Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (62 page)

Then some signal came from behind me that Thomas acknowledged and he extended to Joe. Too soon we were back in our dark chilly motor cars, bringing on a somber mood. Thomas pulled out a hidden flask from under his seat and threw his head back for a long drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the dim light from the restaurant.

He extended this flask to me. I shook my head. He took my hand and placed it on the flask. “Drink this, you’ll need it.”

I obeyed, shaken by the touch of his cold hand. He watched as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the strength of the drink stealing my breath. “Take another,” he said. “You’ll need the warmth; it’s getting cool outside.”

“I’m not going to be outside. Besides, aren’t you being presumptuous in drinking this hooch or whatever out in public?”

“It’s against the law to sell it, not to drink it. Now take another.”

I did but shook my head as I at last handed him the flask. I would refuse to drink more of this burning liquid. It smelled like rum balls but the taste was infinitely stronger and was lining my stomach like a rapid timber fire.

Yet my face heated and my body relaxed. I smiled my warmth back at him and and he returned his own smile. I could have gazed at him all night.

“This is not the place to seduce me, you know,” I said, touching his hand.

He breathed a short laugh and flipped under my chin. “Seduction comes later, darlin’.” His expression changed all too quickly and I suddenly felt saddened by this loss of romance. It seemed we’d had so little of it. He turned more to face me, his right knee up on the seat between us, his left arm slung over the steering wheel.

“Joe is a bootlegger,” he said.

“Good Lord, Thomas!” I smiled in spite of myself, sounding so like Harriet.

He nodded with a wry smile. “We’re hoping the Lord will be good to us tonight because Joe’s in trouble.”

“I would imagine so if he’s a bootlegger. What does that have to do with us?”

“Everything. He’s my brother and he needs my help. He’s a broken man, Bess. He put every penny he had into his cotton crop and when the boll weevils killed that, he acquired that inventory of vehicles on an installment purchase.”

I had written enough advertising to understand what installment buying meant but self-respecting families I knew rarely practiced it and then only for required items such as sewing machines. People did not openly discuss such things for it was as much as admitting they did not have sufficient income.

Thomas looked back to ensure Joe continued to wait in his own automobile. “But Joe’s luck continued to turn sour. So many folks around here depend on the cotton crop and the boll weevils hit every plantation around. The south’s right now in a post-war recession from job cuts from defense-related industries. The shipyard is running dry. No one can afford to buy another vehicle, so Joe’s not selling, but of course the installment finance company still expects to get paid monthly. He’s incurring debt, with bootlegging being his only way out.”

“He has my sympathy, Thomas, but right or wrong, bootlegging is illegal and becoming dangerous. All you have to do is read the newspaper to know about the gang wars in Chicago and New York City.”

He waved this off. “Yes, yes, but this is just a small operation in Georgia. No gangs, no one will get hurt, but he needs a second motor car to load the bottles coming in by boat. All you need to do is sit pretty behind the wheel and when we fill up the trunk, you drive back here. Two motors running for too long will look conspicuous and make too much noise. Joe’s been distributing alcohol for months and I’ve already helped a few times, but this time he has a larger shipment coming in and it has to be moved quickly. The demand’s been going up faster than a hot-air balloon, and the local speakeasy, The Blind Pig, wants most of it so it will be an easy drop off. It’s right behind this restaurant. Joe says the harbor police have been bribed quiet by the distiller so everything is set.”

Night had closed in around us and I abruptly shivered. Warm, inviting light made window patches on the lawns of homes down the street, reminding me of the Lighthouse’s beckoning on many cold nights as I walked to its shelter. My chest tightened at my longing to be back there, safe in the arms of the Thomas I knew then. These strange surroundings filled in with Thomas’s unfamiliar almost-pleading tone and alien words, bringing on a nightmarish quality. He had lost some of his self-assurance, instinctively telling me that he, too, was uncomfortable in the circumstances. But for his brother’s sake, he was working hard at making this work. I took a deep breath. Then so would I. Resolve brought tears to my eyes, regret already there.

Someone tapped on the window and we both jumped. My heart lurched so, dredging my stomach to the point of being nauseous. We turned to see Joe by the driver’s window. Thomas cranked the window down and told Joe to drive on ahead and we would follow him. “Is she ready? We don’t want to take this machine off ground until we’re sure she can fly.”

Thomas waved him away irritably. “Let’s just move—” but he didn’t finish as he cranked back up the window.

Soon Joe’s Pierce-Arrow appeared ahead of us and we followed behind through twisted streets, with me trying hard to memorize corner landmarks in order to find my way back. My vision had become
blurred by the booze and I blinked repeatedly to distinguish a post office, a turn to the left, a bakery, three blocks, a hat shop, turn right, a boat repair shop, signs of a harbor with hoisted boats on land, a seafood restaurant, piers coming into sight, a turn and then we backed into a dark alley and stopped. The wooden slabs of the buildings on either side appeared ominous. My hands were shaking so, I felt tempted to bring back out the flask myself, but then decided I was in enough danger with the law as it was.

“Bess listen to me.” He put on leather gloves and then placed his leathered hand to my cheek. I focused on his silhouette, wishing there was light enough to see his green eyes. “Keep the motor running but don’t get out unless I open the door for you. The original plan was to ask you to help load, but now that I think of it, I don’t want you to be identified, so stay inside. You’ll hear the trunk being loaded. When you hear me tap on the trunk hood, that’s your signal to drive slowly away. Don’t rush or you’ll draw attention. Joe and I will then load his trunk and he wants me there to witness the money transaction. I’ll ride back with Joe and meet you at Mama Mia’s. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He opened the door and with one leg out, paused and looked back at me. “You’re a strong woman, doll, you’ll be fine,” he said and then the darkness took him.

I moved over to the driver’s seat, but sat on my knees facing the backbench and the small rear window, straining my eyes to see beyond the building toward the water. The moon shared only a sliver that night, selfishly reflecting meager rays on the water and this I focused on, knowing he was out there somewhere. I could make out crates and occasionally three different body forms. The trunk finally opened blocking my view but I heard no clinking bottles being loaded; only shuffling feet on gravel. Suddenly the trunk closed and a tapping sounded on the lid, though I saw no one. I turned hurriedly to face the steering wheel and then paused. What was I to do? I had no cargo; this was not as planned. I heard what sounded like a firecracker and then tapping again. Only when the tapping
ended in one loud thud, as if a fist had dented Thomas’ precious Duesenberg, did I comprehend his message. I put the car into drive and drove slowly away.

Mama Mia’s had lost her warmth by the time I came to a stop in front. Closed down and covered in a dark shroud, her embellished verandah and embroidered furnishings were hidden and only straight cold lines and columns showed. It seemed days ago we were enjoying her warm food and southern hospitality, enjoying her drawled conversation.

The drive back had taken longer with wrong turns but I was grateful that the narrow streets were empty, save for my stodgy beast blocking lanes. I sat in the deafening quiet, feeling terribly alone and unsure. I could only guess that the time was around midnight. Questions raced through my mind but one thing became certain: something had gone wrong and I had been given warning to get out. Thank goodness Joe’s automobile was there to bring them back.

A stretch of time passed. I shivered in the cold, only dressed for the warm day’s driving lesson. I found the flask and brought it to my lips but then thought better of it; I would need all my faculties to stay focused. Instead I gave its small opening a sentimental peck, as only hours before Thomas’s lips had been there. I wanted him there, in the flesh.

I banged my fist on the steering wheel. Where the hell was he? Damn you, Thomas, why did you get involved in this? Brother or not, Joe would have found another way. He was a tough old survivor but Thomas was not geared for the criminal mind. He only observed from a distance and wrote about them. Could discuss crime in theory but like the science teacher, putting his findings into practice took a different sort. Thomas skimmed the surface, scooping up details as they floated to the top. He would link them together to become a whole story, and then drop them back in and move on. There’s always another story, he said. All you had to do was keep your chin
up and look ahead, never look down or behind you or you’ll miss what’s out there. That was the Thomas I knew. Now he was looking down at his little brother with a helping hand, and fulfilling obligations of his past. Why had he gone in reverse?

I flinched when a branch of a magnolia tree landed on the hood. It brought me out of my trance into the dark space ahead, that sensation of suspension with no means to grab hold. My heart jolted and suddenly I was grounded again. I looked about the gloomy street and homes. I had to find help. They should have been here by now. I would go back and see what the trouble is. I clutched the steering wheel but then let my hands fall to my lap. Driving back there was tempting but too risky. Doing so could put them in further danger; two motors were conspicuous Thomas said. I might also miss their return.

It was then I remembered that Thomas referred to a speakeasy behind the restaurant. Perhaps someone from there would know what to do. I stepped out, stiff from sitting, and followed a brick path leading to the back of the restaurant, stumbling here and there over patches of grass growing between the bricks. My eyes finally focused on a back door facing the alley way but no lights came from its window. The door was locked and when I peered through it, saw a staircase leading to the basement, dimly lit from below. All was quiet though; no music or people milling about, no shadows of vehicles in the alley. Closed for certain.

As I approached the Duesenberg, headlights came my way and my heart soared at the sight of the Pierce-Arrow. Kissing and cursing them both came to mind but I merely waved and smiled. The motor car came to a stop beside mine and the window came down. Only Joe was to be seen and he simply said, “Follow me,” and drove away. My hand and my smile dropped away.
Follow me?
To where, for God’s sake? And where the hell was Thomas?

I was not to know for some time. Once again I traveled in question, just as I had with Thomas coming in. Through Savannah to Pickerville, through Pickerville and out the country road to the plantation I followed his tail lights. In doing so, it dawned on me that
his number plate was not there to identify his vehicle. More than an hour’s drive with Thomas not by my side as planned. I kept close to Joe, not wanting to lose my only way to Thomas. If he’d stopped suddenly for any creature crossing, I would have easily collided but I cared not. Joe was my lantern and I didn’t want to remain in the dark any longer.

I pulled in beside him in the front yard and watched with rising frustration as he loped into the house. A lamp came on in the parlor as I entered.

“Sit on the divan, Bess.”

Joe was pacing, running his fingers through his hair, his shirt tail out, one suspender hanging limp by his trousers. I grudgingly sat but needed to, my heart was racing so. I dared not question; something inside me didn’t want to know. He turned to me then with a tear-smeared face and a blood-smeared shirt and I screamed.

He came to me with outstretched palms. “Bess, Bess, I got him to the hospital as fast as I could, but—”

“No, no, no!” I cried, clinging to his shirt sleeve, pleading into his eyes to tell me something different. “I want Thomas!”

“But then - but then, well, he got the bullet in the arm, didn’t seem so bad—”

“He was shot, Joe, is that what you’re telling me? Then we can go to the hospital, Joe!” I stood and pulled his arm. “We’ve got to go right now! Why did we come here, Joe?”

His body remained rigid as a tree trunk, his arm only a branch that swayed with me as I pulled. “Because Tom died of a heart attack.”

His lips quivered as he said it and at first that is all that registered. A second later and I collapsed onto the floor, rocking, clutching my stomach, wanting to die with Thomas, my heart seized as if Thomas’s bullet had found its way there. “No, no, no,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

Joe’s shoes were there, stepping toward me and then backing up as slippered feet came into view. I heard a woman crying, vaguely aware it was Harriet, her tears mingling with mine as she squatted and hugged my cheek to hers. Then she was gone and a blanket
came around my shoulders with appeasing masculine and feminine voices, footsteps, creaking wood planks. They became sounds of the storm and wind blowing around and around me, but I was in my own little spot in the eye of the hurricane.