Thin As Smoke by Erin O'Quinn

Author:Erin O'Quinn [O'Quinn, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gay & Lesbian
ISBN: 9781611247428
Publisher: Amber Quill Press, LLC
Published: 2015-02-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

The small Morris was proving to be a speeding bullet, in spite of Michael's disparaging the horsepower to Clary Flannahan. The "14 hp" must mean the taxable horsepower, yet another way to bleed money from honest citizens. Sitting back comfortably on the leather seat, he almost relaxed, realizing they'd be at the office in plenty of time for his reunion with Simon.

On their way back from Whiskey Row, after Sam had grabbed his arm and showed actual excitement, the danger sensor in Michael's gut was beginning to quiver.

The agent's mention of rum-runners triggered only a vague memory. Michael read his own New Dawn almost every day, but the newspaper was thin on news from overseas. Still, he knew in the war between crooks and G-men, the criminals were easily on top. Michael had never been on the side of lawless men; in his opinion, making booze illegal was the same as handing money to the Mafia--or to any unscrupulous hooligan looking to make a dishonest dollar. So he counted himself among the "wets," those who opposed Prohibition.

"I've missed the news about rum-runners, Sam. What's going on?"

"They're exactly what the name implies. Bootleggers, not all of them Mafia, have set up a line of relatively small boats, maybe forty-footers, from Jamaica to a few miles off the East coast. Also across the Great Lakes, in the Gulf of Mexico, and even from Western Canada down to the 'Frisco area. They smuggle in not just rum, but any booze. Like your cheap Irish whiskey. The take is in the several millions every year."

"An' the Feds can't stop 'em?"

"Not easy, Mike. The Coast Guard is trying to come up with faster and faster boats, but it seems like the runners are always a step ahead. I'm surprised you haven't heard of McCoy. Not to mention Quinn down in the Galveston Island area. The fucking Irish connection."

He grunted. "This fucking Irishman can see the connection, all right. Six high-precision engines will be a bloody disaster to the government boys." He stopped talking for a while, pondering the coincidence of Trevor's motors and Sam's bootleggers.

Their rest of the drive was largely silence punctuated by a few scraps of conversation.

Two men with seven years of peril an' pleasure to share, yet we act like bloody nuns under a vow of silence.

Hallway to the office, he ventured a veiled question. "Ah, tell me about your wife."

Sam's answering cough was protracted enough to flay Michael's nerves.

"Jo."

Michael was instantly confused. "Joe?" Was the man deep under cover in his personal life, too? How could--

"Yeah. Josephine. Not much to tell. She's pretty, in a way. Gave me a kid. And she loves me."

And that was the end of any intimate details of his life. Michael resumed his bemused quietude, determined not to let his former friend's chill attitude affect his own eagerness to reunite with Simon.

By the time Sam drove up to the North Street warehouse-office with Michael next to him, it was half past five of the afternoon. The hideous North Street warehouse had never looked so damned inviting.

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