Wooden Nickels: White Lightning Series, Book 1 Page 11

  As if they were somehow a part of him.

  Chapter 9

  Hattie sat bolt upright in her bed, her nightgown soaked in sweat. Sucking in fast breaths, she willed away the image of Little Teague’s scorched face. Two nights, now. Two nights of horrible dreams. His black-and-red crisped face, with the shocking whites of his eyes pleading for her to take him to the magic man on Bimini Island.

  Two nights dreaming of that…whatever it was. That demon in the skin of a fisherman. Its eyes, those eternal depths, the rage and fury of a caged animal just yearning to be set free.

  Hattie ran a hand over her forehead, checking that she didn’t actually have a fever, but no, it was just night terrors haunting her. Getting out of bed, she peeled off her nightgown to mop herself off with a white linen napkin she’d lifted from a restaurant about a year ago. She hadn’t heard from Lizzie, yet. Not since she’d spun the whole tale of Deltaville, and the massacre that ensued. Lizzie seemed to take the death of Teague and his men in stride, while utterly ignoring the more fascinating elements to the account. The woman didn’t strike Hattie as the type to place faith in anything, much less tales of fire-spewing demons.

  Since she wasn’t sure if she’d have work that day, she hesitated near the foot of her bed. Her dress? Or her working clothes? Her mother called her for breakfast, and she made a snap decision. Dress.

  Both her parents were sitting at the kitchen table, and Hattie blinked as her father turned to her with a smile.

  “There’s my girl!”

  “Da? Not working last night?”

  “Sixth day,” he said, waving his hand over a bowl of oats set at her place. “I get to feel almost human…” He released a flurry of coughs, before nodding to her. “Almost.”

  Hattie took a seat to eat her oats. More water than grain, but it was better than nothing.

  “And you? Are you working today?” her mother asked her.

  “I don’t think so. Not that I’ve heard, any rate.”

  Alton snickered. “Saints bless us…we’re all free for a day!”

  Hattie beamed at him. “Well, we can’t waste it now, can we? What’ll we do with our stolen time?”

  Her mother crossed her arms and pouted at her bowl.

  Hattie’s smile faded. “Oh, Ma. You’re…?”

  “I work the second shift, thank you for noticing.”

  Alton waved his hand at her. “Now, Branna. Don’t you go sulking at us.”

  Hattie put a hand on his arm. “Da.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a fine thing she’s working. We all do our part. And we all work hard and well. No one should feel guilty over a moment’s peace, ’Attie.”

  Her mother sighed. “It’s fine, Alton. The two of you should make the best of’t. It’s been too long since you’ve been under the same roof, and one or the other wasn’t asleep.”

  Hattie nodded. “What, then? Waterside? The park?”

  Her father winced. “Not sure I’m up for a long walk.” He thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Say…the Metropolitan’s playing Little Annie Rooney. Have you seen’t? Mary Pickford, you know.”

  Hattie shook her head, biting back a grin at her father’s adoration for the spunky actress.

  “There, then,” he declared with a slap of his palm against the table. “We’ll take in a picture show.”

  The two finished breakfast and lingered just long enough for Branna to insist that they get going. The weather was bright and sunny, and the warmer air suited Alton’s lungs. They took a casual pace down to Light Street, being sure not to push his legs harder than his breathing could handle.

  The matinee for Little Annie Rooney was nearly empty. The Metropolitan Theatre had turned the show back around in between new releases, but anyone who hadn’t seen it the previous year was probably either at work or wasn’t likely to see it at all. Hattie stepped up to the box office and fished in her clutch for coins when her father reached out to grab her arm.

  “What’re you doing?” Alton shook his head. “No daughter of mine is paying my way to see Mary Pickford!”

  She jabbed him in the ribs but couldn’t stop him from paying for their admission.

  “You can’t afford this sort of thing,” she grumbled.

  “I’m paid well enough to eat and see Mary Pickford. We may be poor, but poor people can have nice things, y’know. It’s not just the fat cats up on Druid Hill.”

  “Still…”

  “It’s done. Now go hold the door for your Da.”

  As they settled into the dead center of the seats, and the screen flickered to life with its bold, bright flashes and shadows, Hattie entwined her arm around her father’s, leaning into him the way she did when she was ten. He sat there, eyes glued to the picture. Her father had always been mesmerized by the cinema. She wondered if he wouldn’t spend his life inside one of these kinos, if he had a million dollars and no reason to work.

  They spent the next hour and a half together, all by themselves, in that dark, cool room. When it was over, Hattie helped her father to his feet, and they left, taking a stroll the long way up Charles Street. It was past noon, and Branna would have begun her shift at the mill by this point. So, there was no hurry in the world.

  “You shoulda been a movie star, ’Attie.” Alton leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

  “I suppose so,” she mused. “I could look like anyone, if I chose. As long as they kept the script short.” She hopped forward a step or two, lifting a dramatic arm to her forehead, and affected a deep accent. “I could be…Greta Garbo.”

  Alton puckered his lips.

  She shrugged. “Lillian Gish? I could make my face whatever sells tickets.”

  Hattie looked left and right and, satisfied no one was looking…she pulled a flat palm over her face to reveal the illusion of Lillian Gish.

  Alton reached for her hand and batted it down. Hattie released her illusion, eyes to the ground. After a ferocious coughing fit, and a moment to catch his breath, Alton took Hattie by the hand.

  “You shouldna do that in public!”

  “Sorry, Da. I was only—”

  “Damn it, girl. We’ve come this far. We can’t have you doing this, not four blocks from those gangsters.”

  She blushed and kept her eyes glued to her shoes. After a long moment, Alton’s wheezing subsided.

  He squeezed her hand. “Besides. You’re more of a Mary Pickford than that Lillian Gish woman. You have her look without having to use your talents.”

  Hattie peered up at her father. “Nah, you’re just biased.”

  “No,” he urged. “She’s a good Irish girl, like you.”

  “Da, she’s from Canada.”

  “She’s Irish,” he insisted. “Fulla piss an’ vinegar, just like my ’Attie. All you need is your own personal William Haines, now.”

  She snickered. “You found one of them at the market, did ya? Well, I won’t turn away William Haines if he comes courting, but if I had my choice in the matter, I’d prefer Valentino.”

  He shook his head with a chuckle. “There she goes, pining away for Italian men. You’ll drive me to drink, you know that?”

  “Well, he’d be a fine Catholic. Wouldn’t he?”

  He draped her arm around his and pushed them forward. “You get on with it, then. Find yourself a Rudolph Valentino, and make me some fat, scrappy grandchildren.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I’ve got more than enough time for that sort of thing.”

  Even as she said it, a moroseness settled over her mind. Sure. She had time, but did her father? With this cough, she worried he wouldn’t see Christmas, let alone any fat scrappy grandbabies. If there was anything that could clear his lungs, she’d burn down the gates of Heaven to find it. Any wizard’s wand. Any magic elixir.

  Bimini Island. Doc Freedman. A potion that heals any illness or injury.

  But that was a myth…wasn’t it? She shook her head clear of these thoughts, and tried to enjoy the walk, laughing over
the opening scenes of the movie with her father. When they returned home, she found Lizzie’s car parked in front of their apartment building.

  Hattie pulled her arm free of her fathers, saying, “Da, go on up. I have some business.”

  Alton glared at the car, then at his daughter. Nodding, he made his way into the building alone while Lizzie stepped out of the car.

  “Late in the day for work, isn’t it?” Hattie asked.

  “Get used to it,” Lizzie replied with an eager smile. “I just had a visit from Tony. Didn’t take long for the Crew to start panicking. They know we’re their only business on the water, so they’re loading us down with work before I have a chance to hike our rates.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because this is an opportunity,” Lizzie said, pulling her by the arm out of the street. “We show the Crew that we’re still more affordable than their own people, and we’ll have work until we both retire.”

  “I suppose I should get my working clothes, then.”

  “Do that. I’ll take you to Winnow’s Slip. Raymond’s already getting his boat fueled up.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “A courtesy scoop from the Carolinas. It’ll be a water transfer. You’re meeting a trawler with ten barrels of Jamaican rum.”

  Hattie wrinkled her nose. “Tribute to the Crew?”

  Lizzie nodded. “Acknowledgment that they don’t need to sell Vito their rum, but they do anyways to keep things nice and civil. And to keep him from flooding the back slopes with moonshine and driving down the prices.”

  Hattie nodded, pondering the notion that Lizzie was this eager to do business with the Carolinians after what had happened to Jake. But, it was business for the Crew and as much as she disliked dealing with the Carolinians, the mob would have their protective arm over the run. It should be easy. Safe. And ten barrels of Jamaican rum was some pricey cargo.

  “How far do we have to travel?”

  “Cape Charles. Right by the ocean.”

  Hattie groaned. “That’s hours out. Another nighttime ride, then?”

  “Like I said,” Lizzie replied with a smirk. “Get used to this. We’re working straight on to the weekend, according to Tony. Man’s on the hot seat, and he’s trying to stay a step ahead.”

  “Right. Give me a few minutes.”

  Hattie withdrew to her apartment. As she entered, she found her father with his tin cup and a bottle of something amber.

  “Where’d you find that?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at the contents.

  “What? I bought it.”

  “From who?”

  He scowled. “What business is it of yours? I’m a grown man, I am. And if I want a spot of whisky, by Mary I’ll have it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s a waste. You should save that sort of coin for food.”

  “Bah.” He poured his drink and took a quick sip.

  “Besides, it’s not strictly legal.”

  “Not according to our fine governor,” Alton announced with a broad smile and a grandiose wave of his cup.

  “You want to have the booze money coming in, Da. Not going out.”

  “Helps my cough.” He took a quick sip.

  Hard to argue with that. “Well, take it easy on the stuff, then. I have to go to work,” she told him. “Tell Ma I won’t be back until late.”

  Hattie ran upstairs, changed into her working clothes, then paused by her father’s chair to give him a kiss on the forehead on her way out. “Don’t stay up for me. It might be morning before I get home, or later.”

  As she closed the door behind her, she could hear his coughing all the way down the stairs.

  Raymond gave her a wave as she trotted up to the boat.

  “Hey, girl. It’s been a week of months.”

  “How are you, Raymond?”

  “Tired. Can’t get a wink of sleep.”

  “Little one still crying the colic?”

  “Nadine says it ain’t colic. Says he’s just cranky and likes torturin’ us.”

  She murmured in sympathy and hopped aboard. Raymond piloted them out into the water as the sun began to set, silent until they’d cleared the mouth of the river, rounded Kent Island and reached the wide Bay.

  “So,” Raymond barked over the chug of the engine, “Little Teague’s gone?”

  Hattie wrapped her arms around her chest, then nodded.

  “Lizzie says I missed a hell of a show.”

  “She wouldn’t know.”

  Raymond beckoned for her to join him by the helm. She held her position. This wasn’t anything she wanted to talk about, but they’d be hours on this boat, coming and going. There would be no way to ignore it so she made her way aft and leaned against the engine housing as Raymond peered at her expectantly.

  He said, “I hear he got burned up bad.”

  “Aye.”

  “What’d you do with his body?”

  She shuddered and looked away. Finally, she said, “Dumped him overboard. Middle of the Bay.”

  He shook his head. “I hate to think about you being there all by your lonesome, like that. Wish I coulda helped.”

  “No, you don’t. It was worse than all that. It was a horrible thing to see.”

  “I seen people get shot.”

  “You’ve never seen anything like this,” she chided. “I don’t think anyone has. It wasn’t just the Richmond people spraying lead. There was someone…something…there. It did the burning. There was a sort of rage, about’t. And fear. People were on fire and screaming. It was horrible.”

  Raymond nodded.

  Hattie eyed him. “Don’t suppose Lizzie told you about the demon, then?”

  “Listen,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “After what you seen, I’d see demons, too.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said. “I saw what I saw.”

  He lifted hands in surrender and busied himself with the helm.

  She smacked his arm. “You brought it up, you bully.”

  “Brat.”

  They continued in silence down the center of the Bay, where eyes on the shore were less likely to pay much notice. The sun fell below the horizon, and stars popped into the darkening sky overhead. Hattie hummed one of the folk songs from the Old Country, which her mother used to sing when she cooked. As she did, the engine eased down to a dull chug. Turning, Hattie found Raymond grinning at her.

  “Well, if you’re gonna sing, sing so I can hear it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was humming. I wasn’t singing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m no good at’t, is why.”

  He lifted a brow.

  Hattie shook her head. “Spare your ears, Raymond. Let’s get this boat moving.”

  He killed the throttle.

  She turned toward him with hands on her hips. “Oh, now you’re asking for’t!”

  “I am,” he grinned. “I’m askin’ for you to sing me a song.”

  “Are you, now? And what entitles you to a song, and not me? Why don’t you sing, if you want traveling music so much?”

  He released a thunder-laugh, and said, “That’s fair.” He cleared his throat, and as he hammered down the throttle to send the engine roaring back to life, he released a bass melody that rolled underneath the engine’s noise.

  “Gonna lay down my sleepy head, down by the riverside. Down by the riverside, down by the riverside…”

  Hattie turned to watch the water pass by, her mouth drawn into a line of exasperation. She’d lived as a free pincher most of her life, but that freedom came with a heavy burden—a burden of constant vigilance. She had to watch for the gangs who’d scoop her up and press her into their service. She had to watch for short-dealing on the water from the rest of the freelancers trying to earn a penny more than she did.

  “Gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside…”

  She had to make sure no one assumed they owned her, no one claimed a command over her actions. No one. Not even her best friend.


  Her frown smoothed as Raymond sang. His voice was strong, but easy.

  “Gonna lay down my sword and shield, down by the riverside…”

  She hated to admit it, but the music made the time pass as if someone had pinched it.

  An incoming boat approached, its lights low to the horizon. Raymond eased their boat toward the western shore and piped down. They sat in silence for several minutes as the boat passed. A single old man offered a polite wave as the vessels slipped past one another. Raymond kept an eye on it as it retreated behind them on its way to wherever. Satisfied that they’d earned no undue interest, Raymond bumped the throttle, but did not continue his song.

  Hattie cleared her throat.

  “When boyhood’s fire was in my blood, I read of ancient freemen…” She turned to face Raymond, who finally heard her voice over the engine. “For Greece and Rome who bravely stood, three hundred men and three men…”

  Raymond’s smile opened into a laugh of joy.

  Hattie marched toward him. “And then I prayed I yet might see our fetters rent in twain, and Ireland, long a province be a nation once again!”

  She gestured at him with a kick of her toe against his leg.

  “A nation once again, a nation once again! And Ireland, long a province, be a nation once again!”

  She repeated the chorus for him, and he finally caught the tune. They sang together for a while, Hattie taking new verses, and Raymond propping up her lilting soprano with his basso profundo.

  Once the song was done, Hattie laughed, then sighed.

  Raymond gripped the helm as he leaned down to her. “Whoever said you weren’t no good at singin’ is a damn lying fool.”

  She shrugged. “Just not much point in singing.”

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Because,” she explained with a huff, “it’s too dangerous. People notice you when you sing.”

  “Well, baby girl, you deserve some notice. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  She frowned. “I don’t want’t.”

  He eyed her sadly for a moment, then turned back to the tiller, the brief moment of joy slipping away into the silence of the night.

  The moon was high overhead by the time they reached Cape Charles. A thirty-foot ocean trawler hung like a spangled shadow on the horizon. Raymond steered toward it, and it flashed a lamp in their direction. As they approached the trawler, a series of black letters across the bow spelled something in a language Hattie didn’t recognize. An angular “S”, an “O” with little feet on it.