The Whiskey Sea (11 page)

“Sounds like an important job.”

“He has to be able to defend the drop zone from thieves and pay off police if necessary. If he wanted to, he could stage a fake holdup and run off with the whole lot of it before the buyers come.”

Now it was his turn to say, “I see.”

There was a brief silence.

“I saw you once before. Down here,” Frieda said. “A couple of winters ago. You were on a sailboat.”

He seemed to be searching his memory. “I was here helping out a friend then, but I would’ve remembered seeing you. It must have been someone else.”

“No. It was you.”

“I doubt that.”

“No. It was you.”

As they pulled into shore, Frieda remembered back to when she had first seen Princeton. All along his image had been lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Had the strength of her will beckoned him to return to this place and enter her life?

CHAPTER TEN

The drop went smoothly, but because the boat had a V-hull instead of a flat bottom, the men had to wade in waist-deep water to bring in the haul. In the winter they would have to use a rowboat. Princeton joined in the cool-water slog to shore, slinging bags of liquor as if he had been born to it and occasionally smiling at Frieda. Absolute silence was a must at the drop, as there were houses and roads nearby and they couldn’t call any unwanted attention to themselves. The cars holding buyers came and went slowly without headlights, and some of the loot was sold that night, then and there. The rest went into storage sites that Dutch had arranged. He’d found locals with sheds who were willing to risk storing the contraband for five dollars a case for freight, one dollar for storage. If they took two hundred cases from him, they made twelve hundred dollars for twelve hours’ work—more money than those fishermen usually made in a year battling the sea and the elements. The exchanges between all the men onshore were made in whispers absorbed by the soft sand underfoot.

After they had arrived back at the docks, it was well past two in the morning but still earlier than they’d ever made it back before, so they decided to go to the dockside juice joint for a drink before calling it a night. The usual feeling of elation and relief after the run ended was still there, but another kind of adrenaline surge had set Frieda’s nerves zinging. She could scarcely feel her feet as they walked the long pier, the four of them sliding into the speakeasy.

Unexpectedly, Frieda became aware of her appearance. Behind the bar was a scratched and smudged mirror, but it gave her enough of a sense of how she must look. Sea-blown hair, too long and out of style; her lips wind chapped; freckles on her cheeks from too much time in the sun; not a trace of pancake makeup or lipstick; dressed in a shirt and pants, like a man. Her nails bitten down raggedly, with engine grease underneath, and her hands red, raw, and probably repulsive, the skin calloused and chafed from pulling on mooring lines and handling engine parts.

And still Princeton’s eyes focused on her. He had found a way to wiggle in close beside her while Rudy and Dutch became engrossed in conversation with two other runners. In the mirror she caught stolen glimpses of him through the haze and then quickly averted her eyes.

Blood thrumming in her neck and breath threading in her chest, she whispered, “What is your real name?”

“Charles John Wallace the third.”

“The third? Why is it only rich men pass on their names?”

He took a swig of his whiskey. “Damned if I know.”

“I suppose Princeton was just awful.”

He ordered another round of drinks. “Is this the only subject in which we’re allowed to engage?”

Frieda shrugged with one shoulder.

“No. Princeton was not awful. I was able to take a variety of courses there. Art, literature, sciences. But once I get to law school, it’s just law. Nothing else.”

“Why do you have to go?”

“Ah,” he said. “That’s a long and tedious story. But the short of it is that almost all the men in my family have law degrees. It’s expected. A rite of passage. But enough of this!” he asserted, but in a pleasant way. “All that family duty is downright boring compared to this.” He gestured around the bar, but he obviously meant the entirety of running against the law. “Out on the boat you don’t know what’s going to happen from one night to the next. And that’s what I want. I want to be surprised. And what you said earlier about the danger is probably true, too,” he finished.

Charles laid his hand on hers on top of the bar.

Frieda pulled it back. “What are you doing?”

“At the moment I’m trying to get your attention.”

“Ha!”

“Don’t laugh. I have to work hard to hold your attention; I know that already. I have to impress you somehow.”

Frieda blinked and tried to fathom what was happening. “Because I’m a female in close proximity? Because I’m convenient?”

He set those lovely seeking eyes on her. The laws of biological chance had been breached when Charles was born. Not fair for one person to get so much.

“You’re more than just a female in close proximity. And you’re hardly convenient. I came here for a simple adventure with no complications. I never planned on coming across you.” And then the swim of sadness in his eyes, captivating her. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since you stormed out of the bar the other night.”

His words, his panther-graceful body, and his admiring gaze made Frieda feel as if she’d suddenly been lifted off the floor. She had no idea what to do with all of this. Could he really be interested in the likes of her? She breathed out, “I’m an odd bird.”

“How so?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I don’t wear dresses. Don’t do my hair. Don’t wear perfume.”

“Don’t bathe?” he said with a grin.

She laughed. “Of course I bathe. But things girls are supposed to care about don’t mean that much to me.”

“So, what
do
you care about?”

He reached for her hand again, and Frieda was loath to deter him for a minuscule moment. A small bolt attached to her heart turned loose a notch, allowing a little leak of feeling to pass through. What meant most to her just then was Princeton’s approval, and she hated her vulnerability. She was never vulnerable. She was entranced by his every movement and expression and enraged at herself. How was this happening to her? She sensed compassion in this man who sat before her, vulnerable himself. But this . . . this she knew nothing about. She was the proverbial fish out of water.

She looked away and slowly reclaimed her hand. “I care about boats.”

He appeared a tad . . . hurt. “Good answer. It’s a good thing to have someone who cares about boats on board a boat. But you’re avoiding the question.”

Frieda held her breath. “Yes.” She exhaled. “I am.”

He studied her a few moments longer, then gazed back toward the bartender and said, “Fair enough.”

When they had drunk their fill, they left the bar. Princeton placed his hand at the small of Frieda’s back as he opened the door for her to step through. From anyone else the gesture might have maddened her, but from him it was as simple as the lack of guile in his eyes or the casual poise of his posture. Princeton offered to escort her home, and she almost laughed at him but held herself back.

“There’s no need,” she told him. Her mouth was dry from the liquor or from nerves, and her hands were sweaty as she pushed them tightly into her jacket pockets. She was dumbstruck by the beauty of his chiseled face when he was serious, maybe even lovelier than when he smiled. She told herself that his offer to escort her home was nothing more than what his sort of gentleman offered to do for a lady and that it fell perfectly within the confined manners of his world.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and then amazingly seemed to be seeking
her
approval. He lifted a curious eyebrow, an air of longing about him.

“Talk about no surprises. I know every inch of my way around this town. I know just about everyone who lives here, too. So yes, I’m sure.”

She was almost certain she saw disappointment in his face, only a few inches away.

Slowly he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” followed by that dazzling smile.

She nodded.

“Good night, Frieda.”

She waved and backed away, but even after she turned she sensed that he stood there on the wharf, watching her go and sending into the air the silky ribbons of his sweet thoughts. As she continued to plant one foot in front of the other, she forced herself not to turn around and instead let the first brightening violet light of dawn touch her face. During the night she had lost all track of time.

When she let herself into the house, all was silent except for the sound of Silver snoring in the bedroom. Bea lay asleep on the divan, an open magazine across her lap. Frieda tidied up and lay down on the floor, for the first time admonishing herself for not buying a couple of regular beds for her and Bea, though where would they have put them? She could have rented a bigger house, but she didn’t think Silver would take well to the idea of moving. He’d lived in this house most of his life and loved the view from the front porch.

Frieda couldn’t sleep. Instead she reviewed everything about the night. Tonight she had done nothing to improve the upper class’s impressions of working-class people.

She settled under her sheet and remembered the way it felt when he sat next to her, the heat of his body beside her as the night cooled, the way his eyes searched the sea in longing for something, the way he swung the bags with such gusto and enthusiasm, the way he freely shared his disappointment in his rich boy’s life. She tried to bring his face into full focus, and she could recall the line of his lips, his broad, flat forehead hovering over a heavy brow, and the jaw that seemed just slightly undersized for the rest of his face. She wanted desperately to pull all of those pieces into a clear vision of him as a whole, but she could not put it all together, like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit. But why was she doing this? She had never been one to swoon over a man. She had made a free life for herself; she didn’t need a man. But what was this odd and unnerving pull?
Dismiss it,
she told herself. Besides, how crazy was it for her—twenty-two years old, daughter of a whore, rumrunner’s boat engineer, sleeping on the floor of an old house—to give a moment’s thought to a man like Charles John Wallace the third?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They made three more successful runs that week, each one filled with that familiar elation, and only during the last run was there a moment of danger. One of the larger coast guard cutters, seventy-five feet long, with a white hull and housing gold-braided patrol officers, gave chase on the way in. The
Pauline
, even with her speed, was so loaded with bags of booze that the cutter was gaining on her. Dutch, always confident, looked annoyed, but Frieda feared the worst. She was relieved when Dutch ordered the dump. They began to toss out the liquor three bags at a time.

Princeton sprang into action, along with the rest of them. He tossed over the bags as ordered but never seemed scared. Terror seized Frieda’s heart each time they were chased. She had everything to lose. But what of Princeton? Did he know that his family would always get him out of any trouble? Or would he claim to have hitched a one-time ride and feign complete ignorance of the boat’s purpose?

But when the coast guard saw the crew dumping, they made a slow turnaround. Their captain knew that by the time he chased the inshore contact boat down, no evidence would be left on board. Parker and the other guardsmen on the take were long gone, and these new boat captains were out to catch them. But they also knew when to give up.

So as the cutter glided away, Dutch ordered the crew to stop dumping and then continued on course. Now that the threat had dissipated, Frieda’s heart rate was ticking down to normal. She sat next to Princeton, as had become their new habit. “Was that enough of a surprise for you? Enough danger and excitement?”

“I don’t know yet,” he answered with a gleam in his eyes. “I still don’t know how the night’s going to end.”

Sighing, Frieda sat up straight. “Well, I for one hope nothing else happens.”

He looked at her. “Are you sure?”

What else did he think she wanted? They’d been chased by a guard boat. Wasn’t that enough? His eyes peered into hers as if seeking something else, as if he was actually seeking more with
her
.

Each night Princeton had kept a gentlemanly distance. They were there to do a job, after all, and he had become as focused as the rest of them, but even when they were in the middle of a fast and near-silent run back or forth, the gleaming gift of his gaze always found her and drew her to his side. He took every opportunity to sit next to her. He scooted up close and pointed out the landmarks of New York City as they sped past the lights, and his eyes sought her out as if she were the one who needed protection and not the other way around. If she were an odd bird, then he was a rare bird.

She finally answered him: “I hate getting chased. It scares me every time.”

Leaning back, he peered at her, his eyes playful. “I knew it.”

She turned to look at him. “Knew what?”

“Tough cookie has a soft inside.”

“Tough cookies never have a soft inside.” She glanced down, then back up, while a smile twitched on her lips. “But you’re conceding that I’m a tough cookie?”

“I’m saying that you hide the softer side of yourself well.” He tapped his temple. “But I know.”

“Oh, I get it. Now you’re going to analyze me. After all, we’ve been acquainted for years.”

He laughed. “You’re no dumb Dora, that’s for sure.” His voice changed. “In fact, I think you might just be an old soul.”

Frieda’s brow creased. “I’ve never understood what that means.”

“It means,” he said, leaning forward and peering even closer, “in some religions followers believe in reincarnation. An old soul is one that has been reincarnated many times, gaining a certain amount of innate wisdom from past lives.”

“I never knew that,” Frieda said. “Now, that’s the kind of thing I would’ve liked to learn in school.”

“Just as I thought.”

He was clearly studying her, and Frieda wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She wasn’t a specimen! But his attention, his focus . . .

“And I’ll find out more about you in time.”

She had to look away. Even a tough cookie could be crumbled in the hands of someone like Princeton. She eased out, “I have nothing but time.”

He gave a little nod, as if their time had already begun.

They continued on to the prearranged drop site and simply sold what they had left.

She was helping Rudy get the boat moored and secure back at the pier. In some ways Rudy had the most important job of the four of them. He had to keep a constant watch for other boats. Since they and many others ran completely dark, the fear of collision was always on their minds, and Rudy was their lookout man. The waters they ran were heavily traveled with commercial fishermen, coastal tankers, passenger vessels, and deep-sea boats bound into or out of New York harbors. In the summer there were pleasure yachts, too. He had worked as the first mate with Dutch for three years now and with Frieda for over two, and never did he complain. Never did he pry into either her or Dutch’s private worlds, either. But now he looked at her strangely. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he finally asked as he adjusted a fender.

She glanced up from the stern of the boat, where she had been coiling some dock lines, to where Princeton stood waiting for her on the end of the pier. The stars were out, and there was no wind, only the sounds of boats gently rocking in the water and the soft slaps of the waves landing on shore.

Rudy was one of those sensitive souls, attuned to every nuance in the air around him, every tilt of the planet. And he was concerned for her; that meant something. She thought she could read his mind and its prediction: big-city rich boy comes to small town and woos local girl, then leaves her heartbroken.

Frieda looked away from Princeton as he stood waiting patiently, rock solid on the pier while an unexpected crashing wave heaved against the pilings and sent up a little burst of spray. She already knew that the seawater had a tendency to curl his hair, that he liked to sit facing the city on a run, that he liked his coffee black, that he didn’t wash his own clothes.

She said to Rudy, “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Rudy glanced at Princeton and then back at her.

“I’m not talking about him,” he said, “although that could be something worth examining. I’m talking about this, what we’re doing here.”

She wiped the droplets of salt water from her face. Rudy hadn’t spoken to her like this since the night two years ago when she’d first joined the crew. What was bothering him now?

As if he’d read her mind, Rudy said, “That cutter knows who we are now. We’re not such a small operation anymore; we have one of the biggest boats. We’d be a great success story for them if they caught us. They’ll be back.”

“Guess so.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Not as much as it should.”

Rudy, finished with his chores now, took off his glasses and cleaned them with the tail of his shirt. “Just want you to know the risks you’re taking before you get in too deep.”

“Too deep? It’s been two years! I appreciate your concern, but where is your worry for all the others involved?”

Rudy shrugged and smiled. “They’re not dames.”

Frieda laughed. “You can’t include me in that lot. I’ve never been girly.”

“You’re still a dame. We men need to look out for the womenfolk, you know.” His face sobered. “Besides, haven’t you made enough?”

Frieda finished coiling and storing extra dock lines, then stuffed her hands into her pants pockets. “I have Bea to put through school, Silver to look after. You know that.” Her voice changed. “And what about you? Haven’t you had enough?”

“I got me a wife and three kids, but yeah, I’m thinking I’ve got just about enough. I’m thinking that after the summer’s over, this . . .” He gestured around. “This is gonna be over for me, too.”

He confused her. There was too much money to be made. And how much is ever enough? What if Silver’s condition worsened and he needed round-the-clock professional nurses or hospitalization for years to come? What if he had another stroke that affected the other side? He’d be completely helpless. How long would her money last then? And what if Bea’s tuition went up? What if Dutch quit running and she couldn’t find enough work?

But over the years she’d gained a lot of respect for Rudy and his opinions, more so than Dutch. Dutch was getting cocky. Just tonight he’d whooped and hollered when the cutter gave up, whereas Rudy had been sweating, even though the night was cool. Rudy might have one drink in the speakeasy after work, but then he went home to his family. Dutch, on the other hand, was sometimes staying out all night. His blond hair was turning more white every day, and his face was now dotted with what looked like permanent age spots. He spent a lot of time shuffling between the boat, the shore, and his storage sites, and often he carried a flask of whiskey under his coat. But she never asked any questions; this was a most unusual conversation.

She said to Rudy, “Summer’s just started.”

“How well I know this, Frieda. I’m just saying that once the weather turns foul again and we’ve saved up all summer long, let’s you and me get out of this thing. Let’s go back on the level. We’re not in it for fun.”

She knew his comment about “fun” was aimed at Princeton, and she didn’t argue with the truth.