Speak Easy (Speak Easy 1)

“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?”

I lifted my chin. “No.”

“How much do you charge?”

“Two hundred a case,” I said, quickly raising my price.

“And how soon can I get it?”

“As soon as you want it.”

He lifted his brow. “Impressive. You bring it over in the car?”

“Leave the details to me. You’ll get what you want.”

One side of his mouth hooked up. “I always do.” He came off the wall, and I backed into the Ford to steady myself. I wished I hadn’t chosen my shabbiest blouse this morning. It used to be red but had faded to a mealy-tomato color. When his feet reached mine, he swayed forward, placing his hands on the car’s roof, one on either side of me. The air hummed between us, and every inch of my skin tingled with awareness of him. I let my lips fall open.

His smile deepened. “I’ll be in touch, Miss O’Mara.” He straightened up, and with a tip of his hat, walked away.

“Just a moment!” Think of something—quick! “May I have a cigarette?”

Retracing his steps, he took a gold case from his coat pocket, opened it, and offered me a Fatima. I put it to my mouth. His fingers have touched this. His eyes held mine captive as he pulled out a lighter, and I jumped when the flame burst from its tip. Once the cigarette was lit, I took what I hoped looked like a deep and sultry drag.

With a nod, he walked away again, and I could think of nothing to make him come back. Nothing smart and sophisticated, anyway.

“Wait!” I called, shading my eyes from the sun. “What’s your name?”

He looked at me over his shoulder, but only smiled with closed lips before disappearing around the corner.

“Shit,” I said, kicking the tire of my car. I’d admitted too much for nothing in return. And he knows my name. What the hell? For all I knew he was going to sell my information to a prohi around the corner. I stared at the cigarette he’d given me, dragged on it, and swore again. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“She smokes and she curses,” said a voice behind me. “Should I bring you a spittoon too?”

I whipped around and saw Joey Lupo standing there with two grocery sacks in his arms and an irritating grin on his face. Joey was my age, some kind of cousin of Bridget’s late husband, Vince, and one of those guys whose big mouth is always trying to make up for his short stature. He once stole a pair of underwear from my dresser and charged the neighborhood boys a penny for a peek. Five years had passed, but I still hadn’t forgiven him.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I thought you went to Chicago.”

“I’m back. You miss me?”

I sucked on my cigarette and blew the smoke at him.

His grin widened. “Still sugar-sweet. Some things never change.” He set the grocery sacks down and reached for a box. “Come on, Little Tomato, I’ll help you load.”

“Don’t call me that.” I was just about to tell him I didn’t need his help when Daddy came out the garage door. Throwing the cigarette to the ground, I tried to fan away the smoke but wasn’t quick enough. Daddy let me work for his bootlegging operation but he was strangely old-fashioned about lipstick and smoking, and I didn’t want a lecture in front of Joey.

“Frances Kathleen O’Mara, I told you no smoking and I meant it,” Daddy growled. “Your mother is turning in her grave, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself and looked skyward. “You see what these girls do to me, Mary?”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring Joey’s infuriating chuckle. “I’m twenty years old, Daddy, not ten.”

He glared at me. “You live under my roof, you follow my rules.”