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PART I
SPEAKING IN TONGUES

21

DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO.

Trey had known better than to ask, but clearly Reverend Scarritt got around. Both his grandparents, so horrified by the task and then … do what you have to do.

Trey had lied about driving back to Kansas City. He simply didn’t want to be tempted to stay a few days to visit. He went back to his hotel, got the same things he had the day before, plus a good night’s rest.

Not really.

His mind was too full of all the information he’d been deluged by to sleep.

The fact that he even had family to begin with.

They wanted to claim him, keep him as theirs.

His father, not dying of a broken heart, but an overworked one that was doomed from birth anyway.

His grandfather, whose name was Elliott, named after his pirate great-grandfather, was old and dying himself, from his sugars, also handed down. Obviously Trey’s father hadn’t been angry enough to keep from naming his eldest son after his father.

His grandmother, whose name was Susanna, was from an old Irish family in cahoots with the Chicago Sicilians.

Besides Trey’s father, Elliott and Susanna Dunham had had four daughters, all of whom were alive and well with families of their own. One was in California. One was in Louisville. One was in Chicago. The last was in St. Louis. Trey would have liked to meet her, but he was short on time.

He still didn’t know his mother’s maiden name because he’d forgotten to ask, but he needed to swim through all this information before going after his other set of grandparents.

For some reason, unburdening himself to this man he didn’t know, one he shouldn’t (didn’t) trust, had felt good. The three of them had talked and laughed long into the night, after the restaurant closed and they were moved to the bar. Trey wasn’t interested in trying to drink the old man under the table, but his Irish grandmother could hold her martinis like a champ. Slowly, the old man told him his story, made the connection to Boss Tom, which was really nothing more than business as usual since Prohibition began: bootlegging whisky. Nothing in that was foreign to Trey or unexpected, once he confirmed that Grandfather Elliott (as he insisted upon being called) (“Sir” was too formal) was as influential as Boss Tom was.

He was not, however, on speaking terms with the Mafia as Boss Tom was, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The thing we Dunhams do is keep to ourselves. We walk a very fine line, but do our own thing and we go our own way. Not leaders, not followers, out of the fray. It was the only reason I could walk out of Chicago without looking over my shoulder.

Trey had a promise from them that they would visit Kansas City sometime soon. As he headed west in the wee hours of the morning, he found himself growing used to the idea of family visiting. By the time he unlocked the back door of 1520, he was looking forward to it.

He walked through the kitchen, stopped by the bar, and looked around.

It was quiet. Clean. Nothing was out of place. The soft sound of footsteps on the outside-wall staircase told him one of his tenants was going to work. There was a soft knock on the front door, which startled him. He opened it a speck, and three pieces of paper were shoved through.

He took them, closed the door and saw it was a bill of lading. His brow wrinkled. A delivery of Remus was waiting for him at Union Station. That was new. Usually he picked it up at all sorts of places around town, but never directly from Union Station.

That made him nervous. Very, very nervous.

He initialed one of the three and slipped it back through the door, then made sure the fellow sauntered off as if going to work. He went to his office, changed into his old brown work pants and white singlet, and headed upstairs to wake Gio. They puttered on down to Union Station and found his shipment of oranges in the cargo claim area.

“Hey, mac! Can I buy an orange off you?”

“Sure.”

Trey surreptitiously initialed the second piece of paper and the fellow wanting an orange initialed the third. They exchanged the papers.

Trey reached into his crate and pulled out an orange. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”

So Trey and Gio, along with a few bums who seemed to have nothing better to do, spent the morning loading a whisky shipment. Neither Trey nor Gio spoke except to direct their ad hoc workers. They were both too tired. They filled both ICE trucks, puttered off to yet another old widow’s home to fill her garage, then went back to the speak. Gio headed off to bed again and Trey went to the kitchen only to find Ida, his pregnant little housekeeper, scrubbing the grill. “What’re you doing?”

She jumped and twisted around, looking guilty. “Um … cleaning?”

“Yeah, I can see that. Why? You’re supposed to be washing windows upstairs.”

“I … told Bobby I’d clean the kitchen for him.”

“In exchange for what?”

She gulped. “Five dollars.”

That was a helluva lot of money for cleaning a kitchen. “What, exactly, are you supposed to do for five bucks?”

“I’m spring cleaning,” she said in a small voice.

Trey pursed his lips. That was a fair trade. He knew Bobby didn’t like doing it, but Trey insisted it be done once per quarter.

“A’ight,” he drawled with a shrug. “Savin’ up for when you can’t work no more?”

She nodded.

“You know what you’re gonna do with the baby yet?”

“I have a buyer.”

“Quick work, there. Make sure you don’t hold the thing after you pop it out ’cuz you’ll wanna keep it an’ get your heart broke when they come get it.”

She nodded sadly. “I know.”

“You stayin’ on here, ya think?”

“I’d like to keep the bunk room, if you don’t mind,” she said shyly. “It’s cozy.”

“Even with Gio there?”

“He’s quiet, keeps to his bunk. He helps me some. And he’s temporary, isn’t he? I just … I won’t be able to afford much for rent here, but I can’t anywhere else, either. I don’t have much. I’d like a bureau, is all. To put my clothes.”

The bunk room would no longer be available for emergencies, but it would be earning money. “Sure, doll.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dunham.”

He grunted and headed up to his mezzanine office, only to hear the faintest of noises from inside. The door was closed, but the lock had been jimmied. The hinges squeaked. He kept them squeaky on purpose.

Bobby squeaked also, his head popping up from the floor where he was kneeling over an open desk drawer, his hand buried all the way to the back of it.

“What are you looking for?” Trey asked calmly, leaning against the door knob and crossing one foot over the other.

Bobby pressed his lips together. A cat who was snooping on his own would be falling all over himself to apologize. A cat who was being paid to snoop might not take that tack.

“You got five bucks on you?”

He nodded.

“Give it over.”

Bobby arose carefully, stepped from behind the desk, a peashooter in his hand. Trey rolled his eyes and, quick as a blink, had his gun out and shot the fucker in the knee.

“Go back to Lazia,” Trey drawled as he grabbed a howling Bobby by the scruff of his neck, “an’ show him what’s gonna happen if I catch any more of you motherfuckers tossin’ my place.” Bobby was hootin’ and hollerin’ and carryin’ on, clutching his blown knee while Trey hauled him down the stairs, past the kitchen, and out to the alley. He dropped him on the ground and frisked him for his weapons and his cash, all of which he took.

He left Bobby there sobbing and begging, wondering how long it would take him to get to the end of the alley. He went to the kitchen to give Ida her five bucks. “You know how to cook?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, holding that five-spot to her like it was a sack of gold.

“You’re on the grill till you pop if I like your food. Four dollars a week, six to three. Same days off, room and board. If you can stand to also do the housekeeping, you keep that salary, too, and you can start around noon. Let me know if you can’t handle that load. Won’t hold it against you.” He looked around. “If I don’t like your food, you keep on keepin’ house, but if you also spring clean the kitchen once a week, I’ll throw in room an’ board for after. Bunkroom by yourself but it’s all I can do. Good cooks break even an’ I want good food an’ a clean kitchen more’n I want clean windows and rugs in my whorehouse. That good?”

The look of pure relief on her face was reward enough. “Thank you!” she breathed. The relief was too much.

“You didn’t ask me why,” he said, squinting at her. “Bobby’s a good cook. Been workin’ for me for two years.”

Her mouth tightened and she turned away and started scrubbing again. “He’s no good any other way.”

“You fuckin’ him?”

She hesitated, then muttered, “Not because I want to.”

“He payin’ you?”

She hung her head, shaking it as if she had something to be ashamed of.

Trey pursed his lips. “Me’n’Gio’s got church tonight, so we’re gonna be late. I’ll tell Vern you’re in charge back here an’ to get you some help. You think you can handle bossin’ a bunch of teenage boys around?”

“Yessir. I have three little brothers.”

“Good enough.” Trey headed out the door.

“Sir?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yeah, doll?”

“Speaking of church, I was wondering … The … It’s none of my business, but … What’s going to happen if you lose the bet?”

She was frightened, he realized. So was Ethel. He wondered if everybody here felt the same way. He could tell her nothing would change, but he couldn’t guarantee it.

“I ain’t gonna lose, doll,” he muttered. “Can’t afford to.”

He went back outside. Bobby had only managed to crawl two yards. Trey squatted over him. “Yanno,” he said conversationally, “tossin’ my office ain’t a killin’ offense. Oh, hell, even drawin’ a gun on me ain’t one. That’s what kneecaps are for.”

Then he grabbed him by his pomaded hair—God, he hated that stuff—

“Rapin’ a girl under my roof,” he said blithely, “is.”

—and bashed his head into the concrete.

21

If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.

Speakeasy staff.