Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1

by Debra Dunbar

“I’m the one with the gun. Remember? You’re a cute white girl. When it comes to asking to borrow people’s property, I’m not the one to send up the road.”

  She winced. He was right. This was Virginia.

  “I’ll be back before sunrise,” she declared. “I promise.”

  Chapter 10

  The thick oak door cracked open for Capstein. A rugged brute with bushy eyebrows and long sleeves that barely contained overtaxed biceps stared at them all. Capstein nodded, and the door opened wide.

  The interior of the basement speakeasy was dim, illuminated by only three gaslights arranged haphazardly along the stone walls. Beyond the rugged perimeter of the space, the rest of the lounge was as refined as one could imagine. Dark red velvet, smooth polished mahogany bar top, brass railing with a high sheen, and the finest liquor arranged in crystal decanters along a pyramid-shaped island behind the bar. The glasswork was noteworthy…like artwork.

  Richmond had been a revelation for Vincent. He and Lefty had endured six hours of inane road tripping and glad-handing Virginian mobsters. They were all Anglo, and a shade predisposed against anyone outside of a certain complexion. Vincent knew better than to speak out of turn in such environments, and Lefty was there to remind him of this fact at every opportunity.

  And when the sun had set, and they’d spent their entire day in Richmond, Capstein had paid for a pleasant dinner of steak and potatoes before bringing them to the preeminent speakeasy in the city. The level of cloak-and-dagger jarred Vincent. In Baltimore, there was no need for secrecy. Maryland was still a “wet” state, despite Congress’s declarations. However, Virginia had stood front and center in the quest to pass the Volstead Act. As such, the Upright Citizens had to behave as much like spies as entrepreneurs.

  Vincent and Lefty stepped into the dank air of the basement speakeasy, tucked well below a tall four-story bank. Cigar smoke hung like a blanket of wispy white just above everyone’s eyes. Those gathered there congregated together in tight clutches, whispering and conspiring as they sipped overwrought cocktails served in decorative glasses. Those glasses, Vincent pondered. They were remarkable—works of art in their own right. It seemed crude to simply pour moonshine or ferreted rum from the Caribbean into such finery.

  He watched as the lean, whiskered fellow in suspenders and bow tie behind the mahogany bar flitted back and forth with an otherworldly confidence, secure in his position as the sorcerer of inebriation for this hidden, secret world. Baltimore, by contrast, was far more straightforward…and by virtue less sexy.

  Capstein sauntered ahead of Vincent and Lefty, pulling a chair from the front of the bar with a grandiose wave toward bow-and-suspenders.

  “Barley,” he announced. “Three Satin Suzies for myself and our guests!”

  Capstein had adopted the persona of a grand marshal since they’d arrived at the city. Every dog-eared street and alleyway was loaded with significance in his mind. The day was interminable, and Vincent had been glad to see the sun set as they wound their way to dinner. Lefty had taken it all in stride, acting as the mouthpiece for the Baltimore Crew. Yet, it had been clear to Vincent that Capstein was eager for a private word with him.

  They were both pinchers in the service of the mob. So many things to discuss, so many questions and answers. And none of that could occur in front of Vincent’s “handler.”

  That was Lefty’s job, after all…to keep Vincent in line. And to keep him loyal to the family.

  The Upright Citizens were organized crime, just as they were, but these Virginians were not part of the family. They were, in fact, upstarts in the eyes of the New York patria, just local hoodlums who had lucked into securing a foothold in the Old Dominion State prior to the Volstead Act. As such, they controlled the manufacture and distribution on the Virginia side of the Appalachians, and all the moonshine that encompassed. Kings made of paupers, but still paupers at heart in the eyes of the family.

  Vincent took a seat at the bar alongside Lefty, and Old Suspenders offered each of them a stemmed glass of some pink-toned liquid with an olive skewered by a toothpick.

  He eyed Lefty as he reached for the drink.

  Lefty sighed and they both took a sip together.

  Whatever Old Suspenders had mixed in that glass…was delightful. Sweet. Boozy. Aromatic. Salty. All the conflicting flavors danced a tight polka across Vincent’s tongue, at times offending him, at times seducing him. By the swallow, he was ready for another hit.

  “The hell’s in this?” he blurted.

  Capstein released a gut-deep laugh, tossing his head back.

  “Trade secrets, my friend!”

  Lefty took his sip, then set the glass onto the bar top without comment. Then he leaned back in his chair, looking about the interior of the speakeasy, clearly searching for something or someone. Capstein eyed him with a lift of his brow. “You lose your way?”

  “Is there a phone in here?” Lefty replied. “I need to grab hold of my people, let them know what’s stretching our clock.”

  Capstein nodded. “Not here, but there’s a phone in the lobby of the Armstead Hotel, just four blocks up Broad Street.” He snapped his fingers, and a young black boy popped out from behind a closed door. “Take Mr. Mancuso here to the Armstead. Make it snappy.”

  The boy nodded, bowed, then rushed for the door.

  Lefty eyed the boy, then Capstein, and then straightened his posture with a measure of diplomat’s comportment. Before he took his exit, he gave Vincent a steady glare. Behave, the glare instructed. Not that Vincent had any intentions beyond that, to be sure.

  Once Lefty had exited, Vincent released two tons of weight from his shoulders, and pounded the rest of his…what the hell was this called? A Satin Susy?

  Capstein took a seat beside Vincent, nodding to the door. “Hell of a handler you got there.”

  “Speaking of which…where’s yours?” Vincent asked.

  “Me? I don’t need one.”

  “What are you, a true member in the Upright Citizens?”

  Capstein smiled. “It’s a comfort to have a purpose.” He nodded to Vincent’s drink. “Something less fussy?”

  Vincent slid the glass forward. “Not used to blended drinks.”

  Capstein snapped his fingers, and Old Suspenders stepped to.

  “Two fingers each…the Kentucky reserve.”

  Suspenders lingered a half-second longer than necessary, then retired to a closed door behind the bar. He re-emerged with a black-painted bottle, uncorking it to pour discreet measures each onto cubes of ice.

  Capstein lifted his glass, and Vincent followed suit.

  “To honest booze,” he declared. “And straight dealing.”

  Vincent clicked glass and took a sip. It was transcendent, far better than his usual.

  “You like that?” Capstein asked. “It’s not easy getting the real article from Kentucky.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “It’s a profound shame we can’t produce this in the open. These brutes in Congress with their God and Brimstone. Horsefeathers!”

  “Bushwa!” Vincent agreed. Those gathered nearby cheered in kind. Well…Richmond had proved to be more welcoming than Vincent had figured.

  Capstein sucked back a strong pull of the amber liquid, then nodded to himself.

  “Vincent?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re alone, up there. Correct? In Baltimore?”

  Vincent eyed Capstein. “What’s your meaning?”

  “You’re Vito’s only pincher, right?”

  “One and only.”

  Capstein nodded. “That must be hard on you.”

  Vincent leaned back in his seat, peering left and right. “What, you’re not the Big Man down in Richmond, are you?”

  Capstein released an uproarious laugh. “Oh…oh, no. No.” Once the man calmed himself, he gestured toward the back wall. “I’m more fortunate than most, I assume. The Upright Citizens purchased me from down near Atlanta.”

  Vincent nodded
thoughtfully.

  Capstein continued, “I was their only pincher for a while, until we developed a recruitment scheme that pays off now and then without much layout. Last time, we got a real cherry.” He clicked his tongue at Vincent, then gestured to the far end of the speakeasy to bellow, “Betty! Come on over here!”

  From the shadows, a figure stirred. She gripped two glasses in her hands and stepped with caution toward the two men. She was a blonde-haired beauty…nose short and straight. Brown eyes, tilted slightly toward the brow. Her lips were thin but sharp, curling upward at the corners into a charming hint of a smile.

  “You need something, Elmer?” she murmured.

  Capstein gestured to Vincent. “You’ll be pleased to meet Vincent Calendo. He’s the pincher from the Baltimore Crew.”

  Betty’s eyes rose just a little, taking him in with a quick glance that he was sure missed nothing. Setting the glasses onto the bar, she offered a hand in a masculine assertion. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she declared as Vincent shook her hand. She had a strong grip, indeed.

  He eyed the glasses she’d left on the bar top. They were like wax figures wilting under a scorching summer sun. “Good evening,” he mumbled. “Or…night. What is it?”

  “Whatever you’d like.” Her eyes wandered toward Capstein.

  Vincent sensed a communication between the two and felt suddenly like a zebra amongst lions.

  “He’s just here for the day, Betty. Helping us with a little unpleasantness up by the Bay,” Capstein told her.

  She nodded, and with the last bob of her chin, lifted it just slow enough to seem engaging.

  “Are you a pincher, too?” Vincent asked.

  She smiled and walked around to Vincent’s other side, putting him smack in the middle between her and Capstein. Then she reached across for one of the miserable glass figurines left on the bar top, pressing herself against his arm as she did. Holding it in one hand, she wove the fingers of her right hand just inches over the mass of glass. What had been an ill-formed clump stretched and squeaked underneath her ministrations. The glass pulled taught like hard candy, spiraling and weaving until it rested in a column atop a tulip base. The top of the glass beveled into a martini scoop.

  She set the final product down on top of the bar beside Vincent’s whisky. He recognized the attention to detail on each, and realized he’d been sipping from glassware wrought from this pincher’s fingers.

  “Well, what do you know about that?” he muttered.

  “I have my talents,” she murmured, standing so close he could feel the warmth of her body, smell the faint jasmine notes of her cologne.

  “I see that,” he replied, not sure if she’d meant the double entendre or not.

  She looked up at him from under her eyelashes and reached for his arm. Her fingers trailed his bicep to his elbow, then drifted down to his leg.

  Well. This was…uncomfortable? Seductive? Uncomfortably seductive? He peered at her, very aware that Capstein was on the other side of him, no doubt completely ignorant of Betty’s wandering hands.

  She returned a sizzling glare.

  Vincent cleared his throat, and angled his stool away from her, sending her hand off his leg. He reached for his glass and drained it.

  “Betty, here, is the product of our recruitment scheme,” Capstein said in his loud barker’s voice, clearly missing the exchange between Betty and Vincent.

  Vincent straightened up, shooting a quick glance at the woman then gesturing for more whisky. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

  Betty giggled, tilting her face toward the ceiling. The motion was oddly…artificial. When she lowered her chin, and met Vincent’s eyes, the connection was as electric as it was desperate. There was a plea in her gaze, something frantic and distressed behind the seduction, something that stirred his protective instincts as well as other things.

  He broke eye contact and shook his head. Where was that whisky? “I’m sorry…are the two of you…”

  Capstein offered, “Married? Well, in a way, yes. Yes, we are.”

  Vincent lifted his hands. “I see.”

  The man released a polite laugh that seemed to Vincent at once to be both courteous and condescending. Then Capstein reached for Betty’s arm and pulled her around to his side, giving it a squeeze as the bartender refilled Vincent’s glass.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs for a bit?” Capstein told the woman. “I’ll let you know if we have any…developments.”

  She nodded and snatched her artwork. With a meaningful glance over her shoulder at Vincent, she disappeared behind a doorway tucked behind a stone masonry wall near the end of the basement.

  Vincent shifted away from Capstein. Holy hell, what was that all about? “She’s a peach,” he remarked, suddenly desperate to be back home.

  “She is,” he replied. “And she understands our peculiar pressures.”

  “Pressures?” Vincent asked.

  “Surely, you understand our situation. We are pinchers. We are exceptional but sublimated human beings among the mundane mongrels who surround us every day. They assert themselves day in, day out, but we are the ones with unique power.”

  Vincent snickered. “Oh yes. And we are the ones with unique intestinal complaints every time we use our unique power.”

  Capstein scowled, smacking his fist against the bar top. “No. We are the ones who are destined for glory!”

  Vincent blinked at him, searching for a response.

  Shaking his head, Capstein blinked away the momentary fugue into furor. “I apologize. I simply mean that we are beings of power, who answer to beings of a lesser calling.”

  “I don’t know much about that,” Vincent responded. This discussion was going in a dangerous direction, one that might get a pincher killed if he wasn’t careful.

  “Who were your parents?” asked Capstein suddenly.

  Vincent gripped his glass hard, disliking this topic even more. “Don’t know.”

  “Your parents weren’t pinchers?”

  “Should they be?”

  “Well, that’s how it works. Pinchers beget pinchers.” Capstein leaned in. “Unless you’re one of the rare few who were born from common stock.”

  Vincent eyed Capstein with a vicious glare. “I’m no sort of farm animal,” he snarled. “Nor are you. Or her,” he added, nodding to the door Betty had disappeared through.

  Capstein nodded. “No offense intended. But, you must understand. We are treated like livestock by our masters. No?”

  Vincent blinked, hiding a wince.

  “And so,” Capstein continued, “we define our worth by the dictates of those who determine our destinies. Such is our lot in life. Such is our means toward significance.” He took a sip of his drink, then set it down with a declarative pound. “Betty and I are trying for children. She’s a skilled pincher, but glass? Her real value, what makes her priceless in my eyes, is her ability to give me children—children with our special aptitude.”

  “Salute.” Vincent nodded and lifted his glass, trying to ignore the man’s crude assertions. No wonder the woman had been so desperately flirting with him if this was what she was stuck with.

  “The family in Pittsburgh? They have two pinchers. Yes?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” Where was Lefty? It was definitely time to get out of here and back north.

  “Two,” Capstein acknowledged. “A man and a woman. They have a child, who will be a pincher when he grows old enough for his powers to manifest.”

  Vincent lingered over his glass.

  Capstein continued, “Philadelphia?”

  “I’ve met one. Two men.”

  “More’s the pity. With a woman, they could increase the stock.”

  Vincent inhaled sharply and shook his head. “They’re not interested in—”

  “New York City?”

  Vincent stiffened. It was an instinctive reaction from his time in the Crew. Invoking the mafia and their keystone city was never a moment to be taken l
ightly.

  “Five,” Vincent replied.

  “Six,” Capstein corrected. “They have a baby due next month, and another that should arrive this summer. This…this is how we rise, Vincent.”

  “We don’t rise, Elmer,” Vincent grumbled. “We obey. That’s what we do.”

  “We obey,” Capstein whispered, leaning into Vincent’s ear, “until we have enough of us to speak in a unified voice. This is the point. It’s a long game. This is why Betty and I are trying for another generation.”

  “Good for you, then.” Where the hell was Lefty?

  Capstein sucked in a breath to respond, then closed his mouth. Vincent eyed him.

  “Any rate, the Upright Citizens are busy chasing their tails over the Piedmont moonshiners, you people up in Baltimore, and, of course,” Capstein added with a sharp smirk, “all those poor bastards hunting down Doc Freedman.”

  Vincent straightened in his chair. “Doc Freedman?”

  Capstein nodded indifferently.

  Vincent prodded, “Who’s Doc Freedman?” And why is everyone hunting the man down?

  “Oh,” Capstein answered with disinterest. “Some ghost haunting the Bay. Supposedly lives around the area. They say he’s a witch doctor from the Caribbean.” Capstein made a winding gesture with his finger by his temple. “Pinches water, if you can believe that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe that?” Vincent countered.

  “Well, it’s because he’s supposed to be some sort of miracle man.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Capstein released a patient sigh. “I don’t believe in miracles. He’s a water pincher, but he uses his powers to create some sort of elixir he calls the Water of Life. Magical moonshine. Cures all ills—sickness, injury, everything. Heh. I don’t know…man’s probably a fraud. A moonshiner with a strong sense of personal theater. But, people are looking for answers these days, and they’ll grab onto anything.” He took a sip of his whisky and stared into space wistfully.

  Vincent followed suit.

  Doc Freedman.

  Water pincher.

  Could that be simply a boat-legger yarn?

  Capstein gave Vincent a sidelong glance, then set his glass onto the bar. “Doesn’t matter. Listen. People like you and me need some frame of reference. We are unlike those we serve. Which is why I wanted to speak to you candidly…man to man. We are a distinct species, if you’ll forgive the biology. The more power we exert as a distinct race of beings, the greater our bargaining power.”