Stick McLaughlin: The Prohibition Years by CF Frizzell

Author:CF Frizzell [Frizzell, CF]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626392625
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2014-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

October 1927

Dorchester neighborhood

Boston, Massachusetts

Chapter Twelve

Mac focused hard on the two heavily laden trucks that crept along the distant causeway in Nahant. Their headlamps illuminated precious little of the narrow sandy road from the beach. She squinted against the buffeting concoction of October mist and saltwater spray, and settled deeper into her coat, its collar straight up until it bumped the Fedora on her head. Fifteen minutes and she’d lead her group through another successful hijacking.

She checked her watch, pleased to see the truckers kept to the schedule she’d observed twice before. On this run, however, they’d hardly reach this deserted little tourist village on the mainland. And they definitely wouldn’t reach the Flaherty gang’s Charlestown storehouse. This load of whiskey would go right into hers.

She glanced behind her, along the dark street where a lone Model T sat parked in front of a boarded ice cream parlor, and strolled back into the alley.

“This will top off tomorrow’s shipment perfectly.” She didn’t have to look up at the burly driver of her own lead truck to know he appreciated her good mood. Tonight, they would come through with flying colors on the deal she’d made with rail contacts in Harrisburg. Relieving Boston gang boss Jimmy Flaherty of four hundred cases of Jameson would turn the Irishman inside out. And net her operation some serious green.

Gleeson snickered. “You’d think by now they’d have a pilot car or something. I mean, considering how easily we took Minsk’s haul. And, Jesus, we lifted Ambrosino’s the same way just last month. Stupid.”

“Hey, Flaherty thinks he’s untouchable. The luck of the Irish and all that.” She readjusted her Fedora and swiped the salty mist from her cheek. “Just the same, we’ll stay away from these shore runs for a while.” He was right. Gleeson always stated the obvious, even when he’d been her boss at the brewery, back when she was just a kid…just Stick. But she treasured his presence more than ever now. Mac counted her blessings that he and many others she’d rounded up from the old days lent their hard-earned knowledge of the industry and Boston street life to make their operation run so smoothly.

She turned at the sound of footsteps. Jersey grinned and gestured back to the mouth of the alley with a club the size of rolling pin. Cocky as ever, she had a hard time standing still and practically bounced on her toes. Mac grinned at her enthusiasm, taken as always by the energy and focus in her eyes, and a wave of something close to gratitude rushed through her.

“They’re struggling over that road,” Jersey said, slapping the club into her palm. “It’s a wonder those pieces of shit don’t just rattle all apart. Their trucks are junk.”

“More stupidness,” Gleeson said, from the driver’s seat, “trusting all that in jalopies.”

“As long as they make it this far,” Mac said. She set a hand on Jersey’s shoulder, the proximity of her old friend always lending her a jolt of confidence. “We all set out there?”

“The girls are ready.

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