“Mr. Duncan—Bax—” she stumbled.
He looked at her.
“I-I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean to blurt out—well, you were right. It was none of my business. I was just surprised to—”
“Never mind, Amy,” he muttered, cutting her off. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to be nosy.”
How could someone sound polite and uncivil at the same time? she wondered, feeling stupid and no better for her effort.
He put his fork down on the plate with a clatter. “I’m not very hungry tonight. Maybe you can give this to Tom when he gets home.”
He pushed away from the table and got his jacket where it hung on a coat rack by the back door. “I’ll be back later.”
Amy watched him go, and found herself sitting at a table with a pile of food and no one to eat it.
What a shitty, shitty couple of days it had been. Bax walked to Tilly’s under a clear, star-flung sky, alert as a guard dog for any shadow or other hint of a person lurking around. A few people were on the street, but most were at home, eating dinner. Certainly he’d known worse times, but yesterday Amy had seen his back, and today that encounter with Milo Breninger had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit.
After the last few lousy years, he believed he’d finally found a place among the people in Powell Springs. He worked at a respectable job, no one knew about his past, and he’d even allowed himself to begin thinking about the future. Maybe a wife, kids, a place of his own.
He’d imagined that once with Polly, had it all planned, until everything had gone to hell. Sometimes he’d regretted not marrying her before he left for the war, as she’d wanted. She wouldn’t have been able to shed herself of him so easily if he had. Then he’d think, what would he have been left with—an angry woman who despised him? Or maybe she would have divorced him before he got back and married Jack Bradshaw anyway.
So he abandoned that dream, along with a lot of the others he’d once had.
But now, when he pictured it, the image of that wife had begun to wear Amy’s face. Amy, a married woman. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the combination of vulnerability and iron-willed strength that he detected in her. Or the sense that she could fill the emptiness in him that he’d known for so long. But at least he’d had a flicker of hope. Now that tiny spark might be doused by a man who had dodged the law by enlisting in the army—Bax had overheard him bragging about it in the trenches one night. He’d been a fool to think things could really get better.
He reached Tilly’s, and when he looked through the windows, he was glad to see it was fairly quiet in there tonight. This damned Prohibition had really put a knot in everyone’s knickers. Thanks to the governor, Oswald West, Oregon had even imposed a dry-state order three years ahead of the Eighteenth Amendment. It was an incredibly stupid law that was causing more trouble than it stopped. Bootleggers and rum-runners were making a fortune on alcohol smuggled over the border from Canada, and moonshiners operating their own stills were killing people with the brews they cooked up. Human nature being what it was, even people who usually didn’t drink wanted to now. He was grateful that Whit Gannon didn’t enforce the law around here, but this saloon was the only one he permitted to operate in Powell Springs. All Whit demanded was that Virgil Tilly sell true bottled whiskey. If Virgil bought homemade hooch from anyone, or worse, set up his own still, Whit had promised he’d personally deliver Tilly into the hands of the Prohibition agents. There were a few men living up in the hills to the east who cooked up wood alcohol—Dr. Jessica had been called to treat a couple of their customers in the past few years. But there was no saving them.
Virgil Tilly was reluctant to sell a whole bottle to someone because deliveries were unreliable and risky, but tonight, Bax was willing to pay the premium he asked for.
He pulled open the screen door, and although there were only a few customers standing at the bar, a layer of what might be permanent tobacco smoke hung over them. They were some of Tilly’s regulars. They bought the swill that Virgil made up in his back room for people who didn’t want to pay for straight whiskey or gin. Some swore the saloon owner used horse liniment, Worcestershire sauce, Listerine, or plain water to cut a bottle of Canadian alcohol. He wouldn’t own up to anything, apparently very closed-mouthed about his secret recipe, which tasted like poison.
It was a colorful place, Bax had to admit. Stuffed trophy heads observed the proceedings from their places high on the walls, which still bore posters left over from the war, a calendar, and other signs that reminded customers that no minors were allowed and credit was not offered.
“I tell you truly,” Tilly testified to his audience. He had a piece of paper and a pencil in his hands. He gestured at the counter behind him, where he kept his glassware. “You’d think those loggers would be good for business. They can drink like it’s their last day on earth, and they’ll even pay for the good stuff. But if they get into a fight, all the profits go right out the door. Yesterday, those two lamebrain oafs broke ten dollars’ worth of stuff. Ten dollars!” He whacked his inventory list with the pencil for emphasis. “They even managed to knock down my four-point buck. Here, Bax.” While he handed Bax his purchase, everyone else looked up at the empty space on the wall.
Tilly was still worked up about the fight and complaining to anyone who would listen. No one paid much attention to Bax as he bought the bottle and walked out. People had gotten used to seeing him around town and had begun to accept him as one of their own.
And now—now it could all be wrenched away from him, thanks to that greasy scum, Breninger.
Bax walked back to the boardinghouse and flopped on a backyard bench. Maybe he’d brought this on himself. He’d started to make plans and the fates decided to slap him down.
Opening the bottle, he looked at the stars, as cool and distant as they had been in any sky he’d ever seen. If he could, he’d pull that blanket of stars over himself to hide from the yearning. All the things he’d once thought would be his—they never would be as long as someone knew his story, no matter how far he ran or where he tried to hide. He lifted the bottle in a weary salute to those ghosts in his past and took a drink.
It was late when Amy went to the porch to retrieve a nightgown she’d brought in earlier from the clothesline. It needed ironing but she was just tired enough to talk herself out of the task. Anyway, the sun and a stiff east wind had pretty much worked out the creases made by the wringer.
The darkened room allowed her to see into the backyard, and she froze when she noticed a dark figure sitting on the bench out there. Who—Adam—was it him? Could it be? Her heart seized in her chest and then took off like Cole Braddock’s thoroughbred stallion.
A half-moon was just climbing over the roof line and still hid the bench in its shadow. Everyone was home, she thought, running a head count through her mind. But then she remembered that Bax had gone out and not returned. She leaned closer to the glass and peered, trying to tell if it was him. When he lifted his head to look at the sky, she recognized his dark profile and released her breath. What on earth was he doing out there at this hour? It was almost midnight. He took a drink from what looked like a bottle.
She stepped over to the door and gripped the knob. It was cool and round under her touch, with a raised design that impressed itself into her palm, and she hesitated. She felt drawn to Bax but had yet to understand why. He was taciturn, sometimes to the point of rudeness, and he did not invite questions. Her own behavior at their first meeting still embarrassed her, and probably hadn’t helped the situation. Then there was the matter of Adam, who always lurked in the corner of her mind regardless of what she was doing or what time it was. At least he wasn’t lurking in the yard. Not right now anyway.
Finally she released her grip and took a last backward glance. Bax’s head and shoulders were now in the moonlight, and he looked as if the misery of the world lay upon him.
A sharp pang of empathy twisted her heart before she turned and went upstairs.
CHAPTER SIX
Beneath the dark girders of the Hawthorne Bridge, Harlan Monroe waited for a large rowboat to make its way to the west bank of the Willamette River. A shaded lantern bobbed in and out of sight, marking the boat’s progress.
He’d brought along Ralph Boyer and Paul Church, the men who maintained the grounds around his house. He’d used them before, paying them the princely sum of one hundred dollars each, more money for a few hours than either of them saw in two months’ wages. Only Harlan was armed, but he’d never fired a weapon in his life. This was nerve-wracking, dangerous work, but it also paid handsomely, far more so than what he made working for Robert Burton, and that was considerable. Especially if Harlan included the perquisites that had helped to fund his personal ventures, such as this one. Some men might be tortured by guilt and a conscience that harped at them relentlessly. Fortunately, he was not one of those men. He slept unencumbered by such annoyances.
Harlan had learned many useful lessons, but the most valuable of all taught him that money was the power and the glory. Right now, Prohibition could bring that to him.
The water shimmered like black oil when the occasional headlamps of an auto passed overhead on the bridge. At this hour, two in the morning, not many people were out and about, particularly under the bridges. It was cold down here beside the river.
At last the boat approached the shore and two rough-looking men in black clothes threw out lines to tie up. Although he’d bought smuggled alcohol before, these two were strangers to him. Behind them, Harlan could see wooden cases of Canadian scotch stacked two and three high on the bottom.
“We’ve got a delivery here,” the smaller of the two said. He eyed Harlan in his suit, although it was difficult to tell which eye was looking at him since they didn’t line up. “Are you the one who ordered it?”
“Yes, ten cases. Where are Engels and Flett?”
“Busy with another job. Let’s see the money.”
“Just a minute,” Harlan replied. “I want to open one of the cases first. I’ll choose it, and if everything is fine, then you’ll see the money.” He didn’t know these two thugs, and he wasn’t about to pay good money for turpentine or worse, plain water.
He walked over to the river’s edge where the boat gently bumped against a piling. He nodded at his men. Boyer held a lantern, and Church waded into the shallow water to select a random box and brought it to Harlan. The bigger man pried it open with a crowbar and Harlan pulled out a bottle to look at in the lantern light. Opening it, he took a taste. The sharp but mellowed flavor filled his head.
He nodded and extracted an envelope from inside his coat. It contained two thousand dollars. “All right.” He looked at his men and said, “Put it in the car.”
Odd Eye took the envelope and counted every bill. “This is two thousand dollars. I need twenty-five hundred. The price is twenty-five hundred.”
Harlan knew that, but he also knew he could do better. “That isn’t what I was quoted,” he bluffed. He wasn’t born yesterday and he’d watched Burton haggle prices often enough to know how to dicker, although he’d never tried it himself. And Burton had been buying lumber, not smuggled goods. Still, if he could save the five hundred, it was worth the effort. “I was told two thousand and not a dollar more.”
“Mister, this isn’t bargain day at that Fred Meyer grocery store on Fifth Avenue. Either pay the going rate or we’ll take this booze back upriver.”
“Not a dollar more.” He knew he had to stand firm.
“You two,” Odd Eye said to Harlan’s gardeners, “put those cases back in the boat.”
They looked at Harlan for confirmation but he shook his head, still certain he could win this negotiation. “No. You’ve got a fair price in that envelope, and that’s all you’re getting.”
Chaos erupted when Odd Eye pulled out a revolver. A flash exploded from the muzzle and the sound of gunfire echoed off the bridge piers and the deck above. Paul Church screamed and clutched his belly, and even in this low light, Harlan saw blood pouring from the smoking wound. He stared at the sight in slack-jawed horror, barely able to comprehend what had happened. He reached for his own weapon inside his jacket and fired a wild shot.
“Get those damned cases back!” Odd Eye barked at his companion. The man moved fast while Boyer, Harlan’s remaining assistant, scurried up the bank and took off running toward Front Avenue.
“My God—” He backed up from the barrel of Odd Eye’s gun, which was now pointed at him. His heart felt as if it were lodged in his throat like a pulsating duck egg.
“Next time, you’ll remember not to try to cheat the people you do business with. This isn’t some bullshit game, Mr. Muck-a-muck. This is serious,” Odd Eye growled.
The wounded man lay on the ground, writhing and moaning. Shocked and in fear for his own life, Harlan’s false courage dried up like a raindrop on a hot rock. He ran to the driver’s side of the car, jumped in, and sped off, abandoning his mortally injured gardener in the mud beside the Willamette River.
With his ears still ringing from the noise of the gunshot and the sound of his own blood pumping through his head, he left without his money and with only a single case of scotch. The Chandler sedan’s wheels spun as he jammed his foot on the accelerator, but after what seemed like an eternity, they gained traction and he reached the street. The tires squealed as he made the turn onto the cobblestones.
To his left he saw a witness, a man who stared at him and his car with an open mouth. Damn it! Did the man look familiar or was it only Harlan’s feverish imagination? Sweat poured down his face and soaked through his clothes. His whole body shook so badly he could barely keep the car in a straight line on the deserted late-night street. On top of that, he kept looking back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. He knew it was irrational. No rowboat could pursue him, nor a man on foot, but his feverish imagination galloped on. Maybe the bootleggers had lookouts posted in case of an event like this one. Someone else had seen what happened. Every shadow on the sidewalk was sinister; every stray drunk on the street was a potential killer.
How could things have gone so wrong, he wondered, swiping at his forehead. What was he going to do now? He drove up Pine Street, down Oak, over to Broadway, zigzagging his way through the lower streets. When he felt certain that no one was behind him, he made his way up the hill to Park Place, past the majestic homes, now dark as their occupants slept peacefully. The grisly scene he’d just been through played through his mind over and over. Leaving Church in the weeds to die was far down the list of his worries. His greater concerns were if he had been recognized by anyone and whether Boyer would blab everything that had happened. He could only hope that the man was frightened enough to keep his mouth shut and would never come to the house again.
Right now his goal was to return to birdbrained Tabbie, who would believe any remotely plausible story, before he decided his next move.
He pulled into the driveway and parked in the back, certain the car couldn’t be seen from the street. Somewhere on the block a dog barked several times, then gave up with a halfhearted grunt. Harlan entered the house through the kitchen door. Looking down the hallway, he saw that his wife had left a lamp on for him in the foyer. She always that did when he came in late. As irritating, spoiled, and self-satisfied as she could be, he knew she was a loyal spouse, and right now he wanted nothing more than to be safely lodged in her bed.
He tiptoed up the stairs and into their adjoining bedrooms, which overlooked the street and the park. Stripping off his expensive suit, he left the jacket, vest, and trousers where they landed and made his way to Tabitha’s side.
“Harlan?” she mumbled, rolling over toward him and touching his shoulder. “What time is it?” A faint breath of an exclusive new French perfume, Chanel No. 5, escaped the folds of the sheets. On
e of Tabitha’s cousins had brought it back to her from Paris, and she now wore it day and night.
“Time for us be asleep.”
“Did your meeting go well?”
He put a dry peck on her forehead, actually glad to see her. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
She drifted off again but all Harlan could do was lie awake, staring through the darkness at the plaster acanthus medallion above the bed, reliving the events down at the river. After twenty minutes of this, he noticed the glow of headlights creeping across the ceiling from the street below. The lights came to a stop in front of the house, where a car idled for a moment.
He bolted upright and went to the window, hiding behind the damask drapes, his blood pumping hard enough to sound in his ears.
“Harlan? What is it?” Tabitha called from the bed. She slid out and padded over to him. Peering around his shoulder she asked, “Who is that?”
“Go back to bed and stay there,” he ordered quietly, never taking his eyes from the vehicle.
She didn’t move, but the dark coupe slowly pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.
“That’s what Amy said, Jess. ‘I had nowhere else to go.’ ”
Jessica and Granny Mae were sitting over coffee at the café. A few customers sat at tables by the windows but the morning breakfast rush hadn’t started yet. Jessica and Mae lingered at a back table.
Jessica gripped her temples between thumb and middle finger. “God, what does that mean? Did she leave Adam? Did he throw her out? Where has she been living?”
“I don’t know. That’s all she told me and I didn’t think I should ask anything more. But you could.”
Jess was surprised. Granny Mae never hesitated to speak her mind or voice an opinion, which was one of the reasons they had butted heads in the past, and still did once in a while. In fact, she could be quite blunt and tactless. But the soft heart beneath her tough exterior made her a worthy and loyal friend.
The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) Page 7