“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?”
“With pleasure,” Walter replied, giving Slim a shove toward the door.
“You’re gonna regret this,” Slim called back.
The door slammed shut behind him, and Jerry let his mask of calm drop, his mind racing. Willoughby might be a bully, but he wasn’t stupid. His enterprise was taking in a cut of the hard work of all the other rumrunners—he didn’t make whisky himself—and he had paid off the cops for good reason. He was protecting his own interests while putting everyone else who didn’t fall into line out of business. Jerry knew the authorities didn’t really care about the Baileys’ relatively small operation, but with Willoughby, it was personal. If he offered them enough money, they might put the screws to John and him. He could just as easily put his own gang of thugs on him. Willoughby had his choice of methods, most of which would leave the Baileys vulnerable.
As soon as Jerry heard Slim’s tires spin out on the gravel road, he grabbed his hat and headed out the door. “Walter,” he said. “We need to double up security for a while.”
“All right. Where you going?”
“To the house. I gotta find John. Don’t let anyone in the warehouse until I’m back. Nobody, got it?”
“Got it.”
By the time Jerry parked in front of the house, he’d worked through a sliver of a plan. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but from what he could see, it was the only way to ensure that Willoughby didn’t get his hands on their inventory and destroy everything they had worked so hard for.
Inside, Jerry found John hunched over a cup of coffee, his skin grey and clammy from another hangover.
“Good time last night?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“I think so,” John replied. “Some parts are a little cloudy.”
Jerry took a seat. “Listen. Slim Baines showed up at the warehouse.”
John sat up, alert. “What?”
“Yep. There’s also more stock missing. A hundred bottles. Did you know about that?”
John’s face fell. “Yes. Our run to Woodbridge Tavern was held up.” He counted back the days. “Two days ago. Sarg fulfilled the order, but I should have told you. Sorry about that.”
“Well, we know for sure now that Willoughby was behind it, so I’m assuming he’s behind the rest of the hijacks. Slim basically said that Willoughby’s offer of protection would ensure the cops on his payroll backed off. And that we’d regret saying no.”
“That scum—”
Jerry cut him off. “Have you talked to Tuck lately, John?”
His brother studied a knot in the table. “No, I was supposed to meet him last week, but Betty wanted to go dancing.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you down.”
Jerry softened. “It’s all right. But I’ve been working on a plan, and I need you back in the game.” He angled his head toward the liquor shelf on the wall. “And you gotta cut back.”
John nodded, looking contrite. “Whatever you need.”
