The Bootlegger's Daughter
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Lauri Robinson
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Chapter One
White Bear Lake, Minnesota, 1925
The steady tick of bugs hitting the metal shield protecting the streetlamp was like a clock ticking away the seconds. Patience had never been one of Ty Bradshaw’s best virtues, not even when his life had depended on it during long stays in trenches overseas. A product of the Selective Service Act, he’d been one of the ten thousand soldiers shipped to France each day courtesy of the US armed forces eight years ago. Unlike many other twenty-year-olds back then, he’d come home alive.
Because he was lucky.
That’s what he was counting on now. Luck. His experience using a machine gun during the days of the Great War might come in handy, too. That was up in the air. He hadn’t needed to use a gun since he’d returned, and as far as he’d discovered, Roger Nightingale didn’t approve of gunfire at his resort, but the gangsters Nightingale associated with didn’t care where they burned powder. They’d pump lead into people while they were sleeping. He knew that firsthand.
Maybe he did have more patience than he gave himself credit for. He’d waited five years for this chance.
Then again, maybe he was just dedicated and savoring his revenge.
Headlights turned the corner, and deep in the shadows, Ty stood stock-still. Waiting. Watching. His smile a secret, held inside where only he knew about it, along with the rush of blood flowing through his veins like an underground spring.
The car slowed and pulled up to the curb, and Ty let loose a portion of his grin as the headlights lost their glow. The long, sleek touring car put his Model T, the cheapest and most popular one Henry Ford ever made, to shame. However, his old Ford served its purpose, allowing him to maintain his cover. Ready to put the final legs of his plan into place, Ty’s pulse hitched up one more notch as the touring car’s engine went silent.
Roger Nightingale had arrived. A legal bootlegger—if there was such a thing—Nightingale was the man behind most of the alcohol in the upper Midwest. Yet, in Ty’s eyes, “The Night” was a small fish, a means to the end. He was after the high pillow. The real McCoy. Ray Bodine. Ty had followed the trail Bodine had left of bottom-barrel boys, triggermen and torpedoes from New York to Chicago, and now to St. Paul.
With federal agents on his tail, Bodine had escaped New York by faking his own death. Using an alias, he’d made plenty of money in Chicago the past year via front men, eluding and paying off agents, and now they’d moved into St. Paul—the headwater of the whiskey trade. The vast northern woods and endless waterways made running booze—namely a local brew known as Minnesota Thirteen—a mug’s dream, and Bodine wanted that more than a drunk wanted his next prescription. The mob boss would have plenty of competition here, and not just from Ty. Mobsters from all over had ties to St. Paul, and almost every loop led one way or another to Roger Nightingale. Ty had coveted that information, and now he was prepared to use it. Bringing down Bodine is what he was here to do, and he didn’t care who he had to put the screws to in order for that to happen.
Palooka George’s birthday was coming up in two weeks. The one-time boxer had a long list of friends, and enemies. Gangsters far and wide would attend the birthday bash. Ty would be there, too, come hell or high water.
The Cadillac’s driver’s door opened—a red phaeton with four doors and a fold-down black roof. New. The red paint still had a showroom gleam that glistened brightly in the yellow-hued light cast from the bug-attracting streetlamp.
A foot appeared, and a second one, covered with black patent leather shining as brightly as the paint on the car.
With heels.
Ty was still taking note of that when what emerged next had him licking his lips to wash aside the wolf whistle itching to let loose. A fine pair of legs. Shapely, and covered in sheer silk stockings. He bit down on his bottom lip as the woman completely exited the car. The hem of her dress stopped just below her knees, giving way for plenty to be admired. He continued to admire as his gaze roamed upward, over subtle curves that had him sucking in a good amount of air just to keep that whistle contained.
Women were a lot like whiskey. He didn’t need either on a regular basis, but sampling a taste every now and again was something he didn’t mind doing, and Norma Rose Nightingale was one classy dame. The real cat’s meow.
He’d only seen her from afar, through the lenses of his binoculars while hiding in the woods near the resort, but it had been enough for him to know he’d liked what he’d seen. He liked it now, too. The way her skirt swirled as she spun around to shut the car door. Black, or navy blue maybe, the material of her dress hugged her body just so and glistened in the glow from the streetlight outside the hoosegow.
With slow, precise movements, Ty tugged the front of his hat lower on his forehead and eased back against the building until the coolness of the bricks penetrated his suit coat—he needed the chill to douse the flames spiking in his lower belly. He could see her, but unless Norma Rose turned all the way around and peered directly into the shadows cast by the overhead awning, she couldn’t see him.
Roger Nightingale, Norma Rose’s father, was the person Ty had expected to visit the jail tonight. Her arrival changed his plan. He tossed around a couple of alternate options while admiring the way Norma Rose’s hips swayed as she walked around the front of the Cadillac.
A dark little hat, probably the same shade as that tailored dress, covered her short blond waves, and a small handbag with a gold-chain handle dangled from one hand. She was wearing pearls, too, a long strand tied in a knot just below rather a nice set of breasts. Dressed to catch a man’s eye, that’s what she’d done all right, dolled up just like the other night, when she’d been welcoming guests into her father’s resort.
Nightingale’s Resort was a hot vacation place for big shots with bankrolls to blow, not just those from the bustling metropolis of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Secluded deep in the woods, and just a short jaunt north of the city, the resort catered to butter-and-egg men from all over. Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, New York. To rent one of the dozen or more lakeside bungalows for a single evening cost more than Ty and most other folks made in a month.
Palooka George would stay in one of those bungalows. Ray Bodine would be in one, too, and Ty needed to know which one Bodine would be in, so he could get the graft on the New York mobster whose killing spree had set a ball of fire in Ty’s stomach years ago.
Turning slightly, Ty watched Norma Rose step onto the sidewalk. The hoosegow was in the center of the city, surrounded by dungeons transformed into speakeasies, high-end clip joints and nightclubs pretending to serve only coffee and tea, yet she hadn’t cast a single glance around. Her steps were purposeful, her back straight. Confident. He liked that.
The heels of her shoes clicked on the pavement as she strolled past the brightly lit front door of the city jail, heading straight for the unmarked chief of police’s private entrance.
Ty pushed off the wall and straightened his suit coat, making sure his piece—a cheap government-issued pistol—was well-concealed beneath his arm, and waited until she’d arrived at the door before he headed across the street. Five chiefs of police had come and gone in St. Paul the past few years, and there was no reason to believe Ted Williams was any less corrupt than his predecessors. That, too, would play in Ty’s favor.
* * *
Norma Rose drew a deep breath and took a moment to smooth her pleated skirt and tug at the cuffs of both gloves. The city, especially at night, was not her favorite place. Uncle Dave was going to owe her for this one. Getting arrested. He knew better. It hadn’t been that long ago when food had been scarce and money nonexistent. Now her family had the finest things of anyone in White Bear Lake. Perhaps all of Minnesota. Her wardrobe was the envy of many and it certainly didn’t take her high school diploma—the first in her family—to figure out she didn’t want things to go back to how they used to be. One wrong move could snuff out the money flowing into her father’s bank accounts. Uncle Dave was as aware of that as she.
Fueled by the ire old memories ignited, she twisted the knob on the door. Ted Williams, St. Paul’s chief of police, knew better, too. Arresting Uncle Dave would not play in his favor.
The target of her indignation sat behind his desk, dressed in a blue uniform with shiny gold buttons and a flat hat spouting a badge. He jumped to his feet as she shut the door with the perfect amount of force. It didn’t slam, but did cause the single lightbulb hanging by a black cord from the ceiling to sway, and certainly displayed her irritation.
“Norma Rose,” Ted Williams said, rounding his desk. “I expected your father.”
“He’s busy.” Everyone knew the resort packed people in by the dozens on the weekends, yet she reminded him, “It is Friday night.”
“I’m aware of that.” The police chief removed his hat and laid it on his desk. “But I figured he’d want to come get his brother-in-law right away.”
She crossed the room and set her purse on the other corner of the long desk. “He’s busy, so I’m here.” Keeping her expression stony, Norma Rose leveled a solid stare on the man. “Why did you arrest Dave?”
“I didn’t arrest him,” Ted said, tugging down the hem of his uniform jacket.
Norma Rose kept her well-trained eyes from roaming. Ted Williams was a swanky-looking bird, tall and lean with sand-colored hair and periwinkle eyes. If she ever had a mind to form a crush on someone, it could very well be him. However, that would never happen. Keeping the resort running smoothly, her father satisfied, her sisters happy and, evidently, her uncle out of jail, took all her time. She was thankful for that—being busy—and liked most of it, particularly being a businesswoman. Even the big boys respected her and she was going to keep it that way. The quickest way to lose respect was to become a doxy.
“Why is he here, then?” she asked when Ted didn’t elaborate.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Ted shrugged. “I got a call about an ossified egg on the street corner and sent an officer out to get him. It turned out to be Dave.”
“Drunk? Dave?” Norma Rose shook her head. “That’s impossible.” Only the family knew Dave didn’t drink. Ever.
Ted leaned against the desk. “Maybe someone slipped him a Mickey.”
Norma Rose refused to let the bubble of concern that burst in her stomach show. “No one would have done that.” Too many men feared repercussions to do such a thing, and others were paid too well.
Ted shrugged again, and lifted an eyebrow while his gaze wandered to where her string of pearls was tied. She lifted her chin and used an unwavering glare to challenge him to meet her gaze instead of stare at her breasts.
“Why didn’t you drive him home?” she asked.
He shifted his stance and his gaze. “As you pointed out, it’s Friday night. The city is hopping.”
“Who called you?” she asked. The underground world Prohibition had built was vast, and undeniably corrupt, almost as fraudulent as those with their self-righteous attitudes who’d created it in the first place.
Ted shifted his stance as if uncomfortable.
New faces did pop up now and again—men and women hoping to make a fortune selling bootlegged and home-brewed spirits who might be foolish enough to challenge the monopoly her father had built. They never lasted long. “Who was it?”
“Mel Rosengren at the Blind Bull,” Ted answered. “But he claimed Dave hadn’t been there.”
“Of course he hadn’t been there,” she said. “Dave doesn’t patronize such establishments.” The fact that her uncle didn’t drink made him the perfect man for the job he held—providing samples to buyers. Actually, Dave couldn’t drink. He broke out in hives and swelled up like a raccoon hit by a car and left on the side of the road to bake in the sun when he consumed so much as a teaspoon of alcohol. Allergic is what Gloria Kasper, the family physician, called it. Highly allergic. “Where is he?”
Before Ted spoke, the door opened—not the one to the street, but the one to the police station.
“Chief.” A portly officer Norma Rose didn’t recognize poked his head through the opening. “A lawyer wants to pay Dave Sutton’s bail.”
More than concern flared inside Norma Rose. “Bail? A lawyer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A fresh bout of ire stung her nerves. No one would have called in a mouthpiece. She’d told her father she’d take care of this, and she would. He was busy trying to convince Brock Ness to stay and play at the resort rather than heading to Chicago to play for some radio station. She’d offered to drive into the city and get Dave because finding another musician this close to the two large parties they had coming up would be next to impossible. “I’m here to pick up Dave,” Norma Rose told Ted, along with a look that said there would be no bail. A man who didn’t do his job didn’t deserve to be paid.
Ted’s slight nod indicated he understood her silent message about the bail. Turning his attention toward the officer, he started across the room. “Where is this lawyer?”
The door opened wider and another man stepped through, one so dapper looking the air in Norma Rose’s lungs wouldn’t move even while a vibration rumbled through her stronger than if she’d stood on the depot platform as a freight train rolled past. His suit was black with dark gray pinstripes and his shoes were suede, black, like his shirt and tie. The hat band of his fedora was black, too, and silk. She saw decked-out men day in and day out, and not one of them had ever made her lose the ability to breathe. This man was big, taller than the police chief, and had shoulders as broad as the men who hauled barrels of whiskey into the basement of the resort. Unlike those men, his hair was cut short, trimmed neatly around his ears, and he was clean-shaven.
Strangers weren’t anything new, and one rarely caught her attention. Flustered for concentrating so deeply on this one, Norma Rose forcefully emptied her lungs. Just above the pounding in her ears, she heard the man speak.
“Chief Williams,” he said, holding out a hand. “Ty Bradshaw, attorney at law.”
The man handed Ted a calling card, and then produced another one out of his suit pocket as he stepped closer. His eyes were dark brown, but it wasn’t the color that seared something inside her. It was the way they shimmered, as if all he had to do was smile and call her doll and she’d fall onto his lap like the girls that were paid to do so back at the resort.
Well-versed on keeping her expression blank—for men gave her those types of looks all the time, which did nothing but disgust her—Norma Rose didn’t so much as blink as she took the card he offered. She did curse her fingers for trembling slightly when his brushed against them.
Embossed gold writing proclaimed his name and profession just as he’d stated, and offered no additional information. Which meant little to nothing. She had embossed cards with her name on them, too.
“I wasn’t aware Dave had a lawyer,” Ted said.
“He does now,” the newcomer stated.
His rather arrogant tone sent another rumble through her. “No, he doesn’t,” Norma Rose argued. Her father employed several attorneys, and if anyone in the family ever had the need, one of them would be called. This occasion didn’t require a mouthpiece, just a few extra bills laid in the chief’s hand. Which would not happen, either. Ted Williams was paid well to keep her entire family out of the hoosegow and the fact she was standing here, arguing with an unknown lawyer, was enough to say Ted was not earning his monthly installments.
The lawyer, Ty or Todd or Tom or whatever he’d said his name was, stepped forward, staring at her so intently she couldn’t glance down to read his calling card again. Norma Rose kept her gaze locked with his, even though her stomach fluttered as if she’d swallowed a caged bird.
“Yes, he does,” he said, his voice as calculating as his stare, which slipped downward.
A tremendous heat singed the skin from her toes to her nose. Everywhere his gaze touched. By the time his eyes met hers again Norma Rose was completely disturbed. And uncomfortable. This had never happened to her, and she wasn’t impressed. “Since when?”
“We sat next to each other at the lunch counter in the drugstore. He had the chicken noodle soup. I had the tomato.”
Norma Rose didn’t care what kind of soup they’d eaten, but his explanation did give her insight she’d missed earlier. His accent was eastern. New York, if her guess was right. They couldn’t pronounce tomato to save their souls. What was a New York lawyer doing in St. Paul? Eating tomato soup at a drugstore?
The ringing of a telephone momentarily interrupted her thoughts. She gathered them quickly enough to say, “My uncle was mistaken. He has no need for his own lawyer.” Turning to Ted, she said, “I’ll take Dave home now.”
Glancing between her and the lawyer, Ted paused, as if not sure what to do.
“Now,” she repeated, lifting her purse off the desk, once again demonstrating Ted wouldn’t be seeing any extra cash for his efforts tonight.
“Chief.” The unknown officer stuck his head through the open doorway again. “There’s a raid downtown.”
“Damn it.” Ted grabbed his hat off his desk. “Where at?”
“The Blind Bull.”
The officer’s answer sent a shiver up Norma Rose’s spine, as did the hint of surprise on Ty Bradshaw’s face. She’d read the calling card a second time and would not forget his name again, nor would she forget how he smiled at her. Having smiled like that on numerous occasions herself, she easily recognized he was attempting to disguise, or make her believe, that he hadn’t reacted to the news of the Blind Bull being raided, although the news had certainly surprised him.
“Get Dave Sutton. Norma Rose will take him home,” Ted told the officer.
“Yes, sir.” The officer disappeared out the door.
“I’m assuming there’s no paperwork for me to sign,” Norma Rose said.
“Of course not. I’d have already signed it if there was,” the lawyer answered.
She gave him a glare that said she wasn’t talking to him, nor would she ever be. Turning to the police chief, she said, “I’ll be sure to inform my father of all your assistance tonight.”
“Now, Norma Rose...” Ted began cajolingly.
“Good evening, Chief Williams,” she snapped before he could continue, and then marched through the doorway into the police station, where she assumed the other officer would bring her uncle.
Dave was already there, sitting in a wooden chair on the far side of the room, looking green and holding the side of his head with one hand. His sample suitcase sat between his legs. He lifted his head as she approached. “Aw, Rosie, I sure didn’t mean for you to have to come down here to get me.”
Norma Rose didn’t say a word until after she’d looped an arm around his elbow to help him stand. Not that she was much help. His six-foot frame had a good eight inches on her and he outweighed her by a hundred pounds. He stood, though, and caught his balance when he wobbled.
Grabbing his leather suitcase in her other hand, she growled quietly, “What were you thinking, doing such a thing?”
“I didn’t mean to get arrested, and I didn’t drink anything, either,” Dave mumbled in return, with rather slurred words. “You know I’m allergic.”
“I’m talking about the lawyer,” she said sharply.
“I met him—”
“I know where you met him,” she said. “Come on, I have to get you home.”
“Ty can give me a ride home,” her uncle said, spying the lawyer.
“And have you giving out family secrets?” she hissed. “I don’t think so.”
“I never give out family secrets.” Dave wobbled and hiccuped. “Rosie, I don’t feel so good.” Rubbing his stomach, he added, “I don’t know if I can handle riding with you all the—”
“You’ll handle it all right.” She wrenched on his arm, heading toward the front door Ty Bradshaw held open. Just because she’d had a slight accident years ago when she was learning to drive, which had resulted in Dave, the one teaching her how to drive, breaking an arm, he chastised her about her driving. It wasn’t her fault he’d stuck his arm out the window when she’d been forced to swerve off the road. Yet, he refused to ride anywhere with her, unless absolutely necessary. Tonight was one of those absolutely necessary times.
“I can give Mr. Sutton a ride to the resort,” the lawyer said, grinning as if he knew the entire history of her driving record. “My car’s right over there.”
Norma Rose glanced in the general direction he pointed, just so she didn’t have to look at him. A jalopy, a Model T similar to the one she’d wrecked years before. The lawyer was grinning even more broadly when she turned her glare his way. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Bradshaw. Your services are no longer needed.” On impulse, mainly due to how her blood had started to boil, she added, “They never were.”
He lifted both eyebrows as he dipped his head slightly. However, his grin still displayed a set of white teeth, sparkling like those of a braying donkey. Norma Rose opened the Cadillac’s passenger door and tossed Dave’s suitcase in the backseat. The car—a gift from her father for her twenty-fifth birthday a few months ago—didn’t have a scratch on it. Proof her driving skills were now stellar. That accident had been five years ago and her first attempt to drive. She wouldn’t have needed to learn how to drive back then if her younger sister by two years, Twyla, hadn’t refused to give her a ride that morning. The year before, when Uncle Dave had returned from the war, he’d taught Twyla how to drive. He was also the one who’d taught Josie and Ginger when they became old enough, and he rode with any one of her sisters regularly.
“Ohhh.”
The heavy groan had Norma Rose glancing at her uncle.
Sweat dripped off Dave’s forehead. “I’m going to be sick.” He stumbled then, all the way to the back of her car, where he unloaded his stomach.
Norma Rose’s stomach revolted at the sound of her uncle’s heaving. Her throat started burning and she pinched her lips together, breathing through her nose as her gag reflex kicked in. She could deal with about most everything, but not throwing up. Not the sounds, the sight, the smell. It evoked memories of death and dying. People too sick to care for one another, dying side by side in their beds.
The flu epidemic that had swept the nation had stayed for months in her home. Taking lives before it left. Her mother, her brother, her grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, friends. A few of them had been spared—her sisters and father—but they’d all been sick with coughs so deep and raw they’d sounded like a gaggle of geese honking, and so uncontrollable they’d coughed until they’d vomited. Once her grandmother’s most cherished and prized possession, the washing machine on the back porch couldn’t handle the workload. With no money to replace or repair the machine, Norma Rose had washed soiled linens and clothes in a tub with bleach so strong her hands bled.
Dave retched again and though he was downwind, she got a whiff of a smell similar to the one that had once hovered over her home. Sweat coated her hands inside her black gloves. Afraid she would lose the contents of her stomach Norma Rose slammed the car door shut and dashed around the front of her Cadillac, the slick bottoms of her new shoes slipping on the pavement in her haste.
“Fine,” she told the lawyer, afraid to breathe while pulling open the driver’s door. “You give him a ride home.”
