The Bootlegger (Isaac Bell 7)

“That’s a stable on Warren Street. Where would you put a wagon while you collected dynamite?”

“The same guys.”

The chief investigator and the Gang Squad chief’s onetime apprentice exchanged a grim look.

“I’ve been asking myself something similar,” said Tobin. “Harry shadowed suspects close as glue. Trucks doesn’t have a mark on him. So Harry couldn’t have been following close when he got blown up. But Harry had no reason to be in front of the Morgan Building. He was supposed to be eleven blocks uptown, here at the stable.”

“What you are speculating,” Bell said, “is that Harry was in the wagon.”

“I didn’t want to say it. It sounds too crazy.”

“It’s not crazy,” said Bell. “It is speculative. And it would be purely wild speculation if we were not tracking possible Comintern agents hell-bent on sowing terror.”

“So what if Harry, looking for Trucks, got the drop on them in the stable? What if they turned the tables and killed him?”

Isaac Bell nodded. “That could be why Trucks is running for it, if he knew that Harry was a Van Dorn. Van Dorns don’t come alone. He’s grabbing what he can of the booze before we catch up with him.”

“You want to bust in the door?”

“Very much so,” said Bell. “But I’d rather see where he goes. If anyone knows who Marat Zolner is, it’s the gangster who came back home on Zolner’s steamer ticket.”

“Door’s opening!”

“Can you trust this thing to keep up?”

“It’s running O.K.”

A heavyset man pulled the doors inward. The streetlight fell on his face. His skin gleamed with perspiration. He had removed his hat, revealing a distinct widow’s peak.

“That’s Trucks,” said Tobin. “No question. See what I said? Not a mark on him.”

Trucks O’Neal stepped back into the warehouse and a moment later drove out in a Dodge delivery van, riding low under the weight of a heavy load.

Bell said, “He didn’t close the door this time. He’s finished. He’s not coming back.”

Tobin jumped behind the steering wheel and stepped on the electric starter.

“Stick close,” said Bell. “I’d rather he spots us than we lose him.”

They followed the Dodge downtown for eight blocks, into the Syrian quarter, and across Rector Street to West Street and down a block. Trucks O’Neal rounded the corner, half a block ahead of Isaac Bell and Ed Tobin. They followed, turning into a dark street that was suddenly ablaze with muzzle flashes.

• • •

A STACCATO ROAR echoed off the buildings like a thunderstorm of chain lightning. A line of bullets stitched holes in a row of parked cars. Tobin slammed on the brakes.

Isaac Bell threw open the passenger door, collared Tobin with his free hand, and dragged him out with him. As they rolled across the cobbles the butcher van resonated like a tin drum, its sides and windshield punctured repeatedly.

“Thompson .45 submachine gun.” Bell rolled to a crouched position behind a bullet-riddled Model T and whipped his Browning from his coat.

“What are they shooting at us for?” Tobin shouted over the roar, which continued at the same deadly pitch.

“They’re not.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“They’re shooting at the guys shooting back.”

A scattering of pistol fire confirmed that the Van Dorns had driven into the middle of someone else’s gunfight. Tobin drew a short-barreled belly gun, which would be of even less use against the Thompson than Bell’s automatic.