31. Thirty-One
Smuggie added one final thought and then scrawled his name at the bottom of the page. He dropped the pen in the holder on his writing desk in his apartment, though it wouldn’t matter now if he left the entire place in disarray. One letter for Bella, the singer with the angel’s voice and kind eyes who had rebuffed him but never judged him. The other would be for the little boy’s uncle and the police. A decision like this, once made, couldn’t be reversed. He could only pray that, if there really were a God looking down on him, Mum and the lady captain had been right.
Maybe this one act of courage would bring him the mercy he sought.
The haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Past his apartment walls, the club below would be bustling with an electrifying energy. Illegal liquor flowed through the veins of his world, and the temptation of a drink to dull the sting of what he was doing called like a siren.
His fingers shook as he folded Bella’s letter and reached for a second page.
He should hurry. It wouldn’t be long before Bones came for him. Then Durkin. He had to make his break before they caught up to him. He probably wouldn’t be safe anywhere. Maybe if he caught a boat home. Started life over again in London.
He had no usable skills aside from the illegal, but he could learn. Find something that would have made his mother and brother proud. He glanced toward the pressed tin tiles on the ceiling. Did God look down and approve? Obvious signs of an all-knowing being would be more helpful than relying on these strange gut feelings overpowering his senses.
The clock on his wall chimed two, and he let his gaze roam the room that had, only days ago, felt like his kingdom. Overstuffed furniture with gaudy gold edging. Expensive-looking vases from countries he’d never visited. A built-in bar brazenly boasting glasses and hooch as though he never feared the law could crack Durkin’s shield. A shiny haven of self-indulgence.
Why did it now feel so empty? Like a golden cup encrusted in jewels on the outside yet filled with filth and decay inside.
He jotted another note on his letter to Mr. Gray, giving the location of the Devil’s Punchbowl and the names of the men who ranked in the operation. None of the lower fellas would matter, since Durkin saw them as expendable. But if he lost several of his trusted men at once, it might be enough to make something stick.
Rumors circulated that the law had sniffed around Durkin before but couldn’t find substantial evidence to bring him down. Certain officers looked the other way or shipments disappeared, and Durkin slipped through their nets each time.
One man had gotten closer than the others. What had his name been? McCullen? McCray? He couldn’t remember. Some detective. He jotted another thought on the paper. Maybe Gray would find a decent copper who didn’t have a hand in Durkin’s pockets. One more notation of a more personal matter, and it was done. He folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he snagged a carpetbag from the bed and jammed his hat atop his hair.
He wrestled the back window open enough to fit the bag through and tossed it in the abandoned alley. Wouldn’t do him any favors if people noticed him leaving with luggage. That would raise too many questions. After struggling to get the protesting window closed again, he dusted his hands and strode through his home of the past four years. He closed the door on his old life, the soft click a gong of finality.
No going back now.
The first floor of the building masqueraded as a general wares’ shop, while the real business carried on below street level. He locked the door to the stairs at the rear of the warehouse and descended to the basement. He’d need to make an appearance. Let the watchdogs see him going about business as usual to waylay any suspicions about his loyalty once he went missing. Might buy him extra time.
Smooth saxophone melted into a soulful voice, and he paused at the bottom of the stairs by the bar. Through the blur of cigar smoke, flecks of light caught on the fringe of Bella’s blue gown, cascading motes of diamonds at her feet.
Flappers with their gaudy lip rouge wove around men in suits and fedoras, exchanging loaded glances and seductive whispers. He’d always seen this place as a haven of freedom from the oppression of the dull world beyond. But tonight…
The men’s eyes looked tired. The women’s faces pulled tight with lines of unease. Dancers lost themselves on the lacquered floor, their movements jerky and desperate.
“Good crowd tonight, eh?” A male voice much too close to him sent a scamper up his spine.
Smuggie barely caught himself from showing his surprise at having been snuck up on. He cast Tom an annoyed glance. “Well enough. Make sure you keep an eye on that one there.” He thumbed toward the far corner where a man held a glass he clearly hadn’t touched. The ice had melted. “He doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself.”
The bartender followed Smuggie’s line of sight. “Got it, boss. We’ll make sure he’s no canary.”
Smuggie hooked casual thumbs through his suspenders. “Got business tonight with a few ripples. Make sure things stay smooth here.”
“You got it.” Tom flung his towel over his shoulder and sauntered to the other end of the bar.
Nights like this happened occasionally, where someone had to take a trip to the Punchbowl. Smuggie’s job generally involved keeping tongues liquored and eyes turned. Tom wouldn’t think anything of the instructions. Ripples meant taking out someone who got a little loose in the tongue and was causing trouble. Another way they spoke in code. He’d thought it clever, once. Now it seemed like malicious children playing evil games.
Staying close to the truth would cover his hide for a while. They were dealing with ripples, and he had taken the woman out to the woods. All legitimate in the eyes of the operation. Maybe by morning when they started to put the pieces of his betrayal together, he’d be far enough downriver to make a clean break.
The throbbing brass resonated over the room, and he cast one last look at Bella’s smooth cognac features. An angel too beautiful to taint with his presence any longer.
God, if you are there, get her out of this place. Give her a better life somewhere else.
Maybe the prayer would work. Maybe not. Either way, he had to make his move without risking a goodbye. Not that he would want to sully her with his company anyway.
His heart raced, matching the sudden upswing in the tempo as Bella took a break and the musicians belted something jaunty. Every nerve in his body screamed to get moving, but he schooled his features into a bored look of composure. Scanning the patrons as he would on any regular night, he waited. He watched the dancers and drinkers with their masks of deceit and shallow laughter.
Then he wove through the crowd, slow enough not to draw attention but fast enough not to be stopped for conversation. On the far side, the door leading to the tunnel that would take him to street level yawned open. He slipped past the sagging door and into the dim hallway.
The enforcer at the other end barely cast him a glance before opening the door onto the street. It closed behind him. He sucked in a lungful of air laden with cat urine and discarded stomach contents and strode to the rear of the building to retrieve his bag. He’d drop the letter at Gray’s house and hoof it through the woods downriver. Once he got far enough from Natchez, he’d catch a vessel headed south.
Each step weighed an eternity, as if the grimy bricks beneath him conspired to slow his escape. The pungent stench of betrayal hung heavy in the air, threatening to saturate his lungs and choke him with its intoxicating bitterness.
He could turn back. Make an excuse about losing the girl. He could pull it off. He’d spent most of his life crafting lies.
But for some unfathomable reason, the idea soured his stomach. Maybe Mum made enough petitions up there in heaven to knife through his armor of selfishness at last. He’d do this one good deed. For her.
He shouldered the bag and slipped through the shadows. The walk to the Gray house didn’t take long. Lights glowed throughout the lower levels, and a one-horse cart parked out front. Visitors? At this hour? He hesitated in the shadows, the sharp drop of the ravine to his back.
A silvery moon peered shyly through a veil of clouds, casting ethereal light upon the winding river now flowing with a hushed murmur. He held still, his senses attuned to every sound, every subtle shift in the surrounding symphony of nature.
The distant croaking of frogs echoed through the night, harmonizing with the gentle swaying of the pine branches, which whispered their secrets to the breeze. The river, alive with sparkling ripples, murmured tales of forgotten souls.
A figure moved inside past the window. Smuggie squinted at the form. One of the crewmen from the Alma May? Why were they staying at the Gray house?
The front door creaked open, and two figures stepped outside. Smuggie crouched in the bushes and strained to hear the words.
“Keep the bandages clean and try to dissuade your son from too much movement.” An older man settled a hat over gray hair and nodded to a short, dark-skinned woman.
“Thank you, Doctor. Mr. Gray said for you to leave your fee amount with us, and he’d take care of it come morning.” The short woman twisted her hands together.
“Thank you.”
She opened her mouth as though to say more, but the doctor strode down the steps and onto the walk before she had the chance. He paused and untied his horse’s reins, gaze lingering on the shadowy place Smuggie hid.
He held his breath.
Then the doctor swung up into the seat and backed the cart out of the yard. The wheels crunched dirt as the vehicle rolled away. When Smuggie returned his focus to the house, the front door had closed again.
He plucked the two letters from his coat and ran a finger over them. He’d rather have left Bella’s at the club, but that would have been too risky. The post office downriver would have to do.
But no. What had he been thinking? That would give Durkin a clue about which way he’d gone. He’d find the letter for certain. Would see where it had made post. Might even bring harm to Bella, thinking she knew something about Smuggie’s betrayal.
He ran his finger over his confession of feelings he hadn’t thought himself capable of and then ripped the page in half. Then tore it again and again until confetti slipped through his fingers and tangled in the wind.
Better he not burden her anyway. She needed to be as far from his stain as possible.
He tapped the other letter against his palm, the one meant for the detective.
Could he trust the lawyer? In most things, probably not. But he’d seen the way the man looked at Miss Lockhart. He would take any information about her whereabouts right to the coppers. This was the best he could do. He didn’t have much time.
He crept toward the front of the house. The miniature watchdog better not be on duty to alert the household of his presence. With a resolute breath, he mounted the mansion steps, leaving only the echoes of his footsteps behind on the riverbank.
Then he dropped the letter on the threshold, banged on the door, and bolted back to the shadows.