The Rum Runner

by Christine Marciniak

  So, that explained a few things. “And that’s why you thought of offering Irene Nagy a job there.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll agree,” she said with a small shrug of her shoulders, “but the least I can do is ask.” A waiter came and poured them fresh coffee and she took a sip. “Did you know Tomas Nagy long?”

  He picked up his coffee cup as well. “He moved here about three years ago with his family. He had sold everything he had in Hungary and sunk the money into the Katinka. Irene wasn’t happy. She would have preferred he crewed out for someone else and bought their house outright, instead of renting, and buying the boat.”

  Alice winced, and he knew she appreciated the problem that Irene now faced. A boat that she couldn’t run and no way to pay the rent.

  “Anyway, I helped him get set up. Gave him tips on the best places to fish.”

  Alice held up a hand to stop him, a questioning look in her eyes. “Hungary is a landlocked country, isn’t it? How is it he decided to be a fisherman?”

  Hank smiled to himself, remembering asking that same question. Of course, it wasn’t fish Tomas had been after, but a share in the smuggling trade. He’d engaged in smuggling during and after the war, and knew his best way in to the money being made in smuggling in America was to have a boat, and an acceptable occupation to go along with it. Tomas was not a stupid man. Which, of course, led Hank back to the question foremost in his mind all afternoon. Who had killed Tomas Nagy, and why?

  Of course, he couldn’t tell Alice Grady that Tomas had been a smuggler. She might dance a mean tango, but she was still a cop, and he wasn’t a fool.

  “He was a farmer back in Hungary. I told him there was plenty of land to farm here, but he wanted to do something different. I took him out a few times, showed him the ropes. He was a quick learner. The fact that he hadn’t done it before certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t do it going forward. He was successful, too. In fact, just today, he brought in half a ton more scallops than I did.”

  “So you could say there was some professional jealousy?”

  He shot a dagger-sharp glance at her. What was she playing at? He had thought she was off duty, but it sounded like she was trying to get him to incriminate himself in Tomas’s death.

  The waiter came around with the dessert just then and put a piece of decadent-looking chocolate cake in front of him. The interruption was enough to let him rein in his anger before he answered her.

  “No jealousy. There’s plenty of fish for everyone. I’m happy to see my friends succeed.”

  The hardness in his tone must have registered with her.

  “I apologize,” she said, looking truly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I am not interrogating you. Honest. It’s not even my case.”

  “Though it would be a feather in your cap if you could solve it,” Hank said, dipping his fork into his cake.

  “It would,” she agreed with amazing candor.

  At least she was honest.

  “Then I wish you luck. Because I want to know who killed my friend.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “And…” He glanced at her over his coffee cup. “How good is your best?”

  She bristled, sitting up a bit straighter and frowning at him. “Damn good, if anyone would give me a chance.”

  “Are they going to give you a chance on this?”

  “No,” she said abruptly. “It will probably go to the chief and Mark.” She nodded her head toward the table she’d been sitting at before. Another couple sat there with Douglas and Marty. He was guessing the man was Mark.

  “So cops all hang out together after hours?”

  She gave another slight shrug. “Why not? We’re friends. But normally, no, I wouldn’t hang out with other cops after hours. Mark, on the other hand, I’ve known all my life, and he married my best friend.”

  “And you’re not married.” It wasn’t really a question. Clearly, she wouldn’t be sitting here with him if she were.

  “Neither are you,” she responded.

  “How do you know?”

  She took his question seriously.

  “No wedding ring, to start with. Now, that isn’t conclusive, because many men don’t wear rings. But if you were married, you would have brought your wife with you when you went to see Mrs. Nagy.” She held up a hand to forestall interruption. “And if she couldn’t come with you, you would have mentioned her. You would have said something like, ‘Myrtle sends her best and she’ll be by later with pie.’”

  Despite himself he laughed. “Myrtle? You think I’m married to someone named Myrtle?”

  “No, that’s exactly my point. I think you’re not married.”

  He conceded defeat.

  “No, I’m not married, and my mother despairs of me ever settling down. And yours?”

  “Oh, I think she’s given up on me. She’s resigned to me being an old maid. She’s just hoping that Marty won’t meet a similar fate.”

  “But you can’t be that old. What are you? Twenty-three, twenty-four?” He knew he was bad at guessing ages, he also suspected he was low-balling it a little.

  “Twenty-seven,” she admitted. Maybe that was edging into old maid territory, but she was still younger than him, and an attractive-looking woman.

  “You don’t want to get married?”

  “Let’s just say the opportunity hasn’t presented itself.” She dug into her cake with a vengeance, but he still noticed the heightened color of her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.” He played with the cake crumbs on his plate. “I’m not sure what got into me. I’m not usually so rude. I’m usually quite cultured and refined.”

  She looked up at him, studying him. “Cultured and refined. Not often the words I think of when thinking of fishermen.”

  “And why not?” He looked into her eyes and she blushed again.

  “I suppose I think rugged and hardworking, and perhaps a bit rough around the edges. You clean up nicely, though.” She looked at her cake. “Do you think they spiked this cake with rum or something? I’m really not behaving at all like myself.”

  “I was wondering the same thing.” It was like her very presence was intoxicating. He didn’t like it. He liked to maintain a proper distance from anyone but a select few people. He didn’t want anyone to get too close to him, but what was he doing here, opening up to her and asking her questions that encouraged her to open up to him? This was not the cold and aloof person he preferred to be.

  The orchestra started again, and with relief they took to the dance floor. At least dancing they would not be tempted to delve into personal matters. All he wanted from tonight was a little fun. He didn’t want to know anything about her, yet he’d asked her leading questions and she’d answered. Maybe there really was something in that cake.

  Later, when he got back to the table, there was a folded note where he’d been sitting. He took it and opened it, all too aware that Alice’s eyes were on him. The note was simple and direct. “Meet me. Boynton Beach. Midnight.” And it was signed “Sal.” He didn’t know who Sal was, but if he had to guess, he’d say that was shorthand for Vincent Salerno. He checked his watch. Half-past eleven. He had time to figure out what to do.

  He shoved the paper into his pocket.

  “What’s that?” Alice asked.

  “Nothing.” Should he say something? Would it help her catch Tomas’ killer? He didn’t see how. There wasn’t much to go on in the note, and he didn’t want her finding out some of the things he was involved in. Never good to have the cops looking too closely into his activities.

  The night was winding down, and his brother came over and told him he was going to be escorting Marty home. Douglas looked at him, as if expecting him to make the same offer to Alice, but he couldn’t do that. He apparently had an appointment with a guy named Sal.

  “It was delightful dancing with you, Miss Grady.” He made a formal and rather stiff bow, before turning her back over to her friends. Then with a nod to the
group he left the club.

  Once outside he lit up a cigarette and walked toward the water before his brother and the others came out. He didn’t want to talk to them right now. He didn’t need any of them hanging around when he met with whoever had left him the note. Douglas had no idea of the side business he was involved in, and he wanted to keep it that way. Alice and that Mark fellow were cops. He certainly didn’t need them nosing around.

  A pleasant breeze came off the water, bringing with it the scent of salt and seaweed and fish. He inhaled deeply, letting the tobacco scent of his cigarette mix with the intoxicating smell of the sea. He needed to be back out at sea. How quickly could they get the Mary B outfitted for another run? The steps needed to be painted. There had been a ping in the engine he wanted to investigate. And then there was the matter of the crew. They deserved a few days at home before going out again. He sighed. As much as he’d like to simply hop in the Mary B tonight and head back out, that wasn’t happening.

  Closer to the water, the former Boynton Beach resort was closed and fenced off. He’d spent many happy hours there as a kid, riding the Ferris wheel and the bamboo slide. The property had been bought by an oil company. Progress, he supposed. He tossed the stub of his cigarette to the dirt and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He wasn’t sure progress was always all it was made out to be.

  “What you doing in that frog suit?”

  The voice, coming out of the night, startled him, and he jumped, his muscles tense, his nerves taut. But it only took a second to register that it was Smitty, his first mate. He spotted him then, walking toward him, coming from the water.

  “Why aren’t you at home with the wife?” he asked in turn.

  “The kids were screaming. I needed some air.”

  In the light of the moon, he could see that Smitty looked much as he had when he’d last seen him this afternoon. Rough work pants, grimy shirt, stained boots. With Hank in his tuxedo, the two made quite the odd couple as they stood side by side, watching the ripples in the water.

  “Word on the street is that Nagy got involved with some guy named Salerno,” Smitty said, keeping his voice low.

  His gut twisted at the name. That was what Jiggy had said. Was that the person who was going to be meeting him in a few minutes? What did he want with him? What had his connection to Tomas been?

  “What’s his deal? Any idea?”

  “They say he’s a pirate.”

  Pirates were a common enough threat for smugglers. The Mary B had outrun them any number of times. The smugglers took the risk, offloaded the liquor out on rum row, and then had it stolen before they could make the sale to their distributor. But it was always at sea, never on land. If this guy, Salerno, was tracking down smugglers on land, then the game had changed. He didn’t like it one bit.

  At sea you could at least tell who was around, who was approaching you. How could you protect yourself in town, when anyone could be the enemy?

  He stuck his hand in his pocket for his cigarettes and felt the note.

  He supposed he was about to find out what direction this danger was coming from. He pulled the note out and showed it to Smitty.

  “You think it is Salerno?” he asked after reading it.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Probably.” He handed the note back and scuffed his boot in the gravel. “Want me to hang around?”

  It was tempting. He’d have backup if this guy was going to try something. He shook his head.

  “Go home to the family. If I don’t show up at the Mary B tomorrow, go to the cops, tell them to look into this Salerno guy. Chances are he isn’t going to do anything tonight.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  He took a deep breath. Was he sure? Yes. He had nothing to lose. He’d been dead inside since the war.

  “Go home. Now, before he gets here.”

  Smitty left, but reluctantly, constantly looking back to see if he would change his mind. Hank ignored him, and lit another cigarette, pretending he was casually looking out at the water, while all his senses were on high alert, waiting for danger.

  It reminded him of being on guard duty in the trenches. Standing for hours with your head exposed, staring into the darkness, not sure if what you saw was the breeze moving a tree branch or someone coming to kill you, not wanting to sound an alarm for a tree but not wanting to let your buddies be ambushed. Every sound had the potential to be an enemy approaching. Every movement could mean you were about to get blown to bits.

  At the crunch of footsteps in the gravel behind him, he instinctively reached for the rifle he hadn’t carried since he’d left France.

  “Chapman?”

  His heart beat a tight staccato, and he turned to see a rather ordinary man, in white tie, approaching him in the dark.

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  The man held out his hand. “Vince Salerno.”

  By instinct Hank took the hand. “Hank Chapman.”

  “Thank you for meeting me. I realize my method of getting in touch with you was a bit unorthodox, but it was necessary.”

  “Why?”

  “In our business we deal with an unsavory element. Often it’s best to keep a low profile.”

  He didn’t know what this man thought he knew, but he planned on revealing nothing.

  “You’re a scallop fisherman as well, then?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Not exactly.”

  He didn’t like the rather oily tone in the man’s voice.

  “Listen, bud, I’m a fisherman. That’s my only business. If that’s not what you want to talk about, then I think we’re done here.” He turned to go.

  “I thought you might want to talk about your friend, Nagy,” Salerno said behind him.

  Hank froze. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t want details there.

  “You know who shot him?” He turned back to face the man, who he realized he’d seen at the club on multiple occasions without ever knowing his name.

  “No idea, but I think I know why.”

  Despite himself, he stepped closer to the man. “Why?”

  “Let’s just say it wasn’t over scallops.”

  “What kind of business did you have with him?” Hank didn’t want to play games, he wanted answers. If this man was a pirate, he wanted to know it. Though he supposed it wasn’t the sort of thing someone would come out and admit.

  “He had something I wanted.”

  Salerno was annoyingly circumspect. Hank preferred to deal with straight shooters. He liked when someone laid all their cards on the table, but he could play it close too. He was no fool.

  “And it wasn’t scallops?” If it wasn’t scallops, it was hams. He knew Salerno meant that, but he wouldn’t admit it. Not straight out. He didn’t know Salerno, and in this business, it wasn’t safe to trust people you didn’t know. He turned back to face the water, not wanting to give the stranger a chance to read his expression. The water lapped at the shore, speaking to him, enticing him back out to sea.

  “You’re catching on.” The man sounded like an approving schoolteacher. Hank hated him more with each passing moment.

  “Did you get what you wanted?” He spit the words out between gritted teeth.

  “I did,” the man said with alarming calm.

  “And Tomas got shot.” He turned again, to face Salerno. Was he looking at the face of the man who shot his friend?

  “Apparently I wasn’t the only person who wanted what he had.”

  “Let’s cut the games. What do you want with me?” he asked, lighting another cigarette out of habit, and as a way to calm his jangled nerves.

  “You also have something I want.” Salerno’s voice rang out in the clear night air.

  “Unless you want scallops, I can’t help you.” He turned to leave once more. He would have no dealings with pirates.

  “I can give you a better deal than Jiggy,” the man said to his retreating back. “Think about it.”

  He didn’t answer, jus
t stalked off into the darkness. But he definitely had a lot to think about.

  Chapter Seven

  Alice replayed the evening at the club in her mind as she got ready for the day. She pulled a light green day dress out of the closet and slipped it on. Dancing with Hank Chapman had been almost like being a princess at a ball. She’d not had that much fun at the club in who knew how long. Years probably. Occasionally she would dance with a man she didn’t know, but often it was only for one dance, and there was no chemistry.

  This had felt different. Dancing with Hank had been effortless and enchanting. They’d moved well together, as if they’d practiced dancing together for years. Of course, like in all good fairy stories, this one had an end. The clock had struck the proverbial midnight, and he had hightailed it out of the club with the barest of goodbyes.

  So there was no future there. That wasn’t a problem. She hadn’t been looking for one. She’d take what came her way. And in this case, it was a pleasant evening dancing with a handsome man.

  She ran the brush through her hair and studied the result in the mirror. Maybe she didn’t have to be an old maid. She wasn’t that old. She wouldn’t mind having someone besides Mama and Marty to come home to. Hank was certainly easy on the eyes. Rugged and handsome yet refined as well. She shook her head. No, there was no future with him, that was certain. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to keep her eyes open to other possibilities.

  She put the brush down with resolve.

  No. She was too set in her ways. It was no use getting romantic notions in her head. The best she could do was make sure Marty was happily settled. That would put her mother’s mind at ease. Besides she was too busy at work to think about romance.

  In the back of her mind a thought formed that many of her fellow officers were married, so maybe working and romance didn’t need to be mutually exclusive, but she pushed it away. Her life was fine the way it was.

  Downstairs, coffee was percolating on the stove and Mama was mixing up some pancake batter. Alice took the bowl from her. “I’ll do that, Mama. Put your feet up, have a cup of coffee.”