Page 88 of Forked (Frenched 2)
Not that I much cared about his occupation.
If he comes in again, I’ll say hello first, I thought, recalling those dark eyes that smoldered like Valentino’s. “Hi, there,” I said, practicing. No, too girlish. I cleared my throat and tried again, imagining how a sultry screen vamp like Theda Bara would greet a man like the sheik. “Hello.” Yes, that was better. Deeper, more mature.
Next, I tried to even out my walk so that I could slink into a room, cigarette holder in one hand, highball in the other. But slinking was a bit difficult for me because one of my legs is shorter than the other, not that either of them is what you’d call long. My mother was so small she had difficult births, and my hip broke as I was being born. It hadn’t healed right, resulting in a one-inch difference, and I have to concentrate if I don’t want to limp, especially if I’m tired. But if I smoothed out my gait, kept my weight back and my chin down, bent my knees a little…
Damn. Slinking was harder than it looked.
Giving up, I jogged the rest of the way down the alley
and pushed open the door to the garage. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Daddy taking apart the back end of a Cadillac hearse.
Officially, he was an auto repairman, but his real talent was rebuilding cars—creating hidden compartments, phony gas tanks, false floorboards. It was amazing how many bottles of booze could be stashed in the unseen lining of an automobile. Hearses were especially popular with bootleggers because they had wide back ends, but I stuck with my Model T. Those hearses were creepy.
“I’m here!” I called over the banging of his hammer.
The noise stopped and he straightened halfway, bracing his hands on the hearse’s frame and tilting his chin toward me over one shoulder. His profile revealed the crooked line of his nose, which had been broken several times. “It’s over there. Can you load it?” He jerked his head toward two large boxes labeled Royal Baking Powder sitting on the cement floor near the door.
“Sure.”
“That’s my girl. Fifteen per bottle, and don’t take less.”
“I won’t. This came for you.” I moved closer to him and held out the envelope. “The man who brought it said you should answer by tonight.”
He took it from me, barely glancing at it before shoving it into the front pocket of his work overalls. “To hell with that. I don’t answer to him or anybody else.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s nothing. Now go on, I’ll meet you at the boathouse at six sharp. I want to get the whole place cleared out, bring it all here.”
I nodded. That could take a while. We had a lot of booze stashed in that boathouse, probably enough to—
“What the hell do you want, a police escort?” He waved his hammer toward the door. “Get moving!”
“OK, OK. Jeez,” I muttered, hurrying over to the boxes loaded with whisky bottles. Daddy had a quick temper, but he wasn’t usually so short with me. Either it was something about the letter, or he owed money to his bookie. His business ventures made enough to house, clothe, and feed us, but every extra dime fed his ravenous betting habit. Every man has his temptations, I supposed, slipping my fingers underneath a box. And every woman too. I could still hear the sheik’s low, velvety voice in my head. My stomach tightened as I imagined getting him out of that buttoned-up three-piece suit, removing that crisp white collar, slipping the crimson tie from around his neck. A sweat broke out on my back.
I lugged the boxes just outside the door, then left them sitting there while I retrieved the car. Daddy and I shared a 1921 Model T Sedan he’d rigged with hidden compartments and a trunk with a false floor. Jefferson Market was painted on the side in cheerful white letters, and I always had bags of groceries in the back seat, just in case I got stopped. After pulling alongside the garage door, I turned off the motor and jumped out. I was leaning into the back lifting up the bench seat when I heard a deep voice behind me.
“Excuse me.”
My head snapped up, my heart hammering as I backed out. Please don’t be a fed. I turned around and sucked in my breath.
The sheik was leaning against the brown brick wall, barely three feet from me.
“What are you doing back here?” Definitely not the sultry greeting I’d rehearsed.
“Looking for you.” He lit one of his Fatimas and held it between long fingers, the smoke curling above his head.
“Why?”
“I’m wondering if you can help me out. I need some whisky.”
A trickle of sweat made its way down my chest. “What makes you think I can help you?”
He put the Fatima to his mouth, inhaling and exhaling in no particular hurry. I stared at his lips as they closed and opened around the cigarette. “I listen carefully in a crowd.”
I looked him over, trying to read his eyes, which were shadowed by the brim of his hat. “How much?”
“Maybe ten cases. That too much for you?”
