As the Liquor Flows

by Angela Christina Archer

  While Hal secured my gag, Joe opened the trunk of the Rolls Royce, a dark space the size of a couple of suitcases that smelled of exhaust and gasoline. Hal scooped me into his arms, and shoved me in the trunk. My head slammed against the side as he pushed my knees up into my chest and tucked my feet inside.

  Frantic, I shook my head, trying to scream through my gag that they didn’t need to do this. That I’d willingly ride in the car back to New York over this.

  “Hey, you sure we shouldn’t check Catalano’s body?”

  “I said I was sure. Just leave it alone, would ya?” Joe glanced at Hal as his hands rested on top of the trunk compartment door. “Let’s just get back to New York.”

  “You’re the boss.” Hal’s shoes crunched through the dirt and the passenger doors opened and slammed shut.

  Joe glared upon me with his black eyes and a devil-like smile that elongated his oval face.

  “Hope you have a nice trip.” He leaned inside the trunk, his face inches from him. “If you survive it, that is.”

  With his final word, he slammed the trunk door shut.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE RUMBLE OF the automobile stopped underneath me and my head smacked against the back of the trunk with a thud. Darkness closed around me and I closed my eyes to fight off the panic brewing in my chest.

  Hopelessness and fear dwelled in the shadows like an obscured evil stalking along without my knowledge. I didn’t know how long I’d been in the trunk or if it was day or night.

  One of the automobile’s side doors opened and shut, then the second one followed suit.

  My heart raced.

  I craned my neck and pressed my ear against the cold steel, listening for any sound, a train or whistle, motorcars or people passing by, or kids playing in the neighborhood around the mansion. The outside world proved silent, though, with the exception of a couple of muffled voices.

  The trunk hatch opened and, once again, Joe stood over me with the same evil smirk.

  “How was your ride? Comfortable enough for ya?”

  He snickered through his nose as he grabbed my arms and legs and jerked me out of my prison. Bruised and sore, my whole body ached and every muscle rebelled as I attempted to stand.

  I glanced around the driveway of Vincent’s mansion. While the white paint shone with an angelic brightness in the moonlight, iniquity haunted every square inch of the place.

  Dread overwhelmed. My stomach twisted with a sickness that teased with the notion of losing control at any moment. Brought back to the one place I never wanted to see again and brought back to the man I never wanted to see again.

  Joe untied my ankles, but left my wrists tied and the gag in my mouth. He shoved me forward toward the back door. The force behind his heave nearly knocked me off my stiff feet and wobbly legs.

  “Move it, stupid broad.”

  Both men shoved me toward the back door and into the kitchen. Each time I hesitated, even slightly, they’d snap their fingers or raise a hand as though to warn me if I stopped, I’d regret it.

  Step and step, I trudged through the house and my shoes clicked against the familiar tile until we reached the familiar door of Vincent’s office.

  I inhaled a deep breath as Hal shoved me inside the room. My feet tripped over one another from his force, and I trotted a few steps to keep my balance.

  “Ah, Miss Ford.” Vincent leaned against the back of his desk chair and chugged the rest of the amber liquor from a glass in his hand. “I was just wondering when you’d arrive.”

  He rose to his feet and strode toward me, yanking a knife from his pocket. He slid the blade from the leather case and twirled it though his fingers while he walked around me.

  I closed my eyes, bracing for pain.

  His body leaned in close to mine, his hot breath whispered against my neck as he sliced the hemp fibers that bound my hands and untied the gag from my mouth.

  “It’s nice to see you again, even with the less than wonderful circumstances.”

  He tossed the knife onto the desk and withdrew his pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his blazer. He tapped the bottom of it until one slid out in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, a match torched the end and puffs of smoke billowed from his lips into the air above him.

  “Please have a seat.”

  I tiptoed to the chair, massaging my stiff jaw.

  “Are you hungry or thirsty?”

  Although my dry lips begged for water, I shook my head. My eyes danced around the room, unable to gaze upon him for more than a few seconds.

  “Surely, you must be thirsty. Nicholini, please, pour Miss Ford a glass of water.”

  Hal strode over to the liquor cart. His fingers knocked a few of the crystal glasses together as he fetched a glass and the matching crystal pitcher, spilling a few drops of water on the lace doily as he poured.

  Vincent clenched his jaw and closed his eyes with every clank. Words writhed on the edge of his tongue. Why he held them at bay, I didn’t know.

  Water dripped down the side of the glass as Hal set the glass down on the desk and his finger pushed it across the wood until it rested in front of me.

  “I’m really not thirsty.”

  Vincent inhaled a drag of his cigarette as he studied my honesty. “I’ve been worried about you, Miss Ford. You left without a word to anyone.”

  “I’m sorry to have worried you.”

  “No, you’re not.” His fingers drummed on the desk. One by one, they tapped in a rhythmic tone. “And after I all did for you, allowing you to help your brother. All the money I spent. All the dresses, hats, and shoes I purchased for you.”

  “I left everything in the closet. I didn’t steal any of it.”

  “However, there is something you did steal that night.”

  A lump caught in my throat, nearly choking me. Fear whispered through me. My heart began to pound, faster with every tiny breath I tried to control.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Vincent slammed his fist down upon the desk, knocking the tumbler of water over from the vibration through the timber. The water spilled and splashed, pooling at my feet.

  I flinched and closed my eyes. My fingers wrapped around the sides of the chair cushion and underneath the bottom of the seat, gripping so tight my knuckles whitened. I inhaled a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

  He leaned back in his chair as his fingers wrapped around one of the drawer knobs. With a firm yank, the drawer opened, and he withdrew a couple of familiar tomes, slamming them down upon his desk.

  “I believe these are the ledgers you stole.”

  “How . . . how did you get those?”

  “Fortunately, for me, I have business associates in all the right places. Unfortunately, for you, you made the stupid choice to trust those business associates.”

  The door opened behind me and in strode the Sergeant that I instantly recognized from the night at the police station. The one Henry hesitated to talk in front of when I asked him why he couldn’t arrest Vincent.

  The turncoat cast me a sideways glance as he parked himself on couch and snorted an arrogant laugh.

  “Where is Mr. Phelps?” I asked.

  “He’s been taken care of just like your brother,” Vincent Mocked.

  “You’re a liar.”

  Anger flared in his eyes. He wrenched open another desk drawer and withdrew a pistol. The steel gray glimmered in the light of the room as he pointed it directly at my face.

  I closed my eyes, shying away from him as I held my breath.

  With a loud bang and a thudding crash, the office door burst opened from the force of two men erupting through the doorframe.

  Gunshots fired in every direction.

  The blasts drowned my screams as I flung myself to the ground.

  “Evelyn!” Henry’s voice bellowed.

  Bullets flew over my body. Round after round pierced through the wood of the desk and the fabric of the furn
iture. Splinters and scraps of paper from the books along the wall rained down upon me. I covered my head with my arms, and drew my legs tight into my body as I pressed my body against the desk.

  Vincent fired several rounds toward the door as he bent down and grabbed a handful of my blonde curls, twisting them so tight I thought he’d pull every single strand from my head. He heaved me to my feet, and with one hang gripping my hair, he stuck the barrel of his gun into my temple.

  “So Catalano, are you ready to beg for her life?”

  “Cease fire.” Henry and other man retreated, but still held their guns poised.

  Hal’s lifeless body lay draped over the back end of the couch with a bullet in his head. Blood splattered all over his face and the couch fabric.

  Joe stood over him. Blood oozed from a wound on the outside of his thigh. With his gun drawn, his hand trembled as he aimed at Henry then Henry’s partner, unknowing which one he planned to shoot first.

  Crouched in between the couch and the coffee table, the sergeant huddled with one hand holding his gun and the other over his head to shield himself.

  “Or should I call you by your real name, Agent James?”

  “Let her go, Vinny.”

  “Or what? You’ll try to shoot me like your old man tried?”

  A heated fury swept through Henry’s shoulders with each breath. The rawness drowned through the dark russet as he lowered his gaze. He stood on a fated precipice that toyed with his desire for the revenge he hid deep inside him weeks ago in a tiny police room.

  Vincent’s grip tightened through my hair and he shoved me down on the desk, slamming my torso and the side of my head into the wood. Pain pierced my ear and neck.

  Henry’s eyes met mine.

  BANG.

  In the split second Henry’s gaze drifted, Vincent had aimed and fired. Henry’s body spun around and collapsed to the ground.

  “No!” I fought against Vincent’s weight.

  Outnumbered, Henry’s partner fled the room with Joe on his tail, limping after him. Gunshots echoed from the foyer out into the front yard of the home as the sergeant dashed after them. With his lanky gate, he stumbled over his feet a couple of times.

  Vincent leaned against me. His entire weight pressed my body into the desk as he shoved the warm barrel of the gun into my temple once more. His lips brushed my ear and his spit hit my face as he spoke.

  “He thought I didn’t know he was that gangly little boy that watched me from afar? He thought he could hoodwink me, the Boss of Bosses, the Kingpin of New York?”

  “Then why didn’t you do anything to him?” My words hissed, nearly inaudible as I struggled.

  I inched one of my hands along the top of the piece of furniture, wiggling my fingers as my lungs gasped.

  I felt the stack of leather ledger books and a sheet of the paper inside nicked the palm of my hand, slicing the skin. Inch by inch, my fingers continued to wander the desk, trembling as they searched for anything I could use to help me.

  “When are people ever going to learn that I’m the powerful one? When are people going to learn they can’t touch me?”

  “You couldn’t have known the whole time,” I said, trying to distract him as I continued to trace around the leather tomes.

  My reach finally slid down the length of the cold blade of a silver letter opener. My fingers shivered over the sharpness and my hand clutched the brass handle.

  Vincent stood and jerked me around to face him.

  I hid the letter opener behind my back.

  “How dare you accuse me of being a fool? Do you think I didn’t want to play a little game? I love games. I invented games.”

  He heaved me towards Henry, who lay face down and motionless on the floor with blood splattered along the sleeve of his gray pin-striped blazer.

  He can’t be dead. No, please, no.

  “Quite pathetic, isn’t it? All his work . . . and for nothing.”

  Vincent kicked Henry’s arm.

  Henry didn’t stir. Unmoving and lifeless, the sight of him gutted me, leaving a hollow void that begged him to stir, even if it was just a flinch, just a flicker of life, or just a hint that he hadn’t left me. Tears burned my eyes before streaming down my cheeks. Unable to breath, my knees trembled under my weight.

  No, please, no.

  “It’s a shame, really, Miss Ford, that you couldn’t have just kept your mouth shut. You couldn’t have simply just played the game with me. No, you had to go and fall in love with the pitiful fool.”

  Anger pulsed through my veins. I grabbed his wrist and heaved my weight toward him. With all my force, I plunged the letter opener into his chest, the end pierced through his clothes and thrust deep into his flesh.

  He staggered backwards a few steps, ducking his chin as he examined the handle sticking out of his body. His lungs fought through his gasped breaths. His wide eyes met mine. He coughed. Blood dripped from his lips.

  “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” His voice wheezed as he raised his arm, pointing his gun at my face. “That’s not a mistake I’m going to make twice.”

  Henry rolled over, unloading shot after shot into Vincent’s chest until his gun clicked because it was empty.

  The force from the bullets shoved Vincent backwards. Blood splattered all over the couch, the chair, and the table behind him. His arms flailed. He struggled to keep his footing, stumbling several steps before finally collapsing. His head smacked against the hardwood floor and after a few last gasped breaths, he died.

  Henry rose to his feet, wincing with the slightest of movement as blood dripped from the wound on his arm.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  I lunged for him, wrapping my arms around him. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I thought . . . I’d lost you.”

  “Oh, oh, careful, careful.” He adjusted his arm in my embrace.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Where did Fletcher go?”

  “He took off and they followed him outside.”

  Holding his arm against his chest for support, he dug around in his jacket pockets with his other hand. “Here, take this ammunition.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got to reload in case they come back.”

  His pained breaths hissed through his teeth as he jerked the gun open and loaded it.

  Footsteps thumped against the tile foyer floor.

  “Get behind me, Evelyn.”

  He braced his stance and aimed for the door.

  “James?” a man’s voice called out.

  “Fletcher?”

  “Yeah.”

  Henry’s shoulders softened as his partner rushed into the room. The man’s lungs heaved, and as soon as he saw us, he bent over and rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  “They fled, but I think I hit the cop.”

  “Good job, Fletcher.” Henry shoved his gun in his holster. “Evelyn, I’d like you to meet Agent Donald Fletcher.”

  I nodded my greeting as Agent Fletcher tipped his hat.

  “Good evening, Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, even if the situation is less than ideal.” He laughed at his own mock and eyed Henry’s arm. “Is it bad?”

  Henry shook his head. “Just a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We should still get you to the hospital.” I wiped my cheeks, the tears smeared across my skin. My fingers traced along the blood-soaked cotton shirt and I wrapped my arm under his and across his back to help him stand.

  Sirens blared in the distance, too many to count with the different levels of volume and speed.

  “Neighbors must have called the cops from all the gunfire.” Fletcher scanned the room as he holstered his gun. “You will be one lucky man if you get out of this mess with your badge.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “What mess?” I asked.

  Henry gave me a slight smirk
and chuckled under his breath as he adjusted his weight. “Well, I didn’t really have a warrant to bust in here tonight.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  Several cop cars screeched to a halt along the street in front of the house. Each of their sirens blared through the broken front door and echoed among the walls of the foyer into the parlor. Lights flashed through the doorway of the windowless office, the bright colors bounced off anything shining in the room.

  “Fletcher, you should probably leave through the back door of the kitchen before they find you here. No sense in you taking any heat for what I did. Take care and tell Arthur I’ll telephone him in a few days.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “Of course he is. He’s been with me.” Agent Fletcher laughed, tipping his hat at me before he trotted from the room.

  Voices shouted outside while heeled boots clicked through the house.

  Henry groaned under his breath as he struggled to reach for something in his pocket.

  “Henry, are you in trouble?”

  He flipped open the brown leather wallet-like badge case and squinted in pain. “I don’t know, but I guess we’ll find out.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  HENRY LAY IN the hospital bed. The nurse stood over him, cleaning the stitched bullet wound near his shoulder.

  Blood soaked cotton swabs littered one of the silver trays on a dresser-like table next to her. One by one, she dipped more and more into the sudsy water and dabbed his skin. He winced with her every touch and squeezed my hand.

  “Could you be gentler, please?” My tone oozed disrespectfulness as my words hissed through my gritted teeth.

  “Do you want his arm to get infected?”

  I ignored her fire hot glare as Henry patted my shoulder with his free hand.

  “Eh, don’t worry about me. Sometimes a little pain is a good thing. Just means you’re not living a boring life, right?” He chuckled under his breath and gave us both a wink.

  While the tension eased in my body, the nurse rolled her eyes and continued to sponge the wound a few more times before dabbing it with a dry cloth. Blood stained his skin a bright shade of red around the hole that the doctor stitched together not but a few hours ago.