Bluebird, p.15
Bluebird, page 15
She thought it a strange comment since he’d seen conflict as well. Then again, everyone had their own experience. What mattered was that they’d survived.
She took a sip of her tea, feeling herself open up a little. “It’s difficult to describe, isn’t it? The war itself was so vast, so we’d all have come away from it with different memories and thoughts. I’m glad I went. I took strength and pride from helping those poor men. We saved a lot of lives. And I made a lot of friends while I was there.”
“Where were you stationed?”
“I worked in a clearing station, so we moved a couple of times. We started in France, but most of the time I was in Belgium. We were close to the Front, but not actually in it. The men came to us straight from the battles, though.”
“You must have seen some terrible things.”
Her mind returned to the chaos of the hospital, the commanding shouts of doctors and the cries of suffering men. The quiet sobs that leaked into rare moments of silence when men and nurses broke. When she let herself remember, she could see butchered wounds pulsing blood from weakened hearts as clearly as if she was still there. She could see again the exposed bones; the streaming, blinded eyes; the severed, abandoned limbs set to the side of the operating table while she and the doctor focused on sewing what was left of a man back together.
Yes, she’d seen a lot of things.
“I did,” she said, drawing a ragged breath.
Concern shone in his brown eyes. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
She pushed the memories back and squeezed out a smile. “Oh no, you haven’t at all. This happens sometimes, often when I least expect it. It’s like I get flashes of things that happened over there. Memories I’d rather forget.” She took another breath, grounding herself once again. “Perhaps I will have that glass of whisky after all.”
“Certainly.” Ernie signalled to the waiter and pointed at his drink. A glass of amber liquid appeared almost instantly in front of Adele.
“Thank you,” she said, enjoying the warmth of the first sip. “Enough about me, though. I imagine you would have seen things, too.”
“How’s that?”
“Where did you serve?” Her gaze went to his missing fingers.
He grimaced and slid his hand under the table. “That happened when I was a boy. The military wouldn’t take me without a full hand. I would have been there otherwise. I would have been proud to fight.”
His shame pulsed hotly across the table, and she rushed to cool it. “Of course you would have. I’m sorry I assumed. How did it happen?”
“An accident.”
Hundreds of hushed conversations with wounded men had taught her to follow their cues. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s all right,” he said, softening slightly. “I barely notice it anymore, though it was hard when I was young. I had to learn to do a lot of things all over again, and the other kids, well, you know how they can be.”
“That must have been very difficult,” she replied, meaning it. How awful for a boy to have to experience such a thing, then to suffer at the hands of his friends because of it. “Children can be cruel. What about your family? I imagine they helped you along the way.”
His face clouded. “To be honest, I didn’t come from what you might call a loving home. My older brother drowned in the river when we were young, and my parents… they were never the same after that. So I learned to stand up for myself. The only way you can get hurt is if you let people get away with it, right?” He sipped his whisky. “My parents died years ago, and I’ve been on my own ever since.”
Instinctively, she reached for the hand he’d left on the table. “I’m so sorry, Ernie.”
He turned his hand over so her fingers rested on his palm, then he folded his on top. “That’s nice of you to say, Adele. I don’t talk about my childhood much. Thinking about it reminds me of the family I never had.” A moment of silence passed between them, then Willoughby straightened and recovered his charm. “Here I am rambling on about my little life when I’m dining with a war hero. I feel truly humbled in your presence.”
She started to look away, embarrassed, but something in his expression released butterflies in her chest. “Now you’re just being silly.”
“Not at all.”
The waiter appeared just then with their meals. “This looks delicious,” Adele said, smiling up at the server, but his attention was entirely on Ernie.
“May I get you anything else, Mr. Willoughby?”
“Another whisky.”
He was off like a shot, returning within seconds with Ernie’s order.
“They’re really efficient around here,” she noted, cutting into the chicken. She closed her eyes briefly, savouring the flavour. The chicken was moist and tender, the creamy sauce exquisite. “This is divine.”
He nodded, a bit of lamb on his fork. “I’m pleased it’s to your taste.”
“It’s delicious,” she replied. “Did you say you knew the owner?”
He swallowed, dabbed his mouth. “Manny Watson. We do some business together.”
“What line of work are you in?” she asked.
“The export business. I work with taverns and such, here and in Detroit.” He tapped his knife against her glass. “How’s your whisky?”
“It’s lovely,” she replied, then realized what he was inferring. “Oh, you’re in the liquor business?”
He smiled. “I am indeed.”
She sat back, intrigued. She’d never have imagined this man with his smart suit and affable manners would be a rumrunner. She’d had a much different impression of those men. Evidently, she had much to learn.
“You’re surprised?”
“A little, yes,” she admitted. “I mean, I don’t have a problem with alcohol, obviously”—she touched her glass—“but I am curious. I’ve heard so many rumours. Is rum-running as dangerous as some say?”
“Dangerous? No, no.” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Well, I suppose it can be, depending on what you’re doing. There are rivalries in every business, and thanks to Prohibition, there’s a lot of money at stake, so things can get heated. But I’m in a position of authority, so I look out for my employees.”
“Like Dickie,” Adele said. “That’s good of you. To be honest, I’ve come to think of Prohibition as a failure. Just because booze is banned, that doesn’t stop people from drinking. As a nurse, I see evidence of the ways people get around the rules every day.”
Ernie nodded. “Make something illegal, and everyone will want it. It’s unfortunate that regular folks just trying to make a living are treated like criminals.”
Adele looked at him, thoughtful. Fred and Marie had preached that alcohol was at the root of all evil, but since crime had only increased in the past couple of years, it really did seem that the prohibition of liquor was causing more trouble than the drink itself.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ernie asked.
“I was just wondering what my sister would say if she knew I was having a meal with a rumrunner. She’s quite an avid member of the temperance movement.”
“But you’re different,” he said, watching her closely. “A war nurse such as yourself isn’t afraid of a little booze.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said, emboldened.
At Ernie’s request, the waiter brought each of them a slice of pineapple upside-down cake—Adele’s first taste of the decadent delight—then Ernie smoothly turned the conversation in a different direction.
At the end of the evening, he escorted her to her car and opened her door. “Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me tonight. I apologize for the spur of the moment invitation, but I’ve really enjoyed your company. Truly. It’s been a pleasure.”
“It has been. Thank you, Ernie.”
He helped her into the car and closed the door gently behind her. “Would you consider joining me for dinner again, perhaps on Friday night?”
She looked up at his face, admiring how his chocolate eyes glinted with gold under the streetlamp. “I would like that very much.”
“Until then,” he said, smiling.
As she drove away, she glanced back over her shoulder at the tall, sturdy man still standing in the middle of the street. It had been a long time since she had connected so quickly with anyone. Especially a man. Not since Jerry Bailey, she realized. Ernie might not have shared her wartime experience, but he had suffered his own losses and come out the other side, just as she had, and she was looking forward to seeing him again. She didn’t know what lay ahead, but her heart warmed at the thought that she might not have to travel that road alone.
thirteen JERRY
Jerry stepped back from the stack of whisky cases he’d piled against the wall, rotating his shoulders to ease his muscles. He’d arrived early that morning, sleeves rolled up, hoping to finish his inventory count before anyone else arrived. A new shipment would arrive from the still tomorrow, and he needed everything in the warehouse counted ahead of time. Too many people in the same place, all of them talking at once, made it more difficult to concentrate. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to have slept in, so Jerry was able to work in peace.
Life sure had changed for John and him since their toast over a year ago. From their first shipment across the water to their full list of buyers on both sides of the river, Bailey Brothers’ Best was doing a fine business indeed. Expenses were down, profits were up, and everybody knew their name. The stills were working overtime, and he’d hired more men, almost all of whom were fresh back from the war and needing a practical way out of the past. Their whisky was washing past a great many lips, smooth and bold and exactly what people wanted. Sure, he and John were breaking a law or two, as far as Prohibition went, but they were filling pockets and helping men, and so far, they had steered clear of any kind of violence.
The brothers made a good team. Jerry oversaw production, arranged contracts, and balanced finances while John managed the rumrunners and smuggling logistics. Their roles played to their strengths, and their natural partnership made it all run smoothly. But Jerry thought John seemed a little distracted of late, and he’d noticed empty bottles had begun to pile up around the house. He didn’t like the look of John’s cracked knuckles or the dark circles under his eyes. He’d seen it before. While Jerry turned to the irrefutable, dependable accuracy of the numbers in his ledgers for escape from the past, John sought it in alcohol. Jerry understood that. It was easy to drink away the memories, even if it was just for a little while. But John wasn’t good at putting the cork back in the bottle, and all the booze did was stoke his temper. Jerry stepped in when he could, diffusing situations, but he had started to worry that the day might come when he wouldn’t be there to hold John back from a fight he couldn’t win.
A few nights ago, he’d talked John into staying home for supper for a change. He fried up some fish and tried to be subtle about placing a cup of coffee in front of them both. John had eyed his cup, but when Jerry made no comment, he didn’t either. Over their dinner of fried fish, they talked about business, rumours, friends, and memories of anything that did not involve the war, and eventually, Jerry asked about John’s scraped hands.
“It’s nothing,” John told him, dismissing the questions. “We had a bit of a tussle at poker the other night.”
“You’re sure? You’re doing all right, then?”
“Never been better. In fact, I’m thinking about getting a new car,” John said, tipping back his whisky.
“You wanna show off for that new gal,” Jerry acknowledged, letting his concerns go. There was no point in having an argument over this. Not unless it got worse. “What’s it been? Two whole weeks this time?”
“Yeah,” John replied, oblivious to Jerry’s teasing. “Betty. She’s the one, I’m telling you.”
“She’s a peach,” Jerry agreed.
The only things as prevalent as roadhouses in Windsor were cathouses. On some streets the two businesses practically alternated, so a man in that frame of mind could go for a whisky, put money on the horses, visit a girl, then move directly onto the next drink. John was drawn to all the vices. His was the laugh heard over the crowd, the hand that poured drinks, and the heart that fell in love—over and over again.
“Hélène’s from Quebec,” he’d told Jerry one day as they were bottling. “Eighteen. Prettiest little thing, with those big brown eyes…” The following week it was, “How haven’t I noticed Suzette before?”
“Who?” Jerry asked.
“Suzette. With the long red hair and the… well, you know.”
Now it was Betty.
“When are you going to get back in the game, Jerry?” John asked.
Jerry gestured at his face. “I don’t think this is what the ladies want.”
“You’re wrong about that, brother. There’s a whole lot of pretty gals eyeing you up, but you ain’t taking any of them out for supper.”
Jerry had kept his eyes on his meal. When they’d first come back, he’d let himself dream for a little while about running into Adele, but it had been three years. He’d grudgingly given up on that hope. Still, none of those pretty gals John was talking about interested him much.
He was thinking of that as he finished his inventory, straightening the last bottle so the little bluebird on the label faced out. Satisfied, he settled onto his desk chair and pulled out his ledger to check the previous numbers against his latest count. He slid his finger slowly across the columns, then paused, noting a discrepancy in the stock. Four cases missing. A hundred bottles. He rubbed his hands against his face in frustration; it wasn’t the first time bottles had gone missing.
He knew the stock hadn’t been stolen from here: the warehouse was locked and closely guarded, and they were always careful about anyone following them to and from the location. Tuck had been helping out whenever he could, giving them notice of any planned police raids on their shipments, but some were to be expected, and there were other thieves out there—rival gangs—eager to waylay a shipment for their own gain. If the Baileys’ rumrunners were stopped, the customer still came first. The rule was that they had to return to the warehouse, replenish the stock, and get the liquor out to the buyer as quickly and covertly as possible.
He’d noticed a definite uptick in seized shipments lately. His gut told him it was Willoughby, but he had no proof. Jerry tapped his pencil on the ledger, puzzling out this latest problem in the columns. Usually John told him when a delivery had gone awry. Had he forgotten to do that, or had something else happened to the bottles?
“Jer,” Walter said, walking in.
Jerry looked up. “What is it?”
He shifted the toothpick in his mouth. “You got a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Slim Baines.”
Concern flitted through Jerry’s chest. Slim was Willoughby’s man. This was out of the ordinary; everyone knew any sort of business meeting had to be conducted far from the warehouse. Away from Bailey territory.
“Have you seen John?” he asked.
“Not yet today.”
Jerry sighed, resigned. “Might as well let Slim in.”
As Walter left, Jerry pulled on his suit coat. His father had always said he should dress well if he wanted people to respect him, so while Jerry worked in a plain shirt and trousers, he always kept a coat handy. After a moment’s deliberation, he secured his pistol on his hip and stood to wait. A suit wouldn’t make Slim respect him, but the gun would.
Walter opened the door, and sunlight lit the dark space, bringing Slim Baines with it. He was a short, wiry man who had worked for Willoughby for a couple of years, doing his behind-the-scenes dirty work. Slippery as an eel. Never set foot on a battlefield in his life.
“Baines,” Jerry said, knowing Slim preferred everyone to use his nickname. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Slim’s small eyes roved the space, taking in Jerry’s stock. “Big Will’s tired of playing nice,” he said.
Jerry pulled out his silver cigarette case, letting Slim see his weapon, and lit a smoke. “I wasn’t aware he and I were playing,” he said calmly. “I have my business; he has his.”
“Who you kidding, Jigsaw? Everybody’s business is Big Will’s business.”
“Big Will,” Walter snorted. “That’s such a stupid name. He’s not much taller than I am.”
“I hear you got stood up again,” Slim said, ignoring Walter.
“What would you know about that?” Jerry asked.
He shrugged, but the mocking look in his eye confirmed what Jerry already thought: Willoughby was behind the recent raids. Had Willoughby’s hired police force confiscated the booze themselves, or had they passed it over to Willoughby to relabel and resell? Jerry returned to the chair behind his desk and wrote Tuck in tiny letters on the paper in front of him, out of Slim’s view.
“You want Big Will’s protection, you’re gonna have to pay the tax.”
Jerry’s eyes rolled up at Slim. “I need protection from Willoughby like I need another hole in my head.”
“Listen up, Jigsaw. I’m here with a message. He’s had enough of your mouth. It’s your business he wants now. He’ll take sixty per cent.”
Behind Slim, Walter’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not from me,” Jerry replied. “He can ask someone else for that. He’s already stealing my liquor. I’m not gonna pay him to do it.”
“Fifty-five.”
“Get this through your head. I’m not paying Ernie anything. And he’d better back off my shipments.”
“Or else what?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“He can’t help it,” Walter said wryly.
Jerry took a drag from his cigarette, then turned back to his ledgers. “If there isn’t anything else, it’s time for you to leave.”
Walter caught his cue. He took out his own revolver, made a show of checking the safety.
Slim’s thin lip pulled up in a snarl. “We ain’t done, Jigsaw.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jerry said, not bothering to look at him. “Walter, would you please see our guest out?”
