Pleased to meetcha. Don’t think we’ve met.”
The man hesitated then took his hand out of his pocket, which, Bone noted, hung heavy.
“No,” the man said, taking Bone’s hand like it was a slug. “We was told forty-eight cases. That right?”
“Sure is,” Bone said, releasing the man’s hand. “So we better get going.”
The guy glanced past Bone’s shoulder and nodded. The other two men stepped down onto the boat’s foredeck. Lonnie stood at the stern looking at them.
Bone said, “We got a system does pretty well, okay? I work the hold, Lonnie there works the hoist, you guys load up onto the trucks. That okay with you?”
“Yeah. Except I don’t do no heavy lifting. Got a bad back. I’m just along to check what comes in is what’s meant to come in.”
“I got no difficulty with that,” Bone said. He went back down onto the boat and reversed down the short flight of steps into the hold.
Beck had eased himself into the cramped space behind the steps. He peeked anxiously at Bone from between two treads. “Bone?”
“Shush. We might be in difficulty here, son. Load your piece like I showed you and keep outta sight.”
Footfalls overhead. Lonnie’s voice. “We set?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
The light squeal of the winch. The hook and chain dropped into the hold. Bone attached the first load, six cases of Hiram Walker netted together.
“Take ’er up.”
They worked fast, faster than Leather Jacket and Plaid Jacket could keep up with.
There were still several cases on the deck when Lonnie clicked the lock on the winch.
“Beck?” Bone whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Listen up. Three guys. One in a check jacket, one in leather. And another guy up on the dock with a hat. Don’t like the look of ’em. I’m gonna go up an’ close the hatch but I’ll leave it chocked up a ways so you can see out, okay?”
“Yeah. Bone . . . ?”
“Just keep an eye on what goes on, understand? Anything bad happens, just climb out onto the dock away from the light and run like hell. You got that?”
“Run where, Bone?”
“Any place dark and outta sight. Don’t worry. We ain’t going nowhere without you.”
Bone put his foot on the first step up then paused and pulled the bright-red hat off Beck’s head. “Gonna be fine, son. Just do what I say. Bone’ll take care of business.” He climbed up out of the hold. It was almost dark now, so he went to the wheelhouse and turned on the lamp fixed to its roof. He trained it onto the quay.
“Hey!” The hatted man held his left hand up to screen the light from his face. “Turn that fuggin’ thing off!”
“Not a good idea,” Bone said. “Need to see what we’re doing. Don’t want no one falling in the river carrying Big Al’s whiskey.”
&nbs
p; The man in the hat thought about it. “Okay. Let’s move it. Jesus, I didn’t think it’d take this long.” He stepped sideways out of the light.
WHEN HE HEARD Lonnie say, “That’s it, fellers. Last case,” Beck stood on the third step and peered out. He could see the patched-up surface of the quay, a truck with red writing on it and part of another vehicle with glass sides.
The shooting and shouting started before he had time to figure out where anyone was. Three shots then a pause no longer than a heartbeat then another shot and another. They seemed to come from all over the place; Beck’s eyes registered flashes but they were as random in the dark as prairie lightning. Shaking, he took the Smith & Wesson from his pocket, slid the safety off and rested the barrel on the raised rim of the hold, trying to steady it. Then he saw Lonnie’s silhouette reverse across the foredeck. Lonnie’s head was back like he was screaming at heaven but his arm was pointing at the quay and his gun fired twice before his legs gave out and he fell slumped against the boat’s gunwale.
From Beck’s right, frighteningly close, came another bang and flash. Something heavy landed on the deck in front of the wheelhouse. Silence, then a voice he didn’t recognize called out.
“Mannie?”
A reply came out of the darkness on the quay beyond the bow of the boat. “I’m hit. Jesus, I’m hit.” Then a hat toppled into the light, followed by a man crawling forward like a pilgrim toward a shrine. “I’m fuggin’ hit, Joe. Get that son of a bitch.”
Beck caught a gleam of metal and a leather arm at the edge of the lamplight. A shape slithered along the deck toward him. Bone.
Another shot. Both side wheelhouse windows exploded into frost.
“Beck,” Bone said hoarsely, on his knees now, shedding glass like a dog shaking off water.
Beck braced himself and fired into the darkness where he guessed the man in the leather jacket might be. The bark of the gun turned into the whack and whine of a ricochet. Then a yelp. “Shit, Mannie, they got someone else with ’em!”
Bone heaved himself upright and swiveled the lamp. Dazzled, the man in leather aimed blindly. Beck steadied his right wrist and shot twice. The double recoil threw him backward down the steps into the hold. He heard Bone’s gun. And again. Beck scrabbled on the floor for the pistol as the hatch above him lifted.
“Easy, Beck. It’s Bone. Come up. Crawl up to the wheelhouse. The side away from the dock. Keep your head down.”
They squatted side by side. Glass crackled beneath their boots.
Bone whispered, “You done real good, son. Now listen.”
Beck leaned out and looked past Bone toward the black shape near the bow. “Is Lonnie dead?”
“I reckon we got two of them guys, but one’s still out there. Guy in a plaid jacket. He ain’t had nothing to say so far, but I dunno where he is.”
“Lonnie might be okay,” Beck said.
“Listen. How many shots you loose off ? Three?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m empty. Here, reload for me. Ammo’s in my pocket.”
“Bone?”
“I’m hit in the arm. Can’t do it myself.”
“You okay, Bone?”
“Shut up, kid. Just load me.”
Beck did as he was told. His jittery fingers fumbled at the third chamber and the round dropped onto the deck.
“Steady.” Bone’s voice was calm.
Beck handed the revolver back to Bone. The silence was dense and eerie. Ice shunted softly against the hull.
“Okay. Now listen. Stand up real easy. Get up on my back and from there onto the roof. Stay flat. Reach up and run the light real slow along the dock. Anything kick off, just hug the roof like it’s your best girl and let me take care of business. You got that?”
Beck said nothing.
“Beck?”
“I need a piss, Bone.”
“You piss your pants, it’ll be the least worst thing happens tonight. Let’s go.”
Beck stood and hoisted himself up onto the wheelhouse roof. He swung the lamp. It lit up the guy in the leather jacket. He was lying flat on his back twenty feet away with his head between two metal barrels. Beck thought at first that the glistening puddle he lay in was blood, then saw that one of the barrels was punctured and leaking oil onto the corpse.
He tracked left, the beam showing up a shrouded rowboat, a marine engine sitting on blocks, the blind and stained brick wall of a warehouse, the flour truck, the hearse, and a man in a long coat lying facedown, absolutely still, his face crushed into his hat.
“Okay,” Bone said, hissing relief.
Something creaked. Beck swung the lamp at the flour truck. The passenger door was part open, and a plaid arm appeared. The hand at the end of the arm was waggling a handkerchief. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I ain’t got a gun!”
From the shadow of the wheelhouse Bone shouted, “Stay where you are.” And then, quietly, “Get down here, Beck.”
Beck slithered down and, at Bone’s signal, climbed over the gunwale and took up a position ahead and to the right of the truck’s cab. Bone climbed down onto the quay and walked toward the truck. His left arm hung limply, and now Beck saw a ragged tear in the sleeve below the shoulder. Blood dripped from Bone’s fingers.
The man inside the truck called out again. “What you doing, boys?” There was a sob in the question. “Please. Don’t shoot. I ain’t carrying, honest to God.”
“Get out,” Bone ordered.
The man scrambled out with his hands high and his eyes shut. “Please,” he said again.
“Take your coat off and throw it this way.”
The guy did.
“Now drop your pants.”
The guy opened his eyes. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He was maybe fifty years old with worry dribble on his whiskery chin. He fumbled with his belt and buttons and let his trousers fall, exposing long johns that hadn’t visited a laundry for some time. His eyes swiveled from Bone to Beck and back again. He began to babble. “Listen. I never meant you boys no harm. I been a boat skipper up and down Detroit for twenty years. They said it’d be all safe with no one getting hurt, least of all me —”
“Shut up.”
The guy shut up.
Bone said, “You were gonna steal the boat off of us? That’s what you’re saying?”
The man opened his mouth but thought better of it and shut it again. Bone stepped up to him and aimed his gun at the middle of the man’s face.
“Oh, dear God, Jesus. Please. I got a wife and three kids and I didn’t know nothing about this at all. It was just a job.”
“I’m strongly minded to kill you anyway,” Bone said.
The man was sobbing now. “Please don’t. Please, please don’t.”
Beck was thinking the same thing.
“Get in the truck,” Bone said. “No, asshole. The back of the truck. Beck, take the keys out of the ignition and lock the front doors.”
The guy shuffled along moaning with Bone’s gun an inch from his head.
“Get in.”
He did as he was told, sitting hunched on a case of whiskey with his trousers around his ankles like a man on the toilet. Bone put his gun away, which emboldened the guy to stop sniveling and speak. “No offense, mister, but you and yon other nigger’s good as dead. You just killed two of Abe Bernstein’s boys. I don’t think there’s any way of getting on the right side of that.”
Bone said, “You got problems of your own, skipper. You’re gonna spend the night locked up with a load a whiskey belongs to the Purple Gang. I’d say you could really, really use a drink right now. Temptation’s a terrible thing.” He took the keys from Beck and closed the doors and locked them, then lobbed the keys underhand into the water. “Good luck,” he called, and left.
Beck relieved himself lengthily and messily where he stood because he was unable to control his shuddering. He climbed back on the boat as it rumbled to life.
“C’mon, son,” Bone
called from the wheelhouse. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
With Bone steering one-handed and Beck working the throttle, they maneuvered out into open water. Ahead of them, the newly risen half-moon made intermittent appearances through breaks in the running clouds. After ten minutes Bone turned the bow into the current and told Beck to idle the engine. Then, grunting a little, he shrugged off his heavy coat. In the dim light of the cabin lamp his shirtsleeve was black with blood. Bone took a jackknife from his pocket.
“Here,” he said. “Cut it right up to the shoulder.” He looked at Beck and managed a small smile. “And try not to shake.”
Beck sawed through the cloth of the sleeve and the undershirt. Wincing, Bone peeled the sticky and stiffening fabric away from the flesh and explored his wound with the fingers of his good hand.
“Well,” he said. “Got me a lucky one. Went through clean.” He tapped a box with his foot. “There’s oil rags in there. See if there’s a couple ain’t been used much.”
Inexpertly, under Bone’s more or less patient direction, Beck dressed the wound and helped Bone to get the parka back on. Bone gave the wheel a quarter turn and told Beck to gun the engine a quick burst. “Okay, now listen. What we gotta do next is drop Lonnie over the side.”
“What? Jesus, Bone. No.”
“You want me to take him back over and call a funeral parlor? Say there’s a bootlegger on a boat shot to shit and would you take care of it only don’t tell no one, specially the cops?”
“But . . .”
“C’mon. I can’t do it myself.”
It was hard for Beck to look at Lonnie, who sat in an interlude of moonlight with his eyes and mouth and coat open. His belly and lap and thighs were drenched with blood. Bone stooped and got his right hand on one of the lapels of Lonnie’s coat. Beck didn’t move.
“C’mon, kid!”