Gathering Storm

by Sherilyn Decter

  Mae is keeping busy polishing glasses and encouraging the few folks there to head down to the beach to pick up some ribs.

  “We’re being black-balled,” Edith says, slamming the tray down on the counter.

  “You’re kidding. Who would be so nasty to tell folks to stay away?”

  Edith shrugs. “There’s a line-up of people. Local competitors? Brother Silas maybe? Wharf Rats? It’s not good when there are too many to figure out who’s behind it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve got to get a handle on it. Petty stuff I can ignore, but this is business. I’d been hoping that it would blow over.”

  “Blow over or blow them down. Your choice, Edith,” Mae says with a grim look.

  “I know. I know.”

  “You know what this place needs?” says a gravelly voice behind her.

  Edith turns around. Standing in front of her at the bar is a mountain of a man, bushy beard and mustache, hands like hams. He slaps the hands on the counter. “Some of them slot machines. For gambling. I thought all the places on the Florida coast had slots in ‘em.”

  “Nope, no slot machines, but that’s a good idea. What can I get you? This your first time at Gator Joe’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The names Peder Solberg. I got a Norwegian ketch out on Rum Row.”

  “What can I get you to drink, Peder?”

  “I’ll have three fingers, my fingers mind, of scotch.”

  “Sorry, Peder. I don’t have scotch. I can pour you a whiskey, a beer, or one of our special moonshine cocktails.”

  Peder wrinkles up his nose. “Whiskey, then.” He drains the glass Edith puts down in front of him and bangs it down on the counter. “Another.” She refills his glass from the bottle.

  “You know, ma’am, I may be able to help you with that scotch shortage. I happen to have a few cases, all that’s left of my cargo after the damn pirates boarded my boat last night, pointed their pistols at Lars and me, and took off with it.”

  “How’d they manage to leave some behind?”

  “I’d stored a few cases under the cabin floor in the bilges.” Peder laughs. “Never try to get one leg up on a herring man. There are thirty cases still there, and you can have the lot.”

  “Done,” Edith says, extending her hand over the bar to give him a firm shake. His massive hands swallow hers.

  “Lars,” Peder bellows. A young man who’d been drinking at Billy’s table comes over. “This lady’s going to take the scotch off our hands. Then we can head back to Norway and get back on the herring fleet.” He turns to Edith and frowns. “I thought this rum running was going to be easy money but, like most things, it was too good to be true. Lars here will bring you the scotch tomorrow night, if that’s all right.”

  “Perfect, Peder. And here’s another shot of whiskey on the house, to cement the deal.”

  At one point, Edith looks out at the small crowd. Only half the tables are full. Sitting quietly in the back is the big-city gangster fella who was there the first night they opened.

  “You came back,” Edith says, tray in hand.

  “Grand Opening. Wouldn’t miss it,” he says around the toothpick in his mouth. “You get any good whiskey in, or is it still just beer?”

  “We’ve got whiskey, although it’s not what I’d call top shelf. Why don’t you try the moonshine instead? The local stuffs got quite a kick.”

  “Moonshine, eh? Sure. Pour me some of that. But you know, doll, one of these days you’re going to have to stock this bar like you mean it.”

  “We’re getting there. But trust me, you’re going to love the moonshine. You can have it in a Fireball or a Black Jack’s Rootshine. What’s your pleasure?”

  He looks her up and down, drawing a blush that spreads across Edith’s face.

  “A fireball, of course, darlin’.”

  “He giving you grief?” Mae asks as Edith mixes the moonshine with some food coloring.

  “Nothing I can’t handle, although it’s been a while,” Edith says. “When did I stop noticing men noticing me?”

  “You are working way too hard, doll, way too hard,” Mae says, laughing.

  Edith ignites the top of the fireball and carries it over to the table where the gangster is waiting. He grins as he watches the flaming drink set down in front of him.

  “Hot stuff, toots. I ain’t seen nuthin like it.”

  Edith takes her tray to clear off empty glasses at Billy’s table, readying the group for another round.

  “Thanks for bringing your friends in, Billy. Without them, the place would be pretty quiet.”

  Billy looks at her and blushes, his root beer leaving a sweet white foam mustache over his upper lip. He sways slightly, having had two. “Not a problem, Miz Edith. You don’t have to try too hard to convince a member of the Coast Guard to check out a new bar.”

  “I’ve always wondered about that. You’re one of our regular customers, and yet you work for the Coast Guard who is trying to keep the Prohibition laws enforced.”

  “That’s not me.” Billy, swaying drunkenly on his chair, slaps his chest. “I couldn’t care less about Prohibition. I’m a mechanic. The Coast Guard has one of the best machine shops on the southeast coast. You should see the equipment I have in the shop: lathes, drill presses, all the latest and the best. And the engines I get to work on are fantastic.” He burps. “Fan-tas-tik, I tell ya. A mechanic’s dream. If I have to salute to keep working in that shop, then I salute.” He tries to salute but misses his head, throwing his arm behind him.

  Off in one corner, a small man sits nursing his beer. A few of the men in the room go over to whisper in his ear and often they come over to Edith and pay for his next round.

  When she’s delivering a tray of drinks to Harley and his friend, she nods in the stranger’s direction. “What’s that all about?”

  Harley grimaces. “Sad tale, Miz Edith. That’s the schoolteacher, or at least was. With the hard times, taxes are down and that’s what pays for the school and his salary. The Board let him go. He used to teach the senior grades, but lots of folks have pulled their older kids outta school. You have to pay to keep them in past Grade Eight and even the younger ones are needed to help out at home. Of course, lots are just packing up and leaving town, looking for work elsewhere. Everybody’s gotta earn their keep, ya know what I mean?”

  Gradually the crowd thins. The musicians pack up their instruments. Billy’s table is the last to leave—he never gets his free fifth root beer. Immobile after three, Harley and a few of his pals carry him out. Mae helps with the clean-up and stacking of glasses, then takes her empty bean pot back to Miami.

  “That’s good enough for tonight, Leroy. We’ll wash up tomorrow. Just scoot down to the beach to make sure the pit is out. ”

  Leroy yawns. “Sounds good to me, Miz Edith. Too bad the towns’ folk didn’t come. It was nice talking to the guitar player, and that fella that ordered the fireball gave me a quarter tip.”

  Edith locks up and turns out the lights. An empty bar is a melancholy place. She checks the locks on the front and back doors, then grabs a glass from the bar and pours herself a shot of Mickey’s premium whiskey.

  I had tucked this behind the counter for a celebration after the crowds had left. Instead, I’ll use it to drown my sorrows. It’s getting harder and harder to stick to the idea that surrender is the only failure. Maybe I should live to fight another day and call Tucker back to see if the offer is still open. If tonight was supposed to launch something, it sure as tootin’ wasn’t success.

  Edith washes her hands and face in the kitchen, then heads into her bedroom to change into her nightgown. Her legs hurt from standing all night, and her heart aches from the disappointment of it all.

  Maybe tonight was Mickey’s way of getting revenge. Ha. Thoughts like that and I know it was a long night. Let’s face it. No amount of guilt can change the past, and no amount of worry can change the future.

  She sits on the edge of
the bed. The sound in her head could be the squeak of the rusty springs or the grinding of her teeth—hard to tell which is which.

  Those damn Wharf Rats are trying to drive me out by ruining my business. I’ve tried ignoring it. And talking didn’t get me anywhere. I’m going to get to the bottom of what’s happening in this crazy town and deal with it. That’s bound to stir up a hornet’s nest. Maybe I should send Leroy back to Cassie? That Grand Opening was a red flag to a bull, and it’s only a matter of time before the Wharf Rats come back.

  There’s no way Mickey would have let it go on as long as it has. I wanted to be, was supposed to be, smarter than him, but the Wharf Rats see it as weakness. It doesn’t look like I have too many other options other than walking through that door into the old ways and invite all that craziness back into my life. Like Al Capone says, ‘You can get much further with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone’.

  Chapter 43

  S unday. Supposedly a day of rest but, after the flop of the Grand Opening, Edith prowls around the house. There are so many plans in her head for how she might deal with the force that squeezed the life out of her triumphant moment. They veer from calling Elliot Ness, who helped bring down Al Capone, to using some of Mickey’s old pals and doing what Mickey did best.

  While Mickey was an ‘act first, ask questions later’ kinda fella, she needs a different approach. She doesn’t have the muscle to instill the fear that he did, but different workers use different tools.

  Before she can act, she needs information so that she doesn’t go after the wrong target, and she figures Tucker Wilson is her best bet. He’ll know the score with the Wharf Rats, and he’ll have heard if they’re connected in any way to last night’s debacle.

  While Edith plots, Leroy spends the day fishing and exploring, following the creek that flows next to Gator’s and into the Everglades, and arrives for supper dirty, tired, and hungry.

  After supper is tidied away, Edith changes into her swimsuit. She looks in on Leroy, who’s at the kitchen table. His head is resting on his arms as he listens to his favorite program on the radio, “The Shadow”, part of the Detective Story Hour. Leroy has been a loyal listener since she purchased the radio. He’s told her: I love it and will never miss an episode.

  Enough of this. I need to drown these sorrows in the deep blue sea. “I’m going for a swim. Want to come?”

  “Shh, the show is starting,” he says. The eerie theme music fades and the announcer’s voice comes on.

  “The Shadow, Lamont Cranston, a man of wealth, a student of science, and a master of other people's minds, devotes his life to righting wrongs, protecting the innocent, and punishing the guilty.

  Using advanced methods that may ultimately become available to all law enforcement agencies, Cranston is known to the underworld as "The Shadow". Never seen, only heard. As haunting to superstitious minds as a ghost. As inevitable as a guilty conscience. The identity of The Shadow is known only to his intimate friend and aide, Margo Lane.

  Today's story, "The Blind Beggar Dies."

  “I hope I’m not eaten by an alligator,” Edith says to the back of his head.

  “You bet. Right away, Miz Edith.”

  She sneaks up behind him and grabs him. “Boo!”

  Leroy squeals.

  “I’m going for a swim. If I’m not back by the time the show ends, put yourself to bed, okay?”

  Leroy, crouched over the radio, gives her a thumbs-up. Edith chuckles and, in a more optimistic frame of mind, is out the front door with her towel before his story begins.

  Since the first day she moved in, Edith has found the dock and a late-night swim the best place to do her thinking. The combination of solitude, water, moonlight in majestic heavens, and the scent of the sea, settles her mind and brings clarity.

  She pauses at the end of the dock, pre-bathing in the light of the shimmering moon, anticipating jumping into its watery reflection. The clouds drift over its silver face like gauzy drapes on a window.

  Dropping her towel on the dock, Edith points her hands above her head and arches gracefully into the water. She swims until her shoulders strain and the muscles in her legs begin to protest.

  Under the water, the muffled pounding of waves signal she’s close to the dock. She lifts her head out of the water, blinking to clear the saltwater. Straight ahead. Two more strokes, one stroke, her arm extended to the wet wood.

  As she lifts herself out of the water, her eyes are closed and ears are plugged. She shakes her head to clear them and the excess water sprays from her hair.

  Suddenly, she’s plunged back under the water. Bubbles roar around her.

  Her feet touch bottom and her lungs scream for air. Someone grabs a fistful of her hair, pulling her back to the surface. She gasps, frantic, her lungs burning. She’s shoved back under the water. Edith swallows a mouthful, gagging, the saltwater in her nose burning. She grabs at the hand holding her head down.

  Released.

  She darts under the dock, her mouth gasping for air in the small gap between the water and the wood. She hears laughing and heavy boots tromp off the dock.

  “That should fix ya.” Buford’s voice.

  Leroy’s in the house.

  She swims to the shore, staggering up on the beach. Bent double, she retches saltwater out of her stomach and onto the seagrass and sand.

  Straightening, Edith lurches to the veranda, careening into the trunks of palm trees and tripping on rocks. Grabbing hold of the veranda post, she sees headlights back out of the car park and head toward the road to town.

  Shivering, wet, sick, she stumbles through the barroom. The kitchen is dark. Where is Leroy?

  She’s shaking so badly, from shock, from cold, she can barely walk to the barn. Why won’t my legs work?

  “Leroy? Are you there? Leroy?” she yells as loudly as her burning throat allows.

  Leroy pokes his head out of the barn door. “Miz Edith? You okay? Why are you still in your swimsuit?” His hair is tousled from bed and he’s rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Oh-Oh, Leroy. Yes. Of course. Erm, I just wanted to say goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Night.” He yawns and disappears back into the barn.

  In the sanctuary of Gator’s, she wraps herself in the yellow quilt in the same motion of sliding to the floor beside the bed. She’s so cold. Her mind is blank. Her heart pounding.

  Shuddering, she gathers herself, heads for the barroom, pulls a chair over to the telephone on the bar counter, and dials.

  “Hello, operator? I want to place a long-distance call to Philadelphia Baldwin 6828. Yes, thank you. I’ll wait.”

  Edith shivers in the dark barroom, her skin cold despite the warm night. The moonlight travels no further than its reflection on the water. Clicks echo as the call is transferred from line to line up the coast. Eventually, she hears ringing.

  “Hello?” a groggy, male voice at the other end of the line comes through the static. “Hello?”

  Edith clutches the phone. “Henry, it’s me, Edith.” She erupts in a primal sob.

  “Edith? Edith. What’s wrong?” His voice trails away. “Sadie, it’s Edith calling from Florida… I know it’s the middle of the night. But she’s crying…” His voice is louder. “Edith, honey. What’s wrong?”

  “Henry, I was almost drowned, and the pastor calls me a Jezebel, and nobody came to the Grand Opening, and Zeke and Otis have gone to Tampa. I had no one else to call.” She sobs into the receiver.

  “Honey, who are Zeke and Otis?” Edith gradually recovers and manages to string out a coherent story.

  Struggling under the water, desperate for air, she’d almost died. But she didn’t. Another warning. A loud warning. The Wharf Rats were back.

  She’d turned to Henry Mercer, her husband’s long-time business partner and a friend from the old days. She tells him about flat tires on her truck, about the dead rats, about sugar in the generator, about never managing to get a good
supply line established out to Rum Row.

  “That rat stuff, it’s just penny-ante shenanigans. Somebody was trying to scare you without doing any real harm, except to the rat of course. But the other stuff. I know you’ve always been made of tough stuff, Edith. But this sounds serious.”

  “I know. I know.” The words catch in the back of her throat. “I’m all alone here. I don’t have a crew like you and Mickey did. I don’t have anyone to watch my back. Except for Leroy. He’s that kid I wrote to you about. Just wandered in from the Everglades one day.”

  “Any chance he can give you a bit of protection? I’m worried about these pirates.”

  “No, he’s only ten. There’s not enough of him to stand up to a good gale, let alone the Wharf Rats, Henry. Not that he doesn’t try. He was roughed up the last time they were here. What happens the next time they come calling?” Edith starts crying again.

  “Shh, honey. It’s all right. Everything will be okay. Don’t cry, Edith.” Henry waits while Edith tries to gather herself again. “Tell me about this kid. How’d he come to be living with you?” Henry asks.

  Her thoughts become more focused as she remembers. “I met his aunt. She thought it was time he was with other people. Apparently, I’m those other people. I have no idea who his parents are. He helps out around the bar. He’s a great kid, Henry. Really special.” Edith stops crying as she speaks about Leroy.

  “Sounds like it. I got your letter and it seems like you’re having some problems with your speakeasy. Why don’t you tell me the biggest problems and we’ll see about fixing those first?”

  “Problems? Well, I guess the biggest thing is to get the Rum Row situation figured out. Some nights, my shelves are half empty.”

  “That’s not good, Edith. You can’t run a dry bar.”

  “I did find a moonshiner—”

  “You serve moonshine?”

  “Sort of. We mix it with root beer and call it Black Jack’s Rootshine after some pirate. It’s pretty good. Customers love it.”