Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  “Looking for me. Who?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Some white guy in a suit. He came in asking where to find you. We assumed he might be some new hired hand.”

  “Hired hand? Since when do we hire any whites? Where did he go?”

  “Dunno, Miss. Dixon. We’ve been swamped since half past seven. But I did catch sight of him headin’ on to the office.”

  Kelly Quinn’s heart started knocking painfully against his ribcage when Leon Clark arrived. He’d been waiting for him at a table near the wall of stacked empty casks inside his old brewery. The building had been vacant since Quinn closed it down. Brewing illegal beer here was too dangerous, but it served as the perfect spot for a private meeting.

  Sitting in his closed-down brewery weighed on his soul. He had done well as a legitimate businessman. He had employed dozens of people, and most of them he’d taken in after Prohibition to be his goons—like Garcia. Things had been much simpler back before the damn law was put into effect. Nowadays, he jumped through many dangerous hoops to maintain a business, as well as to keep his freedom—including paying off cops and trying not to get whacked by other organizations. At least Quinn had the stomach for the change, something he’d accomplished after losing his wife and daughter. That had killed the man he used to be. If either of them had been around, he’d most likely have never gone into the racket. Even so, he felt pride for having risen from the ashes of the bureaucracy that had taken away his livelihood, and dammit, the game was good to be in, profit-wise.

  Quinn’s goons had let Clark and his people in through the rear exit where Quinn had his car parked in the back alleyway. The building had no electricity, so Quinn had lit several kerosene lanterns. Garcia, who had been standing by the door, showed Clark in by the lantern he held. When Quinn saw Leon, he stood up and fixed a smile on his face.

  “Hello, Clark. It’s been awhile, huh?” He pointed to a bottle of scotch on the table. “Care for a drink. It’s what’s left of my stock.”

  “Then you ought to start thinking about producing your own,” Clark advised in his typical wheeze. “I guess I could use the warmth.”

  Despite his handicap, the man was vicious. The bullets in him may have tamed the beast, but it hadn’t killed his taste for human blood.

  “I’ve considered it,” Quinn admitted, taking a seat when Clark did.

  He poured himself and Clark a glass while the man breathed into his oxygen mask. Clark had come with five of his goons, and Quinn was sure there were a few more outside. Mr. Lithgow and Mr. Garcia were with Quinn, of course, and so were a handful of others, but going up against Clark wasn’t in his plans. Not tonight, anyway.

  Clark removed the mask, vapors whisking out. “Why did you call this meeting, Quinn? You mentioned it was important.”

  “It is,” Quinn said gravely. He knocked back his drink, as did Clark. “A couple of my boys were coming in from Rum Row when they were attacked by pirates. I think it was Romano who ordered it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Her worker bees were spotted out on the water.”

  Clark shrugged. “Is that it? Pirates are constantly hitting fools coming outta Rum Row. They’re temporary workers that anyone can hire. They have their own little schemes.”

  “Yes, but the ones who attacked my men were Ghosts, and we both know Romano only hires the best.”

  Quinn felt he had made a valid point. However, Clark didn’t seem to buy it. “Y’know, she arranged a sit-down not long ago and warned me about you.”

  The heat in Quinn’s body rose. He hadn’t known this.

  He played it cool. “You both had a meeting about me?”

  “No. Romano claimed she wanted to tell me about the bull and their tanks.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” Quinn slyly put in. “Otherwise, she’d request I’d be there, as well.”

  The look on Clark’s dark-skinned face suggested he might have considered that, too, or that he had questioned Romano about it.

  “She’s up to something,” Quinn tossed in.

  “She’s constantly up to something,” Clark retorted.

  “I think she wants to start a war between our houses. I wouldn’t put it past her to want some kind of monopoly by getting rid of the competition—even those she’s made peace with.”

  Clark considered him for a long moment, then said while leaning forward, “You think she wants me to ice you? Take out your entire little operation? ’Cause I can, y’know.” He snapped his fingers. “Like . . . that!”

  Quinn sensed the uneasiness coming from his own men and held up a hand to keep them in line. “There’s no need for threats, Clark.”

  “Not a threat. A fact. My people and I brought down the Clergymen in a single night. Don’t think I couldn’t do the same to you.”

  Clark was flexing his muscles, letting Quinn know he was top dog when it came to money and manpower. Regardless, Quinn could not afford to look weak, but neither did he want to come off sounding aggressive.

  “Be that as it may, I’m only respecting the points of our treaty and warning you of potential danger. We’re stronger together than fighting against each other.”

  Clark scratched his temple while breathing through his mask again. Quinn hoped the tank would give out on him one day when he needed it, causing the bastard to suffocate.

  “Maybe for you,” Clark finally pointed out, pulling the mask away. “Still, I understand your point.” He stood, but Quinn stayed seated.

  “Your warning is duly noted. Was there anything else?”

  Quinn could only hope he had stalled the man long enough.

  “No.”

  One of Clark’s bodyguards lifted his oxygen tank while he buttoned his coat. “Then, goodnight.”

  And with that, Clark ended the meeting. He turned and departed with all his cronies following. Garcia led them out the back way.

  “Do you think it worked, boss?” Lithgow asked.

  “We’ll soon see.”

  How Clark had talked down to him made him experience something he never had before. The three of them may have agreed to their little treaty, but both Clark and Romano saw Quinn as the weakest link. If he was successful getting the submarine, he’d pull in more product and build his empire up, and then he could hire more muscle. Then they’d see who was left standing.

  Nineteen

  Getting Out

  Pierce searched through the cabinet drawers, finding only payroll logs, food receipts, and other paperwork regarding The Brass Ring. There was nothing about a boathouse. He felt he was grasping at straws. For all he knew, Clark had stored the submarine inside an undocumented abandoned boathouse. Or, he really didn’t have the blasted thing at all. Kelly was certain Clark had it and that the man had purchased a boathouse because there weren’t many uninhabited buildings around, much less one large enough to hold the mini-submarine.

  Pierce tried the drawer beneath the desktop. It was locked.

  “Ah,” he whispered, reaching into his jacket pocket for the torsion wrench.

  With the torch between his teeth, Pierce worked to lift pins with the pick and applied pressure with the torsion wrench. He had mounds of practice in lock picking going as far back as his thieving days with Joaquin. With a slight twist, it was done.

  Click!

  Ace!

  He slid it open and found a pistol, a deck of playing cards, lighters, and other random items. At first glance, there didn’t seem to be any reason why the drawer had been locked when nothing else was.

  Then he spotted it—a little black book.

  Pierce set the torch down on the desk and leafed through the booklet by its light. There was all sorts of important and unlawful information written on the small pages, mainly notes about the number of barrels of alcohol Leon had purchased and how much of it had been sold. There were the names of officers who were on the take. Pierce was grateful Leon had good handwriting, which made it easier to skim through it all. He had gone through three-
quarters of the book when he came across an address.

  “North Peak Cove, 620 Vesey Street.”

  Cove. It sounded like something that would be near water.

  He checked to make certain there weren’t any other addresses and found none. Pierce reckoned he had what he needed and was ready to split. He returned the book, closed the drawer, and headed for the door. Just as he neared the door, the knob turned.

  Shite!

  Surveying the office before had proved useful, for he had spied a stuffed grizzly bear standing in the corner next to the door and leaped behind it, clicking off his torch. He pressed himself against the furry animal’s back as someone switched the lights on and marched across the room.

  Christ, was it Leon?

  Pierce couldn’t be certain, and he didn’t have the nerve to peer around to find out. The grizzly was plenty big to hide the likes of him, but that did not mean he had a whole lot of space to move about. He needed to stay absolutely still and hope that whoever had entered hadn’t come in on the suspicions of a break-in.

  The footsteps went to the desk and someone started opening drawers. Pierce clenched his teeth. He’d left the locked drawer unlocked, which was a good sign that someone unwanted was here.

  “Everything all right in here, Miss Dixon?” a voice from beyond the threshold asked.

  Damn! It’s the nightclub manager.

  “I’m not sure,” said Zoe, opening another drawer and shuffling through it. “Mr. Clark’s book is in here, but I could have sworn he kept this locked.”

  “Maybe he forgot to lock it?”

  Pierce wasn’t sure if the bloke was part of the kitchen staff or one of Leon’s goons. As a result, he had no idea if he was armed.

  “Maybe,” Zoe mused but did not sound entirely convinced. “Bobby told me he saw a white guy come through the kitchen, looking for me. He was heading toward the office.”

  “Well, I’ve been looking for you, Miss Dixon.”

  “You’re hardly white, James,” Zoe retorted.

  “Josephine Baker came in. She requested her usual, but we’re out.”

  “No,” Zoe disagreed, closing the drawer and stepping toward him. “There’s a special stash for her in the storage area. Let me show you. I’ll tell the staff to watch out for the guy on the way.”

  As her footsteps came near, Pierce stiffened. Then she switched the lights off and closed the door.

  Pierce sighed but his solace lasted only seconds. The staff would now be keeping an eye out for him and no doubt report seeing him when they do. There was no other escape route and no rear exit close enough for him to sneak out and then double back to fetch Lucy. He needed a plan.

  He thought about the elephant in the room. Literally. Clicking on the torch, he darted to the desk and shined the light on the sculpture. The shiny silver statue had caught his eye during his search. It reminded him of when Juan Fan had made lead balls for flintlock pistols from the same metal. She had explained to him that the material was highly sensitive to liquids and firing it into a person would prove hazardous. Because of the delicate nature of the sodium metal, she seldom carried such unstable firearms. However, Fan did show him how it reacted when tossed into water.

  Sodium metal was a very soft material. To make sure he had what he thought he did, Pierce took an envelope opener and used it to cut through the statue. He grinned at the easy way it sliced away. Even so, he couldn’t simply go out into the kitchen and toss it into some liquid without someone spotting him. He needed something to draw their attention away for a few moments. Pierce looked over at the tank.

  It took no time to get the robotic insects into the vase he found. He didn’t particularly want to touch them, unsure of what they would do. They moved about the same as actual insects, just a tad slower, especially the spiders. When he put the vase down, it almost seemed as if they were aware of what he was trying to do. Did they have . . . a conscious mind?

  The dragonflies actually flew, which Pierce hadn’t expected. They zipped out the moment he removed the lid and buzzed about as if they wanted to leave. The mantis sat on a branch carved out of bronze, seemingly overseeing the others. The bullet that was its body looked old. Pierce couldn’t decide if the thing would go into the vase or not, then the mantis suddenly hurried down into it as if it didn’t want to be left behind. Once he had them all, Pierce gently lifted the vase. “Bloody remarkable.”

  Now, he only hoped his plan worked as well as he’d envisioned it. Carrying both the vase and the elephant statue, Pierce cracked the office door open. Nobody was out in the corridor. He crouched low, tilting the jar down and letting all the insects scamper out.

  “Make me proud.”

  The dragonflies led the charge. They buzzed over Pierce and headed straight into the kitchen. They caught the attention of the staff almost instantly. The spiders were next. They scurried on, along with the cockroaches and the beetles, fanning out over the floor. The praying mantis, however, came out and went to the corner of the corridor where it stopped and cocked its tiny noggin to the side, observing.

  The cooks by the stove jumped and rushed away as bugs came at them. Some people shouted, and that’s when Pierce sprang his trap. He hurried to the edge of the hall, careful not to step on the mantis, and threw the sodium sculpture into the boiling pot of water on the stove.

  What happened next was pure pandemonium. A fireball erupted from the pot, and pieces shot out like tiny meteors. The kitchen lit up brightly in orange and pink flashes. The sound was as deafening as if a vicious gun battle was taking place inside the kitchen.

  It certainly got the staff hopping. They rushed toward the chase doors, screaming and shoving one another. An unfortunate beetle was crushed under panicked feet. The rest of the bugs vacated the area before they were trampled. As the kitchen staff left, Pierce broke cover. The bang of the sodium metal knocked against his eardrums, and the heat of it wafted over him. He reached the staff and stayed behind them, covering his head until he’d gotten out.

  There was a crowd by the bar that he managed to join before anyone noticed him coming out of the kitchen. Everyone was pretty much on the floor or crouching for cover. Zoe and a few other large blokes dressed in nice suits, appeared, their guns drawn, and charged into the kitchen. Pierce decided it was the perfect opportunity to try for an escape.

  “What was that?” Lucy asked. She was hunkered down behind her chair at their table. “Are those gunshots?”

  “I’ll explain after we’re outta here,” he told her.

  Pierce helped her to her feet, and put sixty dollars under the candleholder for the server. A lot more loot than he meant to toss in, but instead of fretting about it, he began leading Lucy away.

  They claimed their coats along with several other patrons who were rushing to leave and hurried out before the smoke cleared.

  Outside, Pierce and Lucy hurried down the road in the direction that Frank had gone. They found the car parked by the curb, with Frank leaning against it, smoking.

  “Been in der for three hours,” he complained, opening the door for Lucy. “Find anything?”

  “Aye,” Pierce answered. “I believe I did. I also stirred up some shite in there, so let’s clear out, eh?”

  Pierce hopped into the backseat with Lucy and Frank got in and cranked the engine. On their way out of Harlem, Pierce told them both exactly what happened.

  “Youze did what?” Frank exclaimed, making the car swerve.

  Lucy let out a shriek.

  “Oi, don’t crash the car, tosser,” Pierce snapped. He took Lucy by the hands and noticed they were shaking. He reckoned she’d had enough for one night. “Darling, do you want us to drop you off at the diner?”

  To his surprise, she said, “Actually, I was thinking about seeing the late showing of Metropolis. Would you like to watch it with me?”

  Violetta Romano’s speakeasy was on Amsterdam Avenue, only blocks from Trinity Church. It was hidden in the basement, the same as her first speakeasy, wh
ich she had run with her husband, Adalgiso. Her front was the florist store above it. On the second floor above that were apartments, one of which she rented as a meeting place. Tonight, she was holding a special kind of gathering.

  Inside the small, two-bedroom place, five men sat at the table in the dining room area. She’d had her own household cook prepare them a homemade meal. She’d even offered them a few drinks from her personal bar.

  She thought it was the humane way to go about things.

  Each man was part of her lowest-ranking bootlegging operation—the fellas with the best eyesight and healthiest lungs.

  “Gentlemen,” Violetta said to them from the end of the table. “I want to thank you for joining me. It’s nice to have company once in a while.”

  One of them took a drink, and she smiled as she had each time they drank their liquor. Another guest, Daniel, wiped his mouth with a napkin real sloppy-like.

  “Yeah, ’bout that, Miss . . .”

  “That’s Mrs.,” she corrected him harshly. “I’m a widow, remember? Don’t make that mistake again.”

  Daniel cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. It creaked, making her teeth hurt.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Romano.” He sniffed. “Won’t happen again.”

  His wise guy smirk revealed his arrogance. The others, though, shifted unsteadily in their seats. Clearly, they understood who they were sitting in the presence of.

  “Anyways, why did you call us here? You made us take an eye exam, took a bunch of us to the gym to see who could run the longest. Are we gettin’ a promotion or somethin’?”

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Something like that,” she said.

  A man sitting across from Daniel who had been drinking steadily throughout dinner suddenly clutched his stomach and clasped his throat. He gasped as if suffocating. His face turned red. He jumped from his chair but didn’t remain on his feet long.

  “Henry?” Daniel uttered just before he clutched his own midsection.

  The others followed, gasping and sweating as their internal organs were shutting down violently.