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  Clip Joint

  White Lightning, Book 3

  Debra Dunbar

  J.P. Sloan

  Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Also by Debra Dunbar

  Also by J.P. Sloan

  Chapter 1

  December, 1926

  Hattie smoothed her dress with one hand as she twirled a dry martini in the other. The gin captured the light of flickering gas lamps as it swished against the angle of her glass, sending tiny reflections across her face. She regarded the light with a measure of reverence. After all, it was the source of her magic—or rather, it was the tool she used as a light pincher. The source of her magic, though? That was a mystery better left for philosophers who didn’t have three cases of West Virginia moonshine to offload.

  The dimly lit salon in which she sat was the center of Loren DeBarre’s spider web, nestled in a basement below the riverfront cannery that was the hub of the Philadelphia bootleggers. Her host had told her that the hidden speakeasy had entertained mob dignitaries from New York all the way to Cuba. Even Bill McCoy himself had frequented the room before his unfortunate run-in with the Feds. The space was mainly used for day-to-day business lately, according to DeBarre. Hattie kept that in mind as she looked over at the man seated in a brown leather wingback.

  Business. Although it had been evident from their first meeting that DeBarre’s mind was on more than business as far as she was concerned.

  The man’s eyes met hers with an intense gaze for a half-second before he looked away. Hattie had grown accustomed to those bold glances, and if she was completely honest, they weren’t unwelcome. It was nice to be appreciated, to be admired as an attractive woman.

  The down pincher flirted with a practiced charm that strode right up to the line separating business from personal, but never crossed it. Each time they met he watched her, gauging her reaction and response, clearly waiting for a sign from her to move things forward. Hattie knew his intentions, and lately she’d certainly been tempted to give him the encouragement he wanted. But DeBarre was a member of the establishment, a kept pincher. He had masters he answered to just like Vincent. That would complicate anything personal between the pair of them. Besides, as charming as he was, her heart wasn’t in it.

  No, her heart was definitely elsewhere, and lately it had been feeling more than a little bruised.

  “You don’t like the gin?” DeBarre asked from his seat, one hand gently cradling his own glass.

  “Hmm? Oh, the gin.” Hattie tossed it back with a hasty swig. “It’s not the gin I came for, don’t you know?”

  She left the words hanging, and DeBarre seemed to latch onto them. Okay, that was a bit mean. No need to tease the man unless she was committed to following through.

  Before he could draw a breath to take the bait, Hattie nudged one of the cases across the Oriental rug toward DeBarre’s shoes. “Moonshine isn’t all I’m delivering today, boy-o.”

  The down pincher grinned. “Is this the good stuff you were telling me about?”

  She nodded. “Straight from the distillers of the West Virginia slopes. Lovely family, too. They hold back a case of this brandy each year for themselves.”

  DeBarre reached for a bottle and held it to the light. “Peach?”

  “Aye,” she answered. “And I have more—a case of apricot and one of apple in the truck.”

  He nodded, then stood to carry the bottle to a wet bar situated along the short wall beneath the stairs. Snatching a corkscrew from the surface, he began digging into the cork as Hattie stood up to set her glass onto the marble bar top. She adjusted her hat, gathering stray bangs behind her ear.

  DeBarre pulled the cork and poured two cordial glasses, handing one over before lifting his own. “To Hattie Malloy and her casual disregard for the Baltimore Crew.”

  She clinked glass and tossed back the shot of brandy.

  DeBarre, for his part, took a slow sip and set the rest down onto the marble. “It’s nice.”

  “It’s a fair spot more than nice,” she argued, as his eyes met hers with another half second of bold interest.

  “Okay, it’s more than nice.” He lifted a finger to her dress. “And speaking of nice, I like this. The style suits you.”

  “Thank you.” Hattie spread her hands over the blue and white sheath dress. It was the same one she’d stolen just this past spring from a farmhouse outside of Richmond.

  When she and Vincent had barely escaped Capstein.

  DeBarre took a step forward. “Perhaps you’d allow me to purchase you something similar in a festive color and join me as my guest at our holiday party?”

  There. He’d nudged a toe over the line. She felt guilty, wondering if her words a few minutes ago had led to this. Although she guessed it was inevitable. DeBarre was patient, but a man had to eventually roll the dice or quit the game.

  Hattie just wasn’t sure how she wanted those freshly rolled dice to land.

  With a wiggle of her fingers, she pinched light around her dress until it shone in a bright ruby red, covered with glittering beads and sequins. She turned the hat into a velvet band with a jaunty feather, then thrust her hands onto her hips and tilted her chin.

  “You mean a dress like this, Mister DeBarre?”

  He smirked, then waited a moment, taking a step back when she didn’t respond to his invitation. “How long can you keep that up, I wonder?”

  “Long enough, boy-o.” She winked, dropping the illusion and turning toward her chair.

  DeBarre laughed, conceding what he no doubt took as only a temporary setback. Then he reached for his cordial glass and followed her to the seating area. “This is mighty fine brandy. I’m sure it’ll please Sabella. That man’s got a thing for sweets, let me tell you.” He added with a nod to the floor above them. “And the rest…we’ll have that offloaded and in circulation by tomorrow. Same rate as last week. That sit cherry with you?”

  Hattie nodded. “It’s a fair price. A fair sight better than they’d get from Corbi.” She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the mention of that name.

  DeBarre chuckled as he shook his head. “You’re a brave girl, Hattie Malloy. Running hooch directly underneath the noses of the Crew like this? They must’ve shined your apple something fierce.”

  Hattie held her tongue. Her blood was up. Nothing useful would escape her lips at that moment. In truth, she was running Tom Ed Greely’s moonshine direct to Philly more for his benefit than anything else. The fact that her bouts of charity served to lighten the pockets of Vito Corbi? Well, that was just a bonus.

  A clatter from the corridor leading to the stairs for the ground level caught their attention. They both stiffened as the wiry frame of Bradley Arnoud appeared. He paused a moment as he caught sight of Hattie. The man wore a sleeveless wool vest and trousers a size too big for his bony legs. His pencil-thin eyebrows lifted, his jaw going a little slack.

  Hattie stifled a shiver as Arnoud slinked into the room. DeBarre was a tall, evenly proportioned man with as much charm as
he had presence. Taking these moments to meet with DeBarre wasn’t just about business. It was fun, to an extent. Hattie enjoyed being appreciated, and DeBarre had a way of couching his desire in self-deprecating turns of phrase and clever words.

  Arnoud, on the other hand, was…odd. The man had never been anything but polite, but there seemed to be something truly off about him. He was a touch pincher, DeBarre had told her, and could send someone into a spiral of agony that would make them beg for hell, if only for a moment’s reprieve. Lacking in any social grace, he stammered his way through sentences with the subtle foot of a bull moose, and he wore his attraction to her on his face like a Halloween mask. Being appreciated by Arnoud was anything but enjoyable. It made Hattie want to take a long bath.

  The touch pincher bowed to her before muttering, “Always a pleasure, Miss Malloy.”

  “Mr. Arnoud.” She nodded, stifling a wave of nausea and unease, grateful he hadn’t tried to take her hand. Or, God forbid, kiss it.

  Arnoud inspected the crate of reserve brandy. “More merchandise?”

  Hattie nodded, hoping he’d leave the bottles be. Seeing Arnoud during her visits here was rather inevitable given the man worked closely with DeBarre, but the less the touch pincher knew about the under-the-table nature of her business dealings here the better. Plus having him in close proximity to her brought the uneasy fear that he’d discover that she too was a pincher.

  More people knew about that now than she’d ever thought prudent. Better that this man remain in the dark.

  DeBarre cleared his throat and waited for Arnoud to turn to him. “Street merchandise is topside by the loading door. Do me a shiner and get Sabella on the horn about where he wants it to go.”

  Arnoud stiffened at the imperious tone DeBarre had taken with him. DeBarre was, strictly speaking, the senior partner of the two. But in front of Hattie, it seemed Arnoud was eager to appear an equal.

  “Will do.” The touch pincher bowed again to Hattie, and trotted off presumably to find a working phone.

  “That man curls my teeth,” Hattie muttered as he slipped out of sight. “Please don’t tell him I said that, though,” she added with a hooded glance at DeBarre.

  “Oh,” he chuckled, “you’re not alone. He’s harmless enough unless otherwise directed. He might make everyone uncomfortable, but he’s all about loyalty and service to the family.”

  And obedience? Hattie winced. “Does that loyalty and service to the family extend to the Baltimore Crew?”

  “It might. Tell me…what’s Vito Corbi done to motivate you like this? Is it that business with the Russians, still?”

  Hattie kept her shrug casual. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, is all I’m saying.” Again his eyes met hers. “It would be in your best interest to make an alliance with someone who had connections with a more powerful family, someone who would back you up in case things went sideways.”

  That toe nudging the line once more. The offer of an alliance was tempting, she just wasn’t sure about the strings that came with the offer. “I appreciate the concern,” she finally replied, leaving the matter on the table for now.

  He wagged a finger at her, lightening the mood. “Well, be careful. Corbi has fangs.”

  Hattie bit back a grin. “Well I know the only real fang Corbi has, and I’m not afraid of him.”

  DeBarre smirked. “Point taken. And how is Calendo these days?”

  That question was like a wave of icy slush drowning out her lighthearted mood. “He’s well enough, I suppose. I’ve got no idea, really.”

  That came out more bitter than she’d wanted, but oh well.

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t… I’d thought…”

  DeBarre didn’t finish the sentence, and Hattie didn’t offer to elaborate. It had been over three months since the violence with the Russians. Over three months of steady business running liquor for the Crew over the bay, and not a peep from Vincent Calendo.

  Well, not a peep after that damned letter.

  “So,” DeBarre finally said, breaking the silence, “Vincent doesn’t know about this little side action?” He waved a finger over the case of peach brandy.

  Her eyes narrowed. “No, he doesn’t. Is that a problem?”

  DeBarre chuckled, seemingly delighted by her response. “Not for me. Not at all. I just assumed…well, I just assumed the pair of you were…close.”

  “You assumed wrong, boy-o.” She forced her tone to remain light.

  His eyebrows went up again and he nodded slowly, knowingly. “Huh. Clearly I did. Silly me. Well, I wonder what Vincent would do if he were to find out about your business here.”

  “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” she snapped, “right?”

  DeBarre lifted his hands in acquiescence, then turned away. “I’m not one to borrow trouble.” He reached behind the bar to produce a lockbox. Slipping a key from his jacket pocket, he unlocked the box and counted out a handful of bills.

  Hattie received her payment with a slight curtsy. “Pleasure doing business with such a gentleman as yourself.”

  “Are you in a hurry to rush back to Baltimore?” He leaned an elbow against the bar and gave her a slow smile. “I can get us a table at the Bellevue for dinner. You’ve got to be hungry.”

  Her stomach growled at the thought. Why not? A meal in one of the poshest hotels in the country, dancing in its ballroom, eating veal and drinking wine. She enjoyed DeBarre’s company. She was hungry. And it wasn’t like men were lining up all over the city to take her out to dinner. Why not?

  She knew why not.

  “It’s getting on to evening, and I don’t want to be driving back that late in the dark,” she told him with a smile to ease the sting of rejection.

  He took a steady breath. “Maybe a room for the night then? You can head back in the morning.”

  Oh, more than the toe had crossed the line right there. She was well aware that he didn’t expect her to be staying in that hotel room by herself.

  “Thank you, no. I really should be back at the warehouse before Lizzie misses me. Or rather,” she added with a wave of the cash, “her cut.”

  DeBarre nodded with aplomb, though his eyes registered his disappointment. He collected her coat from the back of one of the chairs, and held it for her to slip into. She gave him a nod, and his hands lingered just a little on her shoulders before he stepped away.

  She was an idiot. Here was a perfectly nice, charming man and she was saying no to him for what?

  For nothing, that’s what.

  “Perhaps next time, though?” Hattie said as she turned to the door. Because the next time her reply might be different.

  Maybe.

  She climbed to the ground level of the cannery, blinking away the sting in her eyes from the stench of fish. When she stepped outside, a brisk northerly gust knocked the breath from her. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, stretching past the cannery and over the river to the east.

  A handful of young boys were hauling the last of the moonshine from the back of the Runabout. Arnoud stood presiding over the scamps, who seemed to universally fear the man.

  “Leaving us so soon, Miss Malloy?” he called out.

  She nodded. “It’ll be dark sooner than later. Best I’m back before any weather hits as well.”

  He took a step toward the truck, barring her path to the driver’s side door.

  Forcing herself to remain relaxed she asked, “Is there something I can do for you then, Mr. Arnoud?”

  He leaned in to whisper, “I don’t know what your business is with Loren, and I don’t want to know.”

  She took a step away, tensing in case he moved to close the gap. He didn’t, but his voice rose enough to keep her on edge.

  “This nickel-and-dime bootlegging you’re doing is going nowhere. You should know that before you hurt yourself. I like you. I don’t want to see you hurt. There’s eyes everywhere, and people who aren’t what they seem. Be
careful, Miss Malloy.”

  The man was frighteningly weird. “I thank you for your concern,” she replied in measured tones.

  Arnoud nodded. “Booze is business. Big business. And it belongs to the families. You’re not a part of the system. They’ll kill people that get in their way, no matter how small or slight the infraction. Kill them. And you’re too pretty to end up dead.”

  So. Frighteningly. Weird. “Th…thank you,” she squawked.

  He looked furtively from side to side. “A case of white lightning here and there? No one cares about that. But if you develop this scheme into something more substantial, then Sabella will notice. As will Corbi. As will Masseria. And once they’ve taken their tribute, they’ll have you put down. You’re too pretty to die,” he repeated.

  “I’ll be careful, then.” She let out a slow breath and debated using her light pinching ability to get away from the man.

  Arnoud nodded and stepped to the side. “Please do. Please do.”

  Hattie let out a held breath and slipped into the Runabout, clamping her hands onto the steering wheel as she regained her composure. The man was strange and seriously disturbed, but he wasn’t wrong about the risks she was taking here.

  Something sharp dug into her hip from the coat pocket. She slipped a hand into the pocket to pull out an envelope.

  The letter.

  The letter.

  She eyed it for a long moment, her chest heavy with emotion. Then as she’d done a million times before, she eased the flap of the envelope open with her thumb and pulled free a dog-eared page. The letter was worn from months inside her pocket, months of handling. With a sigh, she steeled herself to read the note one more time.