Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  As Kelly struck a match and got the burner going, Pierce whispered to George, “Are you all right, mate?”

  “Yeah,” he answered somberly. “Peachy. It’s just . . . I don’t do so well by myself.”

  Kelly set the kettle on the burner and after tea, he headed for the door. They followed Kelly outside and around to the batwing cellar doors.

  “Take out your flashlights, boys,” Kelly ordered, taking his from his coat pocket.

  They went down into the cellar underneath the house, which measured about one hundred square feet. The ceiling was quite low. Pierce nearly had to duck his head. A long chain, hanging from the center of the ceiling, was attached to a light socket without a blub screwed into it. The floor was earthen with old wooden storage shelves lining every wall.

  “This is where we’ll build our distillery. Let’s get started.”

  They hauled the pot stills to the cellar and began setting everything up. When they were finished, the distillery took up most of the floor space.

  Kelly stood between Pierce and George, looking over their handiwork. It was as makeshift as any distillery could be. It sure seemed to brighten Kelly’s day right up.

  He clasped them both on the shoulders, grinning.

  In one day’s time, Pierce and George had returned with some of George’s belongings and loads of brewing ingredients for making gin, whiskey, and bourbon. Kelly had very good connections around the city. He was able to not only gather everything required to brew spirits, but he had arranged a deal to get the bottles to start them off with just as he said he would, though retrieving it without the law finding out was going to be tricky.

  “Brody’s funeral is tomorrow?” George asked Pierce who was helping to tidy up the cabin.

  “Aye. It’s gonna be another long night, too,” Pierce grumbled while sweeping.

  He wasn’t looking forward to it.

  George had brought many things for his stay, including a radio and a record player. There were no phone lines, so he would have to drive to the nearby general store to make calls. After everything was set, and the distillery was ready for operation, George gave Pierce a lift to the train station located in the nearby small town.

  “Frank and me will be here after the New Year to collect,” Pierce explained, opening the car door. “Phone me up if you need anything or just wanna chat, eh?”

  Pierce tried not to sound too concerned and risk making George—an ex-soldier—regret saying anything to him the other day about being alone.

  “Will do,” he said. “I ought to have the spirits and liquors ready in a week and a half. See you guys soon. Happy New Year.”

  Pierce got out and watched him drive away. “Happy New Year, lad.”

  After hours at The Brass Ring was Leon Clark’s favorite time on audition night.

  The half-naked girls on the nightclub stage were dancing. He made them uncomfortable. He got his kicks out of making them uncomfortable.

  “Keep taking your clothes off,” he commanded.

  They stopped their dancing and stared at him. The stage lights were the only ones on in the whole place, and they were shining directly down on the girls. Leon sat at the table closest to the stage, watching. Their dark young skin absorbed the lighting. The heat of the lights, along with their nervousness, made the sweat dapple their bodies.

  He took a deep breath from his mask. The arousing sight was getting his heart pumping.

  “You heard Mr. Clark!” Carl yelled. “You want the job? Keep undressing!”

  The girls looked at one other. One of them started slipping off her bra and the other two followed.

  “No, take each other’s off,” Leon demanded. “And make it sexy.”

  Again, the dancers eyed each other, but they obeyed and began taking each other’s clothes off.

  Watching them eased his mood. Leon had had a profitable last couple of weeks. He’d nearly sold out of alcohol, which was both good and bad since losing his submarine.

  “New auditions?” Zoe Dixon guessed while approaching his table.

  She held a newspaper and a magnifying glass.

  “They are,” he answered. “What do you think?”

  Dixon fixed her eyes on them for a long while. A playful smile stretched across her face. She enjoyed women as much as he did.

  “They’re all right. They need more jive to them.”

  “You have anything for me?” Leon asked flatly.

  She reluctantly looked over at him.

  “Nothing yet on the submarine. I’ve stationed a few spies near Quinn’s little shabby boathouse after we found it, but they report only seeing people leaving by boat. Romano doesn’t seem to be connected to the heist, either.”

  His temper rose. He didn’t care who had stolen it. He was more interested in where it was at this point. The submarine was his greatest smuggling tool and it would have made things a whole lot simpler. Finding it—and the young man who’d broken into his office and caused him to lose nearly his entire collection of automaton bugs—had become his focus.

  “Quinn’s warehouse was robbed the other night and his speakeasy burnt down.”

  “I heard about it over the radio. Any word about who attacked his warehouse?”

  “Not a peep, boss.”

  Leon suspected Romano’s hand in it, but he really didn’t care. Truce or not, he wasn’t about to go toe to toe with the woman unless she came after him directly, and he doubted the bitch had the guts for that.

  “Any other unhelpful reports?”

  “I thought I’d save the good news for last,” she said, placing the newspaper and a magnifying glass down in front of him.

  It was dark, but he saw the front-page photograph through the candlelight glowing in the center of the table.

  “I think I found the cat who was in your speakeasy,” Zoe stated.

  Leon leaned closer to the image. It depicted an airship schooner and a runabout boat beside it. The picture had been taken from a distance, but the cameraman had gotten a clear shot of the people onboard both vessels, one being a young man waving his cap in the air. Leon studied him through the magnifying glass. He clutched the handle of it tighter. Anger tightened his chest. He dropped the magnifying glass and quickly picked up his mask.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Clark?” she asked.

  After filling his lungs with air, he lowered the mask and glared at her. “Find him, Dixon. I want this boy now!”

  Twenty-Six

  Brody’s Funeral

  It was brutally cold the day of Brody’s funeral. No snow fell, but the air was cold enough to cause frostbite. Anyway, that’s how Pierce felt as he followed the funeral cart down Twenty-Fifth Street on foot. Walking with him were Frank, Chester, the rest of Kelly’s gang, and, of course, Kelly Quinn, who was up ahead with Brody’s family. The road leading from the Pleasant Garden Funeral Home to the boneyard had been temporarily shut down for the procession. Never had Pierce worn so much black. Even his scarf was black. He’d hoped the dark outfit would draw some sunlight to him, yet the sun barely showed through the silvery grey clouds.

  At the Greenwood Cemetery, everyone stood about the casket. Because Brody had been shot in the head, the casket had remained closed throughout the service. Brightly colored flowers were draped over it with wreaths set near the front. The immediate family members sat in chairs. Brody’s mum cried into her handkerchief, and her husband, and surviving children—all in their young adulthood—were seated next to her. Everybody else stood about. As the service carried on, Pierce slunk away and went over to a tree to have a cigarette. He didn’t particularly care for funerals, even this one.

  He lit his smoke and watched the service, before noticing a person in the distance seemingly observing them. The individual was a good ways off so that even with his good eyesight, he had trouble to make them out clearly. The person standing among the snowcapped headstones appeared to be a woman dressed in a long white coat and matching hat as if she were trying to camouflage herself am
ongst the wintery surroundings. Perhaps she had come to pay respects to a departed loved one and was simply watching the service. His curiosity about her vanished upon hearing the crunching of snow nearby.

  “Are you ready for tonight?” Kelly asked, approaching him alone.

  “S’pose.” He looked over the gloomy scene. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve put a lot of effort into covering your arse with all of this.”

  Kelly stopped and lit his own cigarette. “Yes, well, if you had ever been inside Sing Sing Prison, you would do the same.”

  A wailing cry caught Pierce’s attention. Brody’s mum had thrown herself onto the casket.

  “I think she’s overdoing it.”

  Kelly turned and saw for himself. “Dammit. I specifically said no dramatics.”

  When night fell, Pierce, Frank, and Chester returned to the graveyard. Pierce had thought it was cold before—it was downright freezing now.

  The cemetery gates were locked, but Frank had the spare keys, compliments of Mr. Neil Murphy, owner of the Pleasant Garden Funeral Home.

  Once Frank opened the gates, they silently rolled the car inside and parked it in the dense shadows. From there they walked. The way was dark, and the group needed to carry low-lit lanterns to keep their secret visit discreet. It was a bit of a challenge for Pierce to drag the sleigh behind him while he avoided falling over any gravestones in his path, but he managed well enough. Chester dragged the other sleigh beside him. When they reached the grave mound, topped now with a dusting of snow, Frank took out the shovels he’d been carrying in a burlap sack. “Let’s get to it.”

  Pierce huffed as he snatched one of the shovels. He removed his coat and the cold went straight through the sweater he wore underneath.

  Pierce and Chester began digging, working quickly just to stay warm. Although the disturbed ground was loads easier to dig through than the frozen soil surrounding the grave, it didn’t make the task any more enjoyable. Pierce wished he hadn’t brought up rebuilding Kelly’s empire to him. If he’d known he’d be unearthing a grave in the dead of night, he would have kept his blasted mouth shut!

  “Damn, Isaac,” commented Chester, stopping to take a break. “You’re really driven.”

  Pierce was bloody well driven. He wanted to get this ghastly business over with and so, he was digging with great diligence. He’d already dug a good two feet farther down than Chester.

  Frank snorted from where he stood as the lookout. “At least he can drive somethin’.”

  “Shut it, tosser,” Pierce retorted peevishly.

  A few grueling minutes ticked by before his shovel finally hit something other than soil.

  “Ace. I’ve reached it, lads.”

  He and Chester kept digging until the entire casket was uncovered.

  “The groundskeeper should have been here already with Murphy to collect the pine box,” Chester griped. “I want to hightail it out of here.”

  Pierce crouched down and brushed away more dirt. The fingerless gloves he wore didn’t help his numb fingers at all. He grabbed hold of the top section of the lid and lifted it up.

  “Here,” he said to Chester, handing over a bottle of rum stored inside the casket. “We’ll get ’em out from down here.”

  Pierce wasn’t about to wait and so pulled bottles of spirits out.

  “Bernice really put on a show, didn’t she?” Chester remarked, handing a bottle up to Frank to place in a burlap sack. “She played Kier’s mother pretty good.”

  “Aye. The lass has passion. Has Kelly done this sort of thing before? Smuggled booze by staging funerals.”

  “Nope,” Frank answered. “But him an’ Murphy go way back since before Prohibition.”

  “And it just so happens that this undertaker has alcohol lying about?”

  “Murphy has a side business, yeah,” Chester explained. “There’s a lot of dough to be made in bootlegging.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Pierce retorted, taking out more.

  In total, he brought out fifty bottles of rum, fifty bottles of gin, fifty bottles of Tennessee whiskey, and fifty bottles of brandy, emptying the casket completely.

  “Mighty nice of Kelly to put Brody’s body on a boat and send it back to his family in Ireland,” Chester said.

  “Aye,” Pierce agreed, rising to his full height. “Who knew the man had a heart.”

  Frank helped Pierce and Chester out of the grave.

  “Well, if the sod wants to pull another fake funeral bit, I ain’t gonna be his gravedigger next time,” Pierce vowed.

  They gathered the bags of booze, stacked them on the sleighs, and dragged them off, leaving the grave as it was for the groundskeeper and undertaker to collect the casket.

  On New Year’s Eve, Pierce and Lucy never made it out of his bed. The fireworks outside set his window aglow when the clock struck midnight. The loud booming sound really enhanced their immediacy.

  The days that followed were all business.

  Kelly Quinn was anxious to get his new speakeasy up and running. Pierce had no idea what sort of deal he’d made with the McCarthy Company, but in a week’s time, they had already cleared away the rubble from the tunnel, uprooted the tracks, and laid down hardwood flooring. The door was replaced with an iron entryway that included a sliding hatch for the doorman to see people on the other side. They brought the bar down from upstairs, along with the tables and chairs. Lights were installed and powered by generators assembled upstairs in the basement. The generators also powered large, standing, iron-built space heaters positioned at every corner of the tunnel. The workers fixed the plumbing upstairs so people could use the toilet.

  It was Pierce’s job to help with the interior design—as if he had any experience in that sort of thing. Since the warehouse had been turned back over to Kelly, Pierce simply gathered the items he felt would be suitable and brought them to the speakeasy. Eventually, Kelly planned to bring many more antiques to the place and turn the pub and restaurant into another antique shop, as Pierce had suggested. To Frank’s utter delight, a stage was also installed at the rear wall. The place still needed loads of work, especially the upstairs, but after Pierce and Frank returned with the liquor George had brewed, Kelly was open for business.

  The mid-morning walk through the park was a marvelous escape after a daunting workweek. Lucy actually allowed herself to enjoy being away from her side job and take a Sunday stroll. Ever since she’d slept with Isaac, she’d learned how to appreciate her current life instead of constantly fantasizing about the future.

  Life without risk is no kind of life at all, love.

  Those words played over and over in her head. She found them to be very true. She was drinking life in gulps rather than in tiny sips. It was intoxicating.

  Lucy wanted to visit Isaac at Mr. Quinn’s speakeasy. It wasn’t until Isaac explained his concerns to her that she realized she ought to slow things down. It was best not to become caught up in the thrill before she regretted it.

  The ragged cawing of crows snagged her attention. An old fella in a black coat and pinstriped pants sat on a bench, tossing seeds to a murder of them. Mourning doves were mixed in with the crows. They had flocked around the man, pecking at the ground. A few doves and crows sat on the backrest by him. A red cardinal perched on his shoulder. She was unable to see much of his face under the brim of his hat, which had several types of feathers wedged into the band off to the side.

  Lucy walked on.

  The sun hid behind dark grey clouds, chilling the air even more. Lucy held her coat collar snug about her neck. Despite the cold, it was good to venture out. The park was a wintery wonderland occupied by snowmen assembled in various places. Children ran about, throwing snowballs at each other. A wall of tall buildings circled the square, and the smokestacks of factories billowed black smog into the sky, which blended into the smoky empyrean.

  In a year or so, Lucy would perhaps have enough saved for France. But where did that leave her and Isaac? They had not discussed any
kind of future. The closest they’d talked about it was on the first night they had slept together. Lucy couldn’t deny that she held strong feelings for him, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was falling in love. Still, even though Isaac cared for her, it didn’t mean he felt the same. Would he be willing to give up the fast-paced lifestyle of bootlegging to come away with her? He’d never seemed too interested in going to France. Probably, he’d been there many times before and wanted something else, the same as her. America held many prospects for a young man like Isaac, so why would he give any of that up to return to the old world?

  Lucy pushed the thoughts out of her mind before it ruined her lovely stroll. She walked a little while longer, following the snowy, paved walkway until her foot slipped right out from under her. She instantly prepared for the hard landing, throwing her hands out instinctively to protect her head. Strong hands took hold of her, halting her fall.

  “I got you, miss. No worries, eh?”

  Once Lucy reclaimed her footing and could stand on her own, the hands holding her let go. She turned to see none other than the old man whom she had passed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, bending over to retrieve her hat from the ground.

  He spoke in a soft British accent that was rough with age. He wore round, black-tinted spectacles and a long plaid scarf around his neck. He had a touch of white and grey growth on a face that seemed so familiar. He stepped back to give them both a little more space. A cold, gentle breeze ruffled the feathers in his hat and his hair, which reached a few inches past his shoulders.

  “Yes, fine. Thank you,” she said, smoothing out her coat where it had crinkled.

  “I apologize,” he said, sounding winded. “I should have warned you about the ice over here. Nearly slipped on it myself, I did. When I saw you walking right towards it, I hurried on over.”