The Runaway Daughter (2 page)

Brock leaned an elbow out of his window. “Evening.”

“What you got under that tarp?” the policeman asked.

“Instruments.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Not at all,” Brock answered.

The dust building up under the tarp had Ginger pinching her nose, but she almost wet herself when she heard Brock give the policeman permission to look under the tarp. She couldn’t be discovered, not this close to home.

They might as well haul her to the hoosegow. At least she’d get bread and water there. At home, her father would lock her in the room that he’d had his men paint pale pink on her last birthday and throw away the key. Pale pink. Norma Rose got a new Cadillac. Ginger, a pale pink paint job. She didn’t even like pink. Red was her color. Bright red. Like her lipstick and fingernail paint.

To be fair, her father had bought her new furniture along with the paint, but a new bed was no fun when you slept alone. That’s what she was tired of. Being alone. Watching all the dancing and fun through the staircase rail. She wanted to live it all, not watch it.

“Peterson, what are you doing? Keep that traffic moving!”

Ginger willed not so much as an eyelash to flutter. That wasn’t Brock or the other voice she’d heard a moment ago. It was pitch-black under the tarp, but the noise said they’d entered town and they might even be surrounded by coppers.

“Might have us a bootlegger here, Sarge.”

The answer came from the first man Brock had spoken to. Ginger’s very toes quivered. She was right. Coppers. Plenty of them.

“No runner’s gonna drive up to a blockade,” the third man said.

Ginger chewed on her lip so hard her lipstick lost its cherry flavor. Panicking right now wouldn’t cut the mustard. She bit down harder, focusing on the pain instead of her welling fear.

“Don’t you recognize that truck?” the third man asked. “It’s the milkman’s. How’s your father doing?”

“Good,” Brock answered.

That was a lie. Ginger knew Brock’s father hadn’t walked since he’d been shot while delivering milk in St. Paul, near Pig’s Eye Tavern early one morning last year.

“Sorry thing what happened to him.” The third man was still talking. “Real sorry thing. Where you headed?”

“Chicago,” Brock answered.

“You don’t say? What for?”

“Got a chance to perform on the radio. The back’s full of instruments. And gas. Enough to make it most of the way. Go ahead and take a look.”

“No need for that,” the man said. “But you best take the river road. There’s a standoff a few blocks up this way.”

“Thanks,” Brock answered.

“Good luck,” the man answered before shouting, “Peterson, clear a path for him to turn around, and then send the rest of the traffic around that way.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Ginger grabbed the edge of the sideboard as the truck jerked and jolted before it made a full U-turn. Then a loud whistle made her smack her head against the guitar case again.

“Hey!”

Ginger ducked, afraid she’d been seen right through the tarp.

“What?” Brock answered.

“Your rope’s untied. It’s hanging over the side!” the cop shouted.

Ginger broke out in a sweat. She started praying, too. And begging Brock not to stop.

“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll retie it after I get through town.”

Relief washed over her so thoroughly that Ginger slumped against the guitar case. However, she didn’t release her breath until long after the truck was rolling down the road again.

Then, gasping, she pulled back the corner of the tarp to let a bit of fresh air in. It was cool and refreshing and she poked her nose into the opening and breathed deeply until the stringent scent of gas forced her to tuck the tarp back in place.

City sounds faded and, elated she’d made it this far, Ginger shifted around to lean against the guitar case. Excitement hummed inside her. Chicago. Upon hearing she’d run away, folks might think she’d gone all the way to California. Hollywood. She’d talked about it often enough. Truth was, it made no difference. Chicago was just as good. Freedom. Dancing. Singing. There’d be no more washing sheets and beating rugs. No more cleaning up the remnants of other people’s parties.

Smiling, she stretched her cramped legs as much as possible and let visions of her future dance in her head. When a yawn pulled at her throat, she let it out and snuggled up against the case.

* * *

Dust choked her, and it took a moment for Ginger to remember she was in the back of Brock’s truck. He was whistling a jazzy tune that had her wanting to tap a toe. She didn’t. He was right next to her, pouring gas into the truck’s fuel tank from the extra cans strapped along the backside of the truck.

She’d never realized just how awful gas smelled and was thankful the cans weren’t under the tarp with her. It wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been. Morning must have broken. Chicago might be only a few hours away. She couldn’t wait. She’d wear her white-and-red polka-dot dress and white silk scarf when Brock went to the radio station. Her white shoes, too. He was sure to let her go with him when—“Ouch!”

Ginger slapped a hand over her mouth. Brock must have decided to retie the rope and it smacked the top of her head in the process. She held her breath, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t heard her.

A moment later, sunlight stung her eyes as the tarp flew back.

Brock’s black-and-white tweed flat cap sat cockeyed on his head. One edge of the little brim was right above one dark eyebrow, while the other sat near the side parting of his slicked-back hair. He always looked dapper in that hat. However, right now, his eyes had the menacing glare of a copper on the beat.

Ginger swallowed the lump in her throat. “Good morning.”

“Good mor—what the—” Brock grabbed her arms and pulled her forward, forcing her to sit upright. “What are you doing here?”

His fingers dug into her upper arms and, for the life of her, Ginger couldn’t quite remember what she was doing. All the girls thought Brock was the bee’s knees. Mitsy Kemper claimed to have necked with him once, said kissing him was the cat’s meow. Ginger had wanted to push Mitsy right out of Twyla’s car when she’d been talking about necking with Brock. She might have done if she’d been in the backseat beside her.

Mitsy was forgotten when Brock yanked her up and over the side of the truck.

“What are you doing here?” he all but shouted.

She’d lost a shoe and batted his hands away as soon as he set her on the ground. After checking to make sure her skirt hadn’t been torn, she snatched her shoe out of the truck and slid it on her foot. “I’m going to Chicago,” she said. “You best be glad you didn’t tear my skirt.”

“A torn skirt is the least of your worries, Ginger,” he said, waggling a finger before her face. He paced down the road a short distance before spinning back around. “Chicago? Oh, no you’re not!”

“Yes, I am,” she said, smoothing her bobbed hair so the ends curled near her chin.

His brown eyes, so dark they looked black, narrowed. “Does your father know about this?”

“Of course not,” she said. “He’d never have let me go.” He never let her do anything. Except work. Keep the resort spick-and-span for all his friends. He wouldn’t let her date, either. Said he’d find a man for each of his daughters when the time was right. One with money. Lots of it. Which is why none of them were married. The time would never be right in his eyes. Besides, she didn’t need a man with money. She had saved almost every dime she’d made working at the resort over the years.

Brock growled and slapped the side of the truck. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

A shiver raced up Ginger’s spine. “No.”

“Your father will have me pinched, or filled with lead.” He marched to the front of the truck. “Damn it, Ginger. Of all the stupid, idiotic things…”

Maybe she hadn’t considered all aspects of her actions.

A rumble had her looking down the road, where a cloud of dust was growing. Grabbing her purse out of the truck, she opened the passenger door. “A truck’s coming.”

Brock cursed aloud, but climbed in the driver’s door and started the engine. They’d barely made it onto the short grass next to the road when a larger truck swerved around them, honking as its speed threw rocks against their windshield.

Ginger released a sigh of relief. “Next time you stop to put gas in,” she said, shooing the dust out of the window with one hand, “I’d suggest pulling all the way off the road.”

“Next time—” Brock stopped midsentence. There wouldn’t be a next time. Roger Nightingale was going to kill him. He’d be shot. Stabbed. Poisoned. It didn’t matter which. He was a dead man. Which would leave his family with no hope. None. Zilch.

“What were you thinking?” he growled at Ginger.

She’d opened her purse and was gliding red lipstick over her bow-shaped lips. Once done, she smacked them together, replaced the lid on the tube and dropped it in her beaded bag. “Right now I’m thinking you should start driving or you’re going to be late getting to Chicago.”

Another surge of anger overcame Brock. There wasn’t time to take her home and still make it to Chicago. The steady rumble of the idling truck fed his fury, making reasonable thinking difficult. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to concentrate. There had to be a town between here and Chicago. He’d drop Ginger off and send a telegram to Roger, explaining he’d had nothing to do with her running away.

There wasn’t another choice. If he wasn’t in Chicago this evening, the gig would go to someone else. He’d never get this chance again. Never have the life he wanted.

Brock grabbed the shifter.

“Wait!” Ginger shouted.

Clenching his jaw, Brock growled, “What?”

“The tarp,” she said. “You’d better tie it down.”

Wishing he could ignore her, and the tarp, Brock killed the engine, and then pulled the key out of its slot. Ginger was known for getting her way and just might take off while he was tying down the tarp. He climbed out and slammed the door, making the old jalopy rattle like a tin can. Once the tarp was secure, he climbed in the driver’s seat and, without a word, started the truck and dropped the clutch, not caring how Ginger jerked on the seat beside him.

“Not too good a driver, are you?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’m an excellent driver,” she said. “I can drive if you’re tired.”

Even if he was on his deathbed—which he practically was—he wouldn’t let her drive.

“Honest,” she said. “I’m a good driver. Norma Rose lets me take her Cadillac out whenever I want.”

Brock ignored her and started calculating how far it might be to the next town. He hadn’t ever driven to Chicago. Scooter Wilson had told him which road to get on and said not to stop until he came to Chicago. Said he couldn’t miss it.

Ginger, like most dames, was never quiet, and kept talking. About driving. About Norma Rose’s Cadillac. About Twyla’s and Josie’s cars. About just about everything. When she took a breath—several miles down the road—he glanced her way. “Do you ever shut up?”

Pinching those little red lips together, she glared at him. “Of course.”

Turning back to the road, he suggested, “Then try it now.”

She sputtered like a two-cylinder running out of gas, but kept her lips shut. Brock appreciated the silence. It gave him time to rehash his plan. Roger Nightingale was closely associated with mobsters, but he wasn’t one himself, and he’d always been fair. Surely he’d understand the jam Ginger had created. And that he’d had nothing to do with it. And that he couldn’t just turn around and take her home.

Everything inside Brock slumped. He squeezed the wheel harder, pushing the old truck to give all it had. A town with a train station was what he needed. Dropping her off on the road would just get him shot, too.

The milk truck had eaten up a large portion of the desolate Wisconsin road when Ginger asked, “Are we going to stop soon?”

Brock glanced her way. He’d soon need more fuel, but the way she squirmed made him grin. She’d consumed almost the full mason jar of water on the seat between them.

“Well, are we?” she asked.

He huffed out a long breath. “In a while.”

“How long’s a while?”

He shrugged.

To her credit, she didn’t hem and haw and Brock wasn’t sure why that pleased him. She didn’t please him, that was for sure. At least not showing up like this. He’d admired her from afar for years, but dames like Ginger didn’t date men like him. They went for the high hats, not men who had to work to put dough in their pockets. The money he would make playing on the radio wouldn’t just take care of his family, it would put him in the upper class. He might never have the dough Roger Nightingale had, but he’d have enough that people would look up to him, invite him into the back room of their joints where dames like Ginger would be proud to sit on his lap.

He’d tried it the other way, delivering milk like his father, but squabbling over twenty cents with people who couldn’t afford to give him another twenty cents wasn’t for him. His mother had been the one to urge him to try music. She’d given him his grandfather’s horn on his tenth birthday and bought him a guitar at a hock shop on his fifteenth. Between those years, he’d borrowed and learned to play most every instrument, including the piano that Nightingale liked to hear him set his fingers to.

After delivering milk all day, he would spruce up his tattered clothes and go play anywhere they’d let him through the door. Four years ago, when he’d turned eighteen, Roger had let him play at the resort. That had caught people’s attention. The number of gigs and the money he made had grown steadily since, but he still needed a break. A big one. And Chicago was his chance.

The road grew wider, making way for vehicles to pull over next to a hash house that also sold fuel. He eased off the gas pedal and grinned when Ginger let out a little whoop.

Brock saw to the fuel while she visited the little house out back. He also questioned the attendant about the closest train station.

“Unless you wanna go north about fifty miles, Chicago’s the closest,” the boy said.

“How far’s that?” Brock asked.