The Rum Runner

by Christine Marciniak

  The crew bent to start the task of unloading, and Hank followed Jiggy into the hut for the cash.

  “Did you see Nagy this afternoon?” Hank asked, hands shoved in his pockets. Had Tomas delivered the goods before he was killed, or had they been stolen from him? That was what he wanted to know, and he certainly couldn’t ask the authorities.

  Jiggy’s head, which had been bent over his money box on the spindly little three-legged table, shot up. “What do you know about Nagy?” The words came out almost like a snarl.

  Hank took half a step back. “I know he’s my friend, and I know he’s dead. What I don’t know is if he delivered his shipment to you before he died.”

  “He did not.”

  “So you know he’s dead.”

  Jiggy glared at him from over the smoke curling up from his pipe.

  “I hear things.”

  “Did you hear who did it?”

  “What am I, the damn FBI?” He grabbed a wad of bills from the strongbox and shoved it at Hank. “I’ll tell you this, though, buddy-boy, you better watch your back.”

  “Why?” Hank thumbed through the bills, counting them quickly, and pocketed the wad.

  Jiggy touched the side of his nose, indicating he was giving him a big tip. “I don’t know who shot Nagy, but I do know he was getting involved with some people he shouldn’t be.”

  “Like who?”

  “Ever hear of a guy named Vincent Salerno?”

  He’d heard the name bandied about a bit but didn’t know much about him.

  “Don’t know him.”

  Jiggy made a huffing noise and sucked on his pipe. “Yeah, well. Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.”

  “You think he shot Nagy?”

  “Not saying he did, or he didn’t, but Nagy got involved with him and now he’s dead.”

  “What does this guy Salerno do?”

  “Causes trouble, that’s what.”

  Hank tried not to let his impatience show. He leaned against the doorjamb. “He your competition?”

  Jiggy’s face slowly turned red. “I ain’t got no competition. And don’t you forget it.”

  He was right about that. No one else dared even try to manage the connections between rum row, the runners and the buyers like the speakeasies. Jiggy had the business in this area all tied up, and everyone knew it.

  Jiggy shuffled through some papers on his table, finally pulling one scrap from the pile.

  “When you go out again, I need Champagne. They should have it on board the Fleur de Lys.”

  Hank knew the conversation was closed. “Fine.”

  Half of the hams were already on the working deck when they stepped back into the afternoon sunlight. Hank joined his crew to unload the rest and then to move them into the specially built cellar behind Jiggy’s shack.

  Once all the Bordeaux was secure under the hut, Hank and his crew climbed back aboard the boat.

  “Well, you be careful, you hear?” Jiggy called up to him, the pipe in one hand, the other shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. “Remember what I told you.”

  Hank didn’t have to be told that twice. He’d been well and truly warned. He just wasn’t sure what he was being warned against.

  He and Smitty headed up to the bridge as the other crew men pulled in the gangway. Smitty gave him the all clear and Hank silently piloted the boat back to the marina near Boynton Beach.

  What could have happened out here that led to Tomas’s death? What did Vince Salerno have to do with it? He needed to find answers. And he would. He owed that much to Tomas, and his family.

  Once the Mary B was securely back in her own slip, he handed his crew their cash.

  “Take the weekend off,” he told them. “We’ll start maintenance on Monday.”

  The crew nodded, much more somber than they normally would be with their pay packets in hand.

  “We were talking.” Curly cleared his throat and took a step forward. “We want to help out Nagy’s widow. Irene’s going to need all the help she can get. She’s got those three nippers. Ernst, the oldest, is only eight, too young to bring in much money.”

  It was true, the jobs a boy that age could get—newsboy, shoeshine boy—would not be enough to sustain the family.

  His crew each took one crisp twenty out of their pay packets and handed it to Hank. “You’ll bring this to her?”

  How could he refuse?

  “I’ll be sure she gets it.” He added several twenties of his own to the pile.

  It was the least they could do.

  Chapter Three

  On the short walk from the police station to the Nagy house on Berry Street, Alice thought about how to break the news to Irene Nagy. She remembered when Chief Murphy came to their house, hat in hand, to tell them about her father. This coming Christmas it would be nine years. Hardly seemed possible so much time had passed, since it felt like time stood still when they got the news.

  It had been the week before Christmas and Alice was helping Mama bake gingerbread and also finish up some dresses she was making for one of her customers. They were working in tandem, taking turns in the kitchen and at the sewing machine, laughing and joking and singing Christmas carols.

  They were singing “Here We Come a Wassailing” and trying to do it as a round but having difficulty because there were only the two of them, so they kept messing up and laughing, and then just when Mama opened the oven to take out the latest batch of gingerbread there had been a knock at the door. Alice was still laughing when she answered it.

  The somber faces of Chief Murphy and Officer Burns stopped her in her tracks. Mama came up behind her almost instantly. “What is it? What’s happened? What’s happened to Sean?”

  Alice didn’t know how Mama knew that something was wrong with Daddy. But really, there wasn’t any other explanation for the two officers to be on the doorstep.

  “Mrs. Grady,” Chief Murphy said, turning his hat over in his hands. “Anna.” His voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

  “Where is he?” Already Mama was taking her apron off and shoving it at Alice. “Where is he? I need to go to him.”

  “It won’t matter to him, I’m afraid,” Chief Murphy said. “Please, sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down,” Mama had insisted. “I need to go to Sean.”

  But despite her protests, Chief Murphy and Officer Burns got Mama seated and Alice put on the kettle for a pot of tea. She suspected they would need it. She checked the cupboard to make sure the bottle of whiskey was still there. A drop of that in Mama’s tea might be just the thing.

  She made it back into the living room to hear what had happened. Her father had been shot in an arrest gone wrong. Straight through the heart. He hadn’t stood a chance. They were confident they would find and arrest the man who had done it, and that he would face the electric chair.

  “This won’t go unpunished,” Chief Murphy had insisted, as if that was supposed to make them feel better.

  The teakettle whistled, and Alice reluctantly left the living room to tend to it. Mechanically she scooped the tea into the white Belleek teapot with its delicate shamrock design. It had been a wedding gift for her parents, and one of Mama’s prized possessions. She added the water and then opened the cupboard, deciding whether or not to add the whiskey to the whole pot or just to her mother’s cup.

  “Don’t you be adding no whiskey to my tea, Alice Marie,” Mama, who apparently had the ears of a cat and could read minds, called from the other room. “I’ll be needing my wits about me today.”

  Alice closed the cupboard and brought the tea tray into the living room.

  When she poured the tea even the officers accepted cups. This was not simply a courtesy call regarding a stranger. Sean was one of their own. Alice wondered if either of the men would have happily accepted some whiskey in their tea. Not that they could say so, being on duty and all. And there was the whole factor of prohibition.

  “We’ve already called Greiner’s. They’ll take
care of everything.”

  “We need to tell Martha.” Mama turned to Alice. “Go with Officer Burns, over to the high school, and I’ll go with the Chief so I can see Sean.”

  Alice hadn’t wanted to be the one to break the news to her sister, and it turned out she hadn’t had to. She’d stood silently by, while Officer Burns did all the talking, and then she held her sister in her arms while they both cried.

  Now she was the one who had to be strong and deliver the bad news. She was not looking forward to it at all.

  She paused in front of three twenty-nine Berry Street and looked up at the narrow two-story house. The children were probably home from school at this point. She almost wished they weren’t. She did not want to have to be the one to tell them their father was dead. Though maybe it was easier if it were her rather than their mother. She could at least spare the widow that pain. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the five steps to the porch. The front door stood open on this warm afternoon. Not seeing a doorbell in evidence, Alice knocked on the door jamb.

  A little girl, her dark hair in two long braids, stopped running through the house, and stuck her fingers in her mouth, as she peered at Alice.

  “Is your mama here?” Alice barely got the words out, before the child ran toward the back of the house.

  “Mama, Mama. Lady here to see you!”

  Irene Nagy, dark hair in a stylish bob, wearing a bright yellow dress cinched at the waist, came into view, a questioning look on her face. Alice’s heart sank. She was so clearly dressed up and expecting her husband home after a couple of weeks at sea.

  “May I help you?” Her words were accented and awkward, as if she were not accustomed to speaking English. Even before she finished speaking, she seemed to take in the uniform and Alice’s somber expression. She paled visibly. “Is something wrong? Has something happened to Tomas?”

  How is it that wives know? Alice wondered.

  “May I come in, Mrs. Nagy?” Alice asked.

  “Igen,” she answered in Hungarian first and then switched to English. “Yes, of course.” Irene waved her into the house, her expression wavering between hospitality and wariness.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Alice began.

  “Tomas?”

  Alice nodded. “Perhaps you would like to sit?” She didn’t like how pale the woman had become, and she hadn’t even told her the worst yet. Irene sat in a flowered chair and clutched at the worn upholstered arms, her knuckles white. Alice looked at her with compassion. Was there any easy way to say this? Perhaps the kindest thing was to not keep her waiting for what she was afraid to hear. “Your husband was killed today.” It sounded so stark to her ears, but to tell her anything less would only delay the inevitable.

  “How?” The woman choked out the word. “Was it accident at sea? He drown? The sea is bad. Dangerous.”

  “No.” Alice felt awkward towering over the woman, so she perched on the edge of the sofa. “Someone shot him.”

  The woman’s startled glance turned to one of resignation and Alice realized that this wasn’t a complete shock to her. Did she suspect someone would want to kill her husband?

  “Who? Do you know?” Her voice was soft but held a quiet strength.

  “Not yet. The police are investigating, and we will find out. Rest assured. The murderer will be caught.” Alice didn’t know how true that was, but she could hardly say anything else under the circumstances.

  She became aware that the three Nagy children were sidling into the room, apparently aware that something was very wrong. She looked at the narrow little faces with sharp noses and pointy chins of the two boys and little girl. Life would not be easy for them. She knew. She, at least, had already been an adult when her father died and was able to go to work. What would these children have?

  “Tell them,” Irene said, clutching the skirt of her dress between worrying fingers.

  “Children, I have some very sad news.” They stared at her with wide wary eyes. The girl stealthily moved toward her mother until she was leaning against her knees. The oldest, a boy of eight, stood tall. Bracing himself. “Your father won’t be coming home. He has gone to heaven.”

  “Just say it,” the oldest said. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes.” Alice swallowed hard. “He’s dead.”

  The middle boy ran up the stairs and shortly a door slammed. Irene looked up toward the ceiling and her shoulders slumped.

  “Papa’s not coming home?” the little girl asked, looking at her with big dark eyes.

  “No.”

  “Someone shot him?” the oldest boy asked, and Alice realized they’d heard her tell their mother the news.

  The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes.” Alice addressed the child. “The police are investigating.” She turned back to Irene. “Do you have any idea who might want your husband dead?”

  The woman looked at her, uncomprehending, for a moment. The boy said something to her in Hungarian, and she shook her head. “I don’t know. Everyone like Tomas. No one want to hurt him. He a fisherman. Who has something against a fisherman?”

  Who indeed? Alice wished she knew more of what had happened this afternoon, so she could give more information to the family, but that would have to wait. In the meantime, she had to make sure the family was provided for. First things first.

  “Do you want Greiner’s to handle the arrangements? I can take you there if you’d like.”

  Irene nodded numbly. “Yes. That is fine. We go tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Alice said. That would be soon enough. “And which church?” There were a couple of Hungarian churches in the area; she didn’t want to make any assumptions.

  “Mount Carmel,” Irene said, and Alice made a note.

  “I can take you there as well.”

  Irene shook her head. “No. I do it. It’s fine.”

  “We want to help.” What would really help this woman? For her husband to not be dead. Barring that, to bring the killer to justice. Whether she was put on the case or not, she would do everything she could to get answers for this family.

  The front steps creaked as someone climbed them. The children’s head turned expectantly toward the front door, as if still hoping their father would appear. The boy’s eyes widened, and he rushed toward the door. Alice almost expected there had been some mistake and Tomas was here. She turned to see the boy throw himself into the arms of a tall, rugged-looking fisherman.

  “Uncle Hank, Uncle Hank! She says Papa is dead!”

  Alice stood to greet the newcomer. He held the boy in his arms. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s a horrible thing. Your papa was a good man. No one should have wanted to hurt him.”

  He unwrapped the boy’s arms from around himself and walked straight to Irene, who had stood when he came in, ignoring Alice completely.

  “Hank,” Irene said, faintly. “Is it true?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He took the widow’s hands in his.

  Alice wrinkled her forehead in irritation. She wasn’t believed? In her uniform as an official representative of the police department? Why would she lie?

  “We got in after him. I didn’t see him, but I was told what happened. The crew and I, we’ve put together a little something for you and the children.” The man handed a wad of money to the widow, and she looked up at him with dark, grateful eyes.

  Money. Of course, money was what the young widow needed. She could take up a collection at the station. She was sure her fellow officers would be willing to contribute. But there was another factor to consider, this person might know something that could help in the investigation. She had to find out what she could. It was her duty as a police officer.

  “You knew Tomas Nagy?” she addressed the stranger.

  He turned and seemed to notice her for the first time, studying her with his clear blue eyes.

  “He was like a brother to me.” He looked her up and down, taking in the uniform. He didn’t look impressed.

&nbs
p; “I suppose you are here as the official detachment to give Mrs. Nagy the bad news.”

  “Yes, and to see what help we can give the family.” She didn’t back down, despite his dismissive glare.

  “The family will be looked after. We take care of our own.” There was an iciness in his tone that made Alice stand taller.

  “So do we,” she said, just as coldly. “In town. We look out for each other. It’s not just a code among fishermen.”

  “Why don’t you official people just try to find out who did this to Tomas? We’ll look out for the family.”

  Alice refused to be cowed. She had every right to be here. She didn’t need to apologize for doing her job.

  “Is there anyone you can think of who would want to do this? Anyone with a grievance against Mr. Nagy? Perhaps a rival fisherman?”

  The man looked at her as if she didn’t deserve to be alive. “Fishermen do not have that kind of rivalries. It is a big ocean. There is enough for everyone willing to work for it.”

  “Perhaps a crewman who thought he had been treated unfairly?” They wanted the killer found, they’d have to tell what they knew.

  “Tomas was all too fair. There is no one among his crew who would have anything but wonderful things to say about him.”

  Alice thought of the two men who left the ship and immediately got drunk. They had expressed dismay and horror at Nagy’s murder, yet they hadn’t seemed completely shocked. She didn’t have the whole story here, and she aimed to get it. But maybe not right now, when the wounds were fresh, and the grieving widow had barely gotten her breath. She was a professional, not a ghoul.

  “I’ll contact Greiners and set up an appointment,” she said.

  “We’ll take care of it,” the man answered, his voice a low growl.

  She took a deep breath and counted to three. She was not the enemy here. And that this man seemed to think so made her wonder. What did he have against police? What was he trying to hide?

  “Mrs. Nagy had agreed I should take her to the funeral home tomorrow to make arrangements.” She turned her gaze to the widow, who looked back and forth from her to the fisherman.