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 ontheir 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 wroteTuckin 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.”
