Black Cordite, White Snow: A Minnesotan Prohibition Thriller (Crooks' Haven Book 1) by Nate Granzow

Author:Nate Granzow [Granzow, Nate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Venator Media Solutions LLC
Published: 2024-02-11T00:00:00+00:00

A passing familiarity

Oscar had done his homework. True to his word, he had found several locations throughout St. Paul at which they could discreetly stow the guns without fear of them being discovered. One was an awning shop owned by a kindly older couple who were always willing to stitch up Oscar's greatcoat for free whenever it got a new tear or lost a button. Another was a dry cleaner with a particularly big basement, run by an elderly blind woman who was one of Oscar's best customers for gin. The third location was truly impressive: the Wabasha Street Speakeasy, the gateway to an elaborate cave network burrowed throughout the soft sandstone bluffs along the Mississippi. It had once been an old silica mine before becoming a mushroom farm, and finally, a blind tiger.

Inside, the walls that hadn't been covered in decorative tile bore old scars from pickaxes and chisels. Spilled drinks and muddy shoes had discolored the floors, while drunken shootouts and negligent discharges from intoxicated patrons had scarred the twenty-foot-high cave ceiling.

The house band began warming up in preparation for the evening crowd, an ebullient melange of scales and freeform solos, fingers flitting effortlessly over keys and tone holes. Oscar and Niklas crossed the empty hardwood dance floor—covered in a dusting of loose sand despite persistent efforts to sweep it clean—toward a bar that seemed to stretch on for fifty feet. They had left Kessler circling the block with the truck containing the last of their guns.

"Bartender's name is Bill Layman," Oscar said under his breath as they approached. "Owns this place with his wife, Josie. I had hoped she would be here. She likes me more than he does."

"I thought you had already gotten their approval to move the guns here," Niklas said, an edge of panic in his voice.

"Calm down, comrade. We talked about it. They seemed fine with it."

"Seemed? Oscar, where are we going to put the last load if they won't take them? Under our mattresses?"

"You worry too much, my friend. Bad for your heart."

Overhead, a fan spun lazily, nudging clouds of cigarette smoke around the caves. The air inside was cool and damp, but still a welcome reprieve from the wind and ice outside.

"Bill, we're here with that product I spoke to you about," Oscar shouted across the bar.

The bartender, lit cigarette bouncing beneath his black, toothbrush-style mustache, didn't look up from wiping dry the glasses he had lined up behind the bar. "We never did get around to the details of that, Oscar," he said. "Might I ask what this product is?"

"Afraid not," Niklas said.

Pausing his work to raise an eyebrow at the newcomer with the abrupt manners, the bartender snorted. "I figured you might say that. You fellows have a lot of faith that I won't just go take a gander as soon as you leave."

"Let's just say that you not knowing what we intend to store here may prove a great deal safer for you than if you did know."

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