Oz’s daytime rum runners make a decent enough living. But the night time crew is bona fide, the entire town respects and fears them. They stroll around New Orleans in their tailored suits with money to burn like there’s no tomorrow. I know it’ll mean getting my hands dirty, they’re considered gangsters to most, but I’m tired of having just enough to get me and my ma by.
I want it all.
“You listen to me. You don’t want nothing to do with that night crew,” Clement says, and I give him a nod, though I don’t agree. Clement might be a wiz at what he does, making hand over fist selling illegal gin. He’s a wise man, but he’s wrong about this.
“I’ll see you again next week,” I tell him, and he arches a dark brow at me.
“Yeah, I’ll see ya, and it better be in the fucking sunlight,” he says, pointing to me before getting into his Chevrolet Superior.
He’s probably had a bad encounter with one of the night guys. They’re tough, rougher around the edges. It’s how we keep the operation running. People need to pay up on time and they need to keep their mouth shut if we don’t want to get shut down. The last thing we need is someone spilling their guts during another fucking raid.
Oz keeps his circle tight because he’s a smart man. Though I haven’t met him, I report directly to Eugene. But from what I’ve heard, and the talk around town is that you don’t fuck with Oz.
I think about all the times my pa hit me and my ma, how I never did nothing and now we live in a shit hole that barely has running water. I wasn’t the man I needed to be then, but with him out of the picture, I could be.
I’m gonna prove myself. I’m gonna get on the night crew and get us a real house. Maybe I could make enough that she could open a storefront, she could tailor the suits and dresses for the rich in New Orleans, no more of the odd jobs that pay next to nothing. In fact, maybe I could make so much on night crew that Ma wouldn’t even have to work anymore.
The sun is beaming; the air feels like fucking soup against my face as I make the drive back to town.
How am I gonna prove myself? What’s it going to take to even get on Oz’s radar to prove I can be the man that he needs me to be?
It was avaricious what I wanted.
My pa would’ve told me God would’ve been disappointed by my greed, but he wasn’t alive anymore and we were better for it.
Once he died, we moved out of the fucking swamp and made things work in New Orleans. It wasn’t easy, but when I fell in with Oz’s crew, things got better. Maybe having clean clothes and not worrying about my next meal went to my head because all I wanted was more.
I wanted respect, along with the lifestyle that came with being in Oz’s inner circle.
I’m so lost in thought that I’m startled by the man standing off on the side of the road. He’s clutching his stomach and waving me down. I glance around, seeing no one else besides the man. The brakes creak as I stop the vehicle and look out the window toward him.
“You alright?” I ask.
He’s still hunched over, grabbing his stomach before suddenly standing up straight, a gun in his hand as he points it at me.
“Yeah, I’ll be alright as soon as you get out of the truck,” he says.
In my peripheral vision, I see another man coming out of the field. He has a knife and not a gun.
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble. I don’t think my boss will take kindly to you stealing his produce,” I lie. The one thing you don’t do when you’re smuggling liquor is let anyone know what you have in the back of the truck.
He barks out a laugh. “You can tell Oz exactly who stole his gin. We’re Henry’s crew.”
Fuck.
“Henry can’t source his own liquor?” I say, slowly grabbing the switchblade out of my pocket.
“Enough chit chat. Get the fuck out of the car or I’ll shoot you right there. Which would be a huge pain in the ass to clean.”
“Go on and get out of the truck and we’ll let you live so you can tell the mythical Oz who stole from him.” The other man laughs.
Neither of them are dressed nicely, both of their shirts a tacky off-white covered in sweat stains. Their suspenders are stretched out and their trousers all seem one size too big. I turn the vehicle off, taking the keys out of the ignition.
I open the door, the second man glaring at me.
“Look at this, Clint, he’s got a real pretty boy working for him,” he jokes.
“Shut the fuck up, Dale, go look in the back,” the other man says, pointing his gun toward the back.
