“Whisky?” Mr. Howard offered.
“Not today,” John answered, making Jerry smile. John had been taking it easy on the liquor lately, and Jerry could see he was looking healthier already.
A few minutes later, Mr. Howard brought their lunch, and Jerry asked him to join them. “We haven’t had much time to tell you we think you’re doing a great job here, taking over from Trumble.”
“Thanks,” Mr. Howard said. “I appreciate that.”
The previous owner, “Babe” Trumble, had been fatally shot last November by a local minister obsessed with cracking down on bootleggers. Leslie Spracklin, or the “Fighting Pastor” as he became known, had been appointed as a special temperance enforcement officer, and he sicced his gang of righteous thugs on anyone who carried the slightest whiff of alcohol on them. Trumble and Spracklin had a beef that stemmed back to boyhood, and it all culminated when Spracklin decided to put a stop to the Chappell House’s successful liquor business once and for all.He broke into the tavern at 3:00 a.m., shattering the window and waking Trumble’s family. Trumble had gone downstairs to investigate, gun in hand, but Spracklin’s Colt 45 went off first. His bullet had severed Trumble’s femoral artery, and he died in his wife’s arms.
Jerry had been somewhat surprised by the attack, because Police Chief Masters was on the payroll for Chappell House. But Spracklin’s thirst for temperance was unquenchable. He demanded a complete cleanup of the police. That, everyone knew, was laughable. There were so many cops on the take they’d never be able to get them all.
Still, Trumble’s death had shocked a lot of people, including Jerry and John. It felt too close to home. They’d paid closer attention after that.
“We’re throwing a couple extra crates into your next delivery as a thank-you for your business,” Jerry told Howard now.
“I’m much obliged,” he replied. “You boys always give me a good deal, and your hooch is first-rate. A lot of folks will buy your whisky over others priced the same.”
“We’re just following our father’s recipe,” Jerry said modestly.
“Your pa was a good man,” Mr. Howard replied, rising from his seat. “Don’t worry about the food. It’s on the house.”
After lunch, they lit a couple of cigarettes and sat back, delaying the moment when they would have to return home and go underground. As John blew circles of smoke over his head, Jerry squinted across the sun-dappled road at a group of well-dressed men disembarking from three parked cars. They were likely from Detroit, Jerry surmised, here for liquor. Sure enough, a moment later he spotted Dutchie, one of the Bailey brothers’ competitors, approaching the group, his shock of white hair gleaming in the sunlight. Jim Dutch was a poker-faced former POW who didn’t put up with nonsense. He shared some of the same buyers with Jerry and John, but neither of them had encroached on each other’s business out of respect for their wartime experience.
“Is that who I think it is?” John asked.
Jerry followed John’s gaze. Another car had pulled up behindthe entourage, and the broad-shouldered figure of Ernie Willoughby emerged, adjusting his fedora. Slim and a few other goons trickled out of the vehicle after him.
“What’s Dutchie doing with that idiot?” John said, getting to his feet.
Jerry was wondering the same thing, but he hung back, cautious. “Leave him, John,” he warned.
John wasn’t listening. He grabbed his cap and stepped toward the door. Jerry sighed, then did the same. He couldn’t leave John to his own devices.
Outside, the group had moved down the road and around a corner, and Jerry and John trailed at a distance, stopping behind a thin stand of trees. Hidden from the street, Willoughby and the Americans had circled around Dutchie. From their stances, Jerry could sense the friction between them, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“We can’t go out there,” Jerry whispered. He had no doubt that each man had a weapon nestled on their hip under their fancy suit jackets.
John nodded. “Too many guns.”
The discussion before them was deteriorating fast. Dutchie now stood chest to chest with Willoughby, his face bright red against his white hair. He jabbed his finger over and over into Willoughby’s chest until Willoughby tilted his head in a signal toward one of his men, who dragged Dutchie away then punched him in the face. Dutchie stumbled to the ground, blood streaming from his nose, but he got up like a jack-in-the-box, his eyes trained on Willoughby. The man had survived a German prison camp; he could withstand more than a broken nose. Willoughby said something to Dutchie that ended the conversation, then he turned to leave.
“If Dutchie’s involved with Willoughby, it’s against his will. Let’s go,” Jerry said, and they quickly returned to the main street then slowed their pace, disappearing into the crowds on the sidewalks.
“Witless is such a bastard. Somebody’s gonna put a stop to it eventually. I hope it’s me.”
“Stay away from him, John,” Jerry said. “I mean it. We can’t aggravate him any more than we already are. No matter what, he’s always gonna have a bigger army.” He took out the key to the Ford. “C’mon, we have work to do. We can’t avoid it forever, as tempting as that is. Willoughby is getting pushier. He’ll be coming for our booze again soon.”
John sighed, then started to cross the street toward the general store. “Fine. Just let me get some more cigarettes. I’m out. If a man can’t drink, at least let him smoke.”
While they waited for the shopkeeper to ring up their cigarettes, Jerry’s gaze went to the people walking past. June had brought out the light, colourful clothing, and now that coats and scarves were gone, he could see people’s smiles. His own faded at the sight of Willoughby, who, having finished shaking Dutchie down, was heading up the sidewalk, chatting amiably with a woman at his side. Jerry’s gaze dropped to Willoughby’s companion, and he froze.
So many faces he’d forgotten since the war, but never hers.Why, I grew up in Petite Côte!Suddenly, he lay on a cot in Belgium’s grey, damp cold, his face wrapped like a mummy’s, his mind counting the minutes before she returned to tend him. The best part of the war. The only good thing about it.
Now Nurse Adele Savard, the woman he’d reached for when his nightmares were unbearable, was looking up at Willoughby, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. She wore a simple yellow dress, and her long blond hair was pulled loosely back. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
Jerry seized his cap and bolted toward the door, holding out a hand so John wouldn’t follow. He didn’t pause to explain, to laugh with him about what a small world this was, to marvel at how happy it made him just seeing her. He couldn’t, not when she was walking next to the man responsible for so much of the violence and chaos in their town. Howhad a beauty like her ended up next to that beast of man? Did she know who he really was?
The two were walking about twenty feet ahead of Jerry, not quite touching, and Willoughby’s bulk took up most of the sidewalk. He was droning on about something, and she glanced over, listening and offering a quiet smile. With everything she’d had to deal with over there, he knew she could take care of herself. Still, Jerry was unable to walk away.
