Gathering Storm

by Sherilyn Decter

  “You wouldn’t believe it, Boss. When we got there, that fella who was with her last time was there. Big fella.”

  The Boss raises his eyebrow. “I would have thought four against one plus a woman and a boy would be adequate odds for success.”

  “It woulda been, except she had some company arrive. From Miami.”

  Pursing his lips, the Boss waits.

  “Meyer Lanksy and a bunch of his torpedoes.”

  “How does he fit into the picture?” the Boss asks.

  “They’s friends with the dame. Her husband was some kinda big shot gangster in Philly. And Al Capone’s old lady was there, as well. They all seemed pretty chummy to me.”

  The Boss sits, his hands caressing the arms of the chair. Buford fidgets.

  “Who knew the dame at Gator’s was so connected?” Buford pulls at the neck of his shirt. “We couldn’t take on all that heat, Boss. They was packing, and had a couple of goons with tommy guns up at the cars.”

  Jackson pipes up. “They had torpedoes on the doors as well, Boss.”

  The Boss nods, staring off in silence. That wicked woman continues to flourish like a well-rooted tree. And now this complication. Curse those who try to weaken me. His hands clench into fists.

  The more she has multiplied, the more she has sinned against Thee, Lord. I will change her glory to shame. His breath quickens and visions of flames flicker in the Boss’ mind.

  The gathering Wharf Rats are quieter than usual. Word’s out about Gator Joe’s visitors. Nervous glances are stolen.

  “The New York mob thinks they can come into my town, is that what you’re telling me, Buford?” the Boss asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “What if they’re looking to make a play, Boss?” Buford swallows hard.

  The Boss grips the arms of the chair, half rising. “Well, let ‘em try. Her connections, as you call them, only add to the urgency of rooting her out, Mr. Buford.”

  When the Boss moves, the men freeze; not Rats but rabbits.

  The Boss glares at Buford as he resettles. Buford steps back.

  “You disappoint me, Mr. Buford. She should have been gone weeks ago, and yet you continue to offer up excuses rather than results. Her very existence here makes me, makes us, look ridiculous. The town is laughing at me; unable to deal with a mere woman, to bring her to heel.” The Boss drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Root out the rot before it spreads.”

  Buford nods, eagerly. “Sure Boss, whadda ya have in mind? Want us to go rough her up a bit again? Throw another rock through the window? Slash some tires?”

  The Boss waves away the suggestions. “Kids’ stuff. No wonder she’s not taking us seriously, Mr. Buford. We need something more damaging. More permanent. I want to see her humiliated, broken, destroyed.” The Devil himself looks out through the Boss’ smile.

  In the silence of the room a bead of sweat runs down Buford’s face. Whitey’s Adam’s apple rises then falls as he slowly swallows. A few of the men look behind, checking the pathway to the door in case they need to bolt.

  The Boss’ nostrils flare. His decree hisses, slithering to fill the empty space. “The place is like Sodom and Gomorrah. They need to suffer the vengeance of eternal fire.”

  Buford steps back and holds his breath. The room remains locked in silence.

  The Boss closes his eyes. Flames flicker. An old wooden house engulfed.

  “Yes-s-s. Cleansed by fire. Cleansed of sin,” he murmurs.

  He stands and puffs his chest. “Sodom and Gomorrah suffered the vengeance of eternal fire for their sins and wickedness,” he says in a booming voice, then pauses, every eye riveted on him.

  “Burn it.”

  Chapter 62

  T he heron traces the shores, long neck downward, eyes watching for a flash of silver. Jab. Swallow. The lump squeezed down the long narrow neck of the bird.

  Delighted with the view, Edith basks in the glow of a successful night. The band will drive out again tonight and, given the tongue wagging around town, the crowd should even be better. I wonder if I should hire a girl to help wait tables. Especially since we’re serving food.

  Leroy has taken Lucky into the mangrove forest to hunt opossum. If they find one, there may be opossum stew on the chalkboard tonight. Otherwise, good old-fashioned chicken.

  “I’m going to grab a beer. You want anything?” Darwin is coming up from the Marianne. He’s been messing about, doing something that involved putting all the ropes and other gear on the dock, then stowing them on the boat again. But to what purpose, Edith has no idea.

  “If you could grab me a cola that would be lovely. Thanks.”

  He returns with the two bottles, sinking into a chair next to her.

  “Wasn’t that a great crowd last night? Our best night yet. I think that tonight might be even bigger.” Edith touches the icy bottle to her cheek.

  “The Musical Miami nights are a hit.” Darwin tilts his head to take a long guzzle.

  Edith matches it. “They’re going to be lined up out the door before you know it. Hot work out there?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He squints at the gathering storm clouds. “Weather moving in.”

  The crash of waves fill the silence for a few minutes that seems to feel longer. Darwin clears his throat. “So that was the famous Meyer Lansky. I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “He and Mickey were business associates. Al Capone, Bugsy Siegel. Mickey did business of a sort with them all. That’s how I met Mae.”

  “Who’d figure a nice lady like that for a mobster’s wife.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? A mobster’s wife can’t be nice?”

  “Just never thought about it, I guess. Lansky’s a nasty piece of work, Edith. Watch yourself.”

  “Ha. Don’t I know it. Years of experience, Darwin. No worries there.”

  “Funny. I know Henry’s tied up in it all somehow, but he’s on the legit side of things, I think. Runs a brewery or something.”

  “Henry’s a decent guy, but don’t kid yourself. He’s in the middle of it and pals around with them all. That brewery he’s running is with another former partner of Mickey’s. You can’t be in the booze business these days without working with gangsters. You knew Henry and Mickey grew up together, didn’t you? The three of us started the bootleg business in Philly.”

  “I knew they were involved; just never stopped to think how much. I didn’t pick up on what it meant when you said you were part of Mickey’s early days. And then Mae Capone and Meyer Lansky show up here. It was like Chicago comes to Gator Joe’s.”

  “Oh?” Edith sits a little taller in her chair. There’s an undercurrent of judgement in Darwin’s tone that she doesn’t appreciate.

  “You were a tight little group last night. You and Lansky seemed pretty chummy. And I’ve heard stories about your husband. I just never figured you for that kind of gal.”

  “And what kind of gal would that be?” Edith stiffens, chin out and dander up.

  “Look, I didn’t mean nothing by it. It’s just Lansky and Capone, and even your husband, have some pretty ruthless reputations. Somehow, I never saw you as a shoot first ask questions later kinda-gal.”

  “Even though I’m running a blind tiger and selling illegal booze?”

  “Gator Joe’s isn’t like that. With guns and killing.”

  “It’s the killing that bothers you?”

  “Well, yeah. I smuggle liquor, but it’s a stupid law. Eventually the government will come to its senses and get rid of it. But I sure as heck wouldn’t kill somebody over it.”

  “What would you kill somebody for?”

  “What?” Darwin’s face tightens as he frowns at Edith.

  “No, I’m serious. What would drive you to shoot somebody?” Edith narrows her eyes.

  Darwin’s frown grows to a scowl. “That’s just crazy talk.”

  “It’s a jungle out there, Darwin. You don’t know the half of it. Kill or be killed. Somebody’s always gunning f
or you.”

  “Okay, self defense I can see. But from what I hear and read in the papers, Lansky and his kind do it for sport. Like that Valentine’s Day massacre in Chicago. My God Edith, they say it was Mae’s husband who did it. The man she’s promised to love, honor, and cherish for the rest of her life. Those mobsters don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. Innocent folks are dead because of their fun and games.”

  “Killing somebody is never easy, Darwin,” Edith says quietly.

  “Now it’s you who don’t know what you’re saying. Those blood-thirsty types have lost their humanity,” Darwin says, banging his beer bottle on the small side table.

  “You’re just naïve. Sometimes you have to shoot first. I think that sometimes there’re reasons for killing. Survival for one.” Edith grips the edge of the table and faces Darwin.

  “Look, Edith. I’m a lot of things, but I’m sure as heck not naïve. I know what’s happened to the rum running since the gangsters have gotten involved. It’s a deadly game out there.” Darwin increases his volume. “And what was our little raid on the Wharf Rat boats? Lansky or your husband woulda just shot them and been done with it. I thought you were like me, that you knew guns were bad news.”

  Edith’s eyes narrow. Assessing.

  “Am I wrong?” Darwin asks.

  “Stop shouting.”

  Darwin stands, throwing his hands in the air. “You’re not what I thought, Edith. Listening to you, you sound like one of them.” He stares past her to the water.

  “And that would be a problem?” Edith says, also rising out of her chair, arms crossed.

  “Well, it’s not what I was expecting. You know, I think I may get Nuta to look at one of the engines. It’s been running rough.”

  “Sure. You do that. You know, Darwin, if you’re so worried about all the crime and bad reputations around here you should just go back where you came from. Or are you having too much fun spending my money?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Waltz in here and convince me to drop a ton of dough on those engines AND a new boat. Where else would you be able to indulge yourself like that?”

  “You’re the one that agreed to it.”

  “Because you said that a fast boat was the only thing that would make Gator’s successful. Well, the past few weeks have showed you wrong. I figured out how to fill the room full of people. Not your fast boat.”

  “My fast boat delivered the booze you served and they drank.”

  The two stare, chests heaving. Darwin steps off the veranda.

  “Darwin, I…”

  “Maybe while I’m up that way, I’ll drop in and see my ma. I haven’t been back there since Henry asked me to come.”

  “And maybe coming here was a mistake? Is that what you mean?” Edith shouts.

  “Calm down, Edith. Get a hold of yourself. I’m going to see Nuta about that engine. I’m sure you and Leroy can get the place ready for tonight, and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Edith lashes out. “Leroy and I managed to open before you got here and we can manage without you again.” Edith grinds her teeth, glaring at his retreating back as Darwin strides down the path to the Marianne. “And good riddance. I am who I am, Mr. McKenzie,” she shouts after him.

  When there’s no response, she picks up the two empty bottles. “Sometimes all you can do is look out for yourself, cause nobody else is there to do it,” she says to the screen door.

  A movement catches her and she turns. “Darwin?”

  The heron spreads its magnificent wings and takes flight as the Marianne roars out into Biscayne Bay.

  “Fine. Take off, too. You’re probably on his side anyway. I’ve got no time for either of you. I’ve got a saloon to run.”

  Chapter 63

  C ampfire shadows dance through the chickee. Cassie grips the edge of the table. Her face is pale, shocked by a vision of destruction she has just experienced from touching the back of a tarot card. She turns it over and is alarmed by the images.

  The tower is aflame, struck by lightning. Two people, thrust from the explosion, hurtle toward the ground.

  Cassie moans, her eyes closed. “No, no, no.” She shudders and opens her eyes, staring ahead at the empty chair across from her. “No, ah-ma-chamee. Look out! This is not good, not good at all.”

  She lifts her hand off the Tower card as if it’s soiled. “Massive change, upheaval, destruction, chaos.”

  Cassie evens her breaths. “Poor Edith. There’s something coming that will shake you to your core. There’s no escaping it. Change is going to tear things up and destroy everything in its path. How can I help? Should I help? Maybe the best way forward is to let whatever the Tower represents to self-destruct so you can re-build and re-focus.”

  Cassie stands, one hand on the roof’s support, preparing to go, her cards abandoned on the table. “Leroy.” She closes her eyes, swaying. She draws another breath and returns to her chair.

  Putting her hands on either side of the cards, she lowers her head and speaks in a whisper; relying on the familiar patter to act as a lifeline, hand over hand toward safety. “I know, change on this deep a level is hard, but you need to trust that life is happening FOR you, not TO you, and this is all for a reason. This destruction will allow new growth to emerge and your soul to evolve.”

  She jerks her head up, her eyes unfocused. “Leroy, you be quick now.”

  Cassie draws another card.

  “Oh, no. From bad to worse.” The card she holds in her hand trembles. Death’s image is unmistakable. A skeletal grim reaper dressed in armor and astride a horse. Caught in a wind, his black banner ripples. Various people, from a bishop to a small child, are either surrendering or dead.

  One of the most feared and misunderstood cards in the deck. She recalls drawing it months ago when Edith arrived. Normally, as she did then, Cassie would interpret it as the end of a phase or aspect of life that no longer served a purpose. It promised transition and renewal.

  But paired with the flaming Tower and her vision, that same card now drips with menace.

  She struggles to calm her racing heart. Cassie, for goodness sakes, get a hold of yourself. Don’t be such a ninny. You know those cards aren’t as bad as they look.

  She looks ahead to the empty chair; the shadows form the shape of a man, of a woman, of a boy.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Edith. This only means the end of this stage of your life. Remember, I pulled the Death card for you when you first showed up, and it all worked out. Didn’t it?” Cassie pleads with the cards.

  “Really, it’s not so bad. Whatever Death is referring to no longer serves you.” Despite her words, Cassie’s heart is still panicked. Her mind races for an explanation for the two cards. “Yes, yes, that must be it. You have to trust that it will open up the possibility of something far more valuable and essential. You know what they say ah-ma-chamee: you must close one door to open another. You need to put the past behind you and part ways, ready to embrace new opportunities and possibilities.”

  Cassie can begin to feel her heart slow as she speaks. The traditional card reader’s patter brings comfort.

  “Death is the promise of renewal and transformation. You need to transform yourself and clear away the old to bring in the new.”

  Cassie is enveloped by the wind in the trees, the frogs’ songs, and the crackle and spark of the fire. She sits. She coughs and her eyes burn with hot tears when the wind shifts and smoke catches in her throat.

  From deep within, she thrusts her thoughts toward Leroy, who she sees cozy and safe in a barn. He turns, caught in his blanket, murmuring in his sleep. “Leroy, you look out now. Keep yourself and Edith safe. Be on guard. Beware the Preacher-Man.”

  Chapter 64

  E dith tosses and turns. She is asleep, surrounded by bad dreams.

  The bedroom door crashes open. It slams against the wall.

  She’s ripped from her bed. The quilt, caught around her legs, dragging behind her as rough hands haul h
er down the hall. She twists, tries to kick, screams. Arms pin her tight. Through the dark barroom.

  Panic. “Leroy, get out!”

  Kicking, biting, screaming, yelling, cursing.

  A fist is driven into her face and lights explode. A crash from the kitchen. Lucky curses in Cantonese, then there’s a thud and silence. She’s hauled across the veranda. Out to the front yard.

  Edith uses all her energy. “Leroy! Run!”

  Shoved up against a tree, the rough bark scrapes against her back through her thin nightgown. Ropes bite into her. She struggles to open her eyes but images swim. A grinning face thrust into hers. A shock of white hair. She twists and turns, pulling at the ropes.

  Sniggering laughter is too close to her ears.

  She gags, choking back sour vomit.

  The smell of kerosene.

  Laughter. Yelling.

  She slumps. Blackness.

  The smoke drifts and twists its way into her dreams. It tickles her nose, wisps twine around her face. It pulls her awake.

  “It’s real.” She lifts her head, moaning, coughing. She blinks. Her eyes sting. Why is it so foggy? She blinks again, hard, trying to clear them. And then shuts them, tight. A nightmare.

  A blazing fire, bright orange. The silhouettes of men, passing a bottle, hooting and hollering. Sparks bite her bare skin. Red and yellow flames licking the veranda.

  “No.”

  Slithering up the front posts. Crawling then running across the roof.

  “No. Stop.”

  A crash. Boards fall into the blaze. Sparks explode. She groans and falls silent. Limp.

  The crackle of flames and a shift in the air wakes her. She squints, following the tongue of flame running along the roof to the back of the building. The brightening orange glow. The generator? The shed! Gasoline. Alcohol.

  Sound slams into her. A blast. The roar. Boards fly. Bits of metal hit the ground. Sparks and flames. Her eyes are burning, full of tears. She can’t breathe. The heat intense. It pushes against her. Smoke. Cough.