by Debra Dunbar
“Can we start over?” Vincent urged. “There’s a place set aside for you. The Crew won’t interfere until I say you’re ready. You’ll have food. Dresses. A car at your disposal. Protection. It will be a whole new world, working with us. With me.”
She shook the rain from the tip of her nose as she lifted the weapon for Vincent.
In halting tones, she muttered, “Remember.”
“Hmm?”
“I want you to remember that vow you took.”
As Vincent’s brow drew together in confusion, Hattie swung the butt of the revolver against his head. The iron connected with a hard thunk.
With a grunt, Vincent spun, landing on his back in a puddle on the sidewalk. Hattie crouched down beside him, feeling to make sure his heart was beating and his chest was moving. Thankfully she’d just knocked him out cold.
Standing, she took a few steps, then paused to consider the gun in her hand. With a shake of her head, she tossed it onto the ground beside Vincent, then rushed up the street and into the rain-soaked night.
A half-hour’s trot in soaking rain brought Hattie to her home street, skin chilled to the point of trembling as she doubled back one more time to be sure she hadn’t been followed. Vincent had pledged he wouldn’t move upon her family, but that was before Hattie gave him a lick against the side of his face. Was that a deal-breaker? Or would he take it in stride? Hattie couldn’t be sure. He was a man, and in her experience, men didn’t respond to blows to their ego with considerable aplomb.
She stared down her street. The rows of three-story buildings carved a canyon up the avenue in the stormy darkness. There, just five doors down, was home. The light was still on upstairs. One or both of her parents were still awake. Probably her mother, reading one of her magazines. Since business had improved and Alton had gone to work during the days, Branna had taken to picking up a magazine each week at the newsstand. She preferred Life or McClure’s, claiming that politics were a kind of gossip—the kind the Good Lord couldn’t hold you accountable for. If Alton were awake, he’d be standing at the window looking for Hattie.
How this had all gone so wrong, so quickly! She’d nearly killed Vincent with that stupid gun. Her face drew into a grimace as the realization landed upon her that she couldn’t go home. There was no sense chancing her parents’ safety. A sob spilled from her throat. She covered her mouth, but that only gave her license to weep openly, tears mingling with the rain as it pelted her hot cheeks.
That tiny illuminated window was suddenly miles and miles away. Across an ocean. Might as well have been Ireland.
By the time the rain stopped, the sun had begun its cloud-muffled ascent into dawn. The lead-gray sky had adopted a softer tone and Hattie sat beneath a train trellis south of the city, knees huddled up to her chest, eyes drooping in exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Another rumble of chills ran across her shoulders and down her arms. The heat of the air had been sapped by the rainfall, and it would be several more hours before she could feel warm again. Her clothes were still wet. Not simply damp, but wet. And there was nowhere to go. Not home. Not the warehouse. Vincent knew all of her locations, it seemed, and there was truly nowhere left to run in this city where he wouldn’t quickly find her.
A boat horn sounded on the Patapsco River, not two blocks away. Hattie lifted her head to listen to the noise of the waterfront. There was one place she could go. It would carry as much risk as anything else, but at least it would give her a fighting chance.
With a weak groan, Hattie pulled herself to her feet and trod in water-logged boots toward the waterfront. She found some oyster fishers setting up to head out to the Bay. She must have looked particularly desperate, as they immediately consented to give her a ride wherever she needed.
A few breaks in the clouds revealed tiny fingers of blue sky to the west, and the air had finally shaken its chill. Hattie’s clothes had flickered in the Bay breeze for an hour and had become tolerable by the time the oyster boat turned up Curtis Creek.
Raymond stood on the riverbank, already watching for the unusual sound chugging up the creek. They didn’t get many diesel boats this far upstream, and Hattie presumed Raymond knew what each one sounded like. His eyes bugged when he spotted Hattie.
She thanked the boatmen with the last of her strength before hopping off the boat and into Raymond’s arms, her feet giving way underneath her as she made landfall. Raymond guided her into his home, essentially lifting her off the ground to settle her onto a bed. Nadine shook her head as she checked Hattie’s temperature.
“You’re gonna catch a damn cold, girl,” she mumbled, balancing Dougie on a hip as she felt Hattie’s clothes. “Ray, you get on outta here. I gotta get her clothes off.”
She handed the child to Raymond and ushered him out of the bedroom. Hattie lodged a thin protest as Nadine worked to pull off the damp clothes and set them flat onto the wood plank floors. The woman handed her a dress, threadbare and full of smoke. But it fit Hattie well enough.
“What’re you doin’ out there in a rainstorm like that?”
“Running for my life,” Hattie rasped.
“What’s got a hold of you? Treasury men?”
Hattie shook her head.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s probably something to do with that package.”
“What…package?” Hattie asked.
Nadine eased her down to rest, and she did. The second her eyes closed, the warmth of the dry clothes and the relative comfort of the straw mattress settled an unshakable wave of fatigue over Hattie. Her eyes closed, and she drifted to sleep so quick that when she awoke four hours later, it made her sit bolt upright.
The smell of coffee and soup filled the air. That was probably what pulled her free of her slumber. She tested her legs. They were dreadfully sore, but nothing seemed permanent. She sported a slight fever, though. She could feel it in the scratchiness in her throat and the dull ache drifting from her neck down into her chest.
She stood up on unsteady feet, then plodded to the door to open it.
Raymond twisted in his chair to watch as Hattie entered the center room. Dougie gubbed and cooed in his lap, gripping a tiny square cloth and waving it in front of his own face.
Nadine swept from the fireplace to guide Hattie to a chair. The door and windows were open to let in a breeze. The rest of the clouds from the previous night had been banished by the brilliant summer sun, which brought with it the stifling heat that Hattie had prayed for all the previous night.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you both. I was bloody knackered.”
Raymond nodded. “Were you up all last night?”
Hattie nodded. “It was the Crew. It was…him.”
“Calendo?” Raymond grumbled. “I gotta do somethin’ to that man?”
“He’s a time pincher, Raymond.” Hattie sighed. “Not a lot you can do to a man like that.”
“There’s a lot you can do,” he countered.
With as much of a smile as Hattie could manage, she said, “I gave him a good what-for. Right across the head. Rang his bell and put him out.”
Nadine whistled. “You beat a gangster unconscious? Girl!”
“He had it coming,” Hattie told her. “Bastard had his boys take pot shots at me. I gave him a good waxin’ and ran on.”
Nadine and Raymond exchanged glances over tight-lipped grins.
Hattie shook her head. “What’s this rot about a package, then?”
Raymond huffed, then reached for a chair opposite Hattie to produce a tiny brown paper-wrapped parcel. It was the same sort of parcel she’d opened before.
“Another one?” She slumped in her chair.
“I didn’t open it,” he told her. “It was just left on the porch, and look.” He lifted it for Hattie to inspect. “It’s got your name on it.”
Hattie nodded, then reached for the package. “If I’m right about this mystery person, I think it’ll have come just in time.”
As Hattie tugged at the twine and unwr
apped the tiny stationery box, and read the handwritten note inside, she nodded. “Aye. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 14
Vincent overshot the restaurant before he realized he’d gone too far. Heading back up the street, he regretted the impulse that had made him ask Fern to meet him for lunch. He was busy, and their last date hadn’t exactly been enjoyable.
But he needed this. He needed some time away from the stress of trying to find Hattie before Vito lost his patience with the delay. He needed something to keep his mind off the look in Hattie’s eyes when she realized she’d almost shot him.
He needed to be with a well-mannered woman who wasn’t going to knock him upside the head with a pistol and leave him lying in a puddle.
This wasn’t his usual lunch spot. Fern had chosen a cafe he’d never been to before, probably for that very reason. She had moved along the periphery of the Baltimore Crew for so long she knew the usual haunts the gangsters tended to patronize and after one too many rotten eggs, Fern seemed ready to put some distance between her life and the Crew. Which might present a problem for Vincent if this thing between them ever went anywhere.
He stepped past the maître d’ with a curt nod and proceeded into the front room. Half the tables were empty, making it easy to spot Fern at a window near the far corner. Her back was against a wall, her eyes watching the passersby. Vincent wove around empty chairs to join her. As he reached her table, he knocked on the wood with his knuckle.
“Daydreaming?” he asked.
She jerked out of her reverie with quick gasp as she peered up at Vincent. “Oh! Sorry. Yes, I was just enjoying the—what is that?”
Her eyes widened as she stood up, tossing her napkin onto the table and reaching for the shiner that took up a good bit of real estate around Vincent’s left eye. He tried to pull away, but her grip was too firm. She jerked his head back to face her, fingers probing his sore cheek.
“Hey!” he hissed. “Take it easy.”
“What in God’s name happened to you?” she asked, voice distant, eyes scanning his face.
“Took a dirty shot, was all. I’m fine.”
Her fingers pressed into his face, making him yelp.
She shook her head. “The bone isn’t fractured, which is one thing you have going for you.” She pulled back and shook her head. “Bruiser!”
He smiled as she kissed him on the cheek, then he stepped around to pull her chair for her as she took a seat once again. Vincent settled across the table, removing his hat to set it onto a nearby chair post.
“Surprised you didn’t see me on the street,” he said.
“I was on the watch for someone who didn’t look like they lost a fight with a slab of pig iron. Any blurred vision?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
She leaned forward with a mischievous smirk. “What’s the use in twisting time if you can’t dodge a punch?”
“You have to see it coming to do anything about it. I’m not a mind reader, you know.”
“Hmm. More’s the pity.”
She returned her attention to the menu sheet settled before her on the white linen tablecloth as Vincent sighed. Fern seemed in a better mood today—more relaxed then she’d been before. It’d been nearly a week since he’d seen her, and he hoped that fact wasn’t contributing to her disposition.
“So, what’s good in this joint?” he asked, reaching for his own menu.
“Poached quail’s egg on a bed of tomato salad and a baguette,” she read aloud. “Broiled white fish with potatoes and asparagus.”
“Ever been here before?”
She shook her head distractedly. “Ragu napoletana. That sounds good. Or, the beef tips.”
“Bit heavy for lunch, huh?”
She dropped the menu and shot him a tentative smile. “I’m hungry today.”
“Wow,” he muttered, thinking back to their awkward date at the Old Moravia Hotel. “Glad to hear that. Beef tips it is then.”
He waved over the waiter and ordered for the pair of them.
“You wanna take in that John Ford movie later?” he asked.
Fern wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. He’s so depressing. Doom and gloom…it’s too nice a day for that sort of thing.”
Vincent nodded without enthusiasm. The weather had improved over the storms of the previous night. The shift was jarring, making the failed confrontation with Hattie feel like a dream, like it had been weeks ago. The throbbing beneath his eye reminded him how recent it truly was.
Fern waved a hand at Vincent. “Hey. Where’d you go, Buster Brown?”
“Hmm? Oh, sorry.”
“Do you have a headache? You feeling at all like you’re going to pass out on me?”
He smiled, enjoying this side of her when she was all business, like a nurse. “I’m fine. Really.”
“It’s probably too late, but maybe I could slap a steak on it,” she mused.
Vincent lifted hands in mock defense. “Hell no! Last thing I need is another woman hitting me in the face with something!”
Fern blinked in shock, all the animation draining from her face, her laughter abruptly ending in a squeak.
“A woman?” she gasped.
Vincent winced, realizing his mistake. “It’s…not what you think.”
Fern straightened in her chair and stared at Vincent, wide-eyed and still.
Vincent searched for a life raft. “There’s a pincher out there that Vito wants brought in. She’s a woman. I’m in charge of the war party.”
“War party?” Fern asked.
“She’s a pincher, Fern. You, don’t go after people like me without a serious effort.”
She bent her head to inspect the tablecloth at length.
Vincent sighed. This had gone south in a hurry. Fat damn mouth! Coulda had a nice meal for a change, but now Fern was on the defensive, curling into herself over… Over what, exactly?
“Say?” he asked. “Where’s the funeral? What’s with the rain face?” He added with a coy nod to the windows. “Thought it was too nice a day for this sort of thing.”
Fern shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Every time someone says they’re ‘fine,’ that usually means they’re anything but.”
Fern shifted in her chair, still staring intently at the tablecloth. “I said I’m fine.”
Vincent crossed his arms with a frown. “I don’t want you to get bent outta shape, thinking I’m chasing some ankle.”
Fern rested her hands flat against the table, peeking up at him from under her lashes. “I know what you were doing,” she replied in even, low tones.
“Just my job,” he clarified.
“Right. Just your job.” She fanned her fingers in and out before adding, “Can we please talk about something else?”
“Sure,” he muttered.
Food arrived after a short space of silence, but the task of eating did little to freshen up the atmosphere.
Between bites, Vincent decided to take another stab at conversation. “Some weather we had last night.”
Fern nodded. “Our roof leaks. We could hear it in the attic.”
“You want me to get that looked into?”
She paused with her fork midair and slumped just a little. “No, Vincent. We can manage.”
“Didn’t mean nothing by it.”
Fern peered out the window as a tiny smile lifted into the corner of her mouth. “We’re not as helpless as you’d like us to be, you know. All of us up by the Hill. Those girls in the house, they can do just about anything, handle just about anything. Not just the roof either.”
“I’m sure you have…” He hit the brakes on his thought before expressing it. He was about to speculate on their ability to perform roof repairs. But, as Fern’s eyes met his, Vincent suddenly realized the true source of her suddenly withdrawn mood.
He was such an idiot. Here he sat with a black eye, telling her a woman gave it to him, when she’d just ended a relationship with a member
of the Crew who’d treated her like a punching bag.
It wasn’t jealousy that had soured Fern’s mood. It was the notion that Vincent had set upon a woman in the service of the Crew. The fact that Hattie had come out on top in this particular situation was beside the point. Fern must have played out the entire scenario in her mind, and in each possible walkthrough Vincent was every bit the predator she’d come to expect from Vito’s men.
“I didn’t hit her, Fern. I swear I didn’t lay a hand on her. We were having a conversation, mainly me trying to convince her to come with us, then she cleans my clock and takes off.”
She picked at her food a moment then nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay, you believe me? Because I don’t want you thinking I’m like that.”
“I believe you,” she said, a bit too fast for the words to sound honest. Then she gave him a practiced smile. “So the roof leaks, but we’ve got it all in hand.”
Vincent set down his utensils desperately hoping they could somehow get back to where they were when he’d first come in. “That’s good to hear, because you know? I think I caught a drop or two just outside my kitchen. Say,” he teased, “if I round up two or three of your friends, think you could patch up my roof for me? I got lily hands.” He waved his fingers with a grin. “They ain’t seen real labor my whole life.”
Fern stared at him a moment, her expression unreadable. “Thinking about you up on a roof…that’s amusing.”
There was something odd in her voice, and Vincent wasn’t sure if she was taking a jibe at him for his lack of skills in manual labor, or insinuating something else.
“You ever see a man fall three stories and break his neck? Because that’ll be the long and short of it if I have to get up on a roof.”
She stabbed at her beef tips, with more energy than was necessary, but her expression remained numb. “I’ll remember that.”
Vincent returned to his meal with renewed calm. She was talking. And joking. At least he thought she was joking. He’d struck a nerve, but this wasn’t anything he couldn’t come back from.
