Chapter Nine
Jessie rushed into her office at The Red Phoenix, her arms so laden with boxes she could barely push aside the bookcase that hid her secret entrance into the club. A knock sounded on the door to her office just as she entered. She dumped the boxes on the floor, shoved the bookcase back into place, and went to answer the door.
Joe stood there, patiently waiting with his hat in his hand.
“Joe, I’m so sorry. Come in.”
Joe followed her in, sitting in the chair in front of her desk. Jessie slumped into her own chair and laid her head on the desk. Joe waited patiently until Jessie sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“You’re working too hard. You need to let me help you more and not just at the shop. I can do more here,” Joe said, his kind voice reminding her of her father. Though when she opened her eyes to look at him, the resemblance disappeared.
Her father had been tall, thin, and very bald. Joe on the other hand, still sported a full head of silver-tinged black hair, and was built like a Buddha idol Jessie had once seen. He wasn’t much taller than Jessie herself, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in girth.
“You do too much for me already.”
Joe shook his head. “It’s not right, you working yourself to the bone to pay off your daddy’s debt. Your daddy’s dead and gone. His debt should have gone with him.”
Jessie gave him a tired smile. “I agree. But Willie, unfortunately, does not.”
“That Willie is an evil man.”
“Again, I agree. But he loaned my father the money when he needed it and he certainly doesn’t care that he died. He wants his money. And since the shop still isn’t pulling in enough to keep it running and pay the debt…well, let’s just be thankful I found the stash of gin so I could open this place,” she said.
“Don’t we have enough yet? Business has been good, here and at the shop.”
“It has been. Very good. But if we were to close The Red Phoenix now, I’m not sure the shop is stable enough to keep running just yet. Not in addition to paying off the rest of the debt.”
She didn’t add that she couldn’t bear the thought of having to let Joe go if she couldn’t keep their finances going. He’d come to work at the shop when Jessie had been about twelve or so, and when her dad had died Joe had stayed on to help Jessie run things. Without him, the shop would have gone under long ago and she couldn’t let him down now.
Joe frowned slightly. “You know you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be all right, even if you weren’t able to keep me on.”
Jessie smiled. “I know you would be, Joe. But you aren’t the only one whose livelihood is on the line. What about Charlie? And Maude? Jobs seem to be getting scarcer by the day.”
Jessie knew that Charlie hadn’t been able to find anything permanent that would keep bread on his table and his bills paid until Jessie had hired him. Maude, too, had been at the end of her rope when Jessie had offered her the job singing at The Red Phoenix. If The Red Phoenix were to close, what would Maude do? Oh, she’d have no problem getting hired at another speakeasy, but most of them were run by Capone’s or Willie’s men. Not exactly a great working environment for a single lady. At least Maude was safe at The Red Phoenix.
So, as tired as Jessie was, as frazzled as she was keeping The Red Phoenix open and having to deal with cops and prohi agents—and singing at The Corkscrew—she just couldn’t close the speakeasy yet. Too many people were depending on her for their living, either through the speakeasy or the butcher shop. She had to ride it out a little longer until she had all her debts paid off and enough stockpiled to keep things running should business slow down again.
“You take on too much, Jessie.” Joe patted her arm. “You don’t have to do it all alone, you know.”
Jessie smiled and covered his hand with her own. With her dad gone, Joe had stepped into the father role. Aside from Maude, he was the only one Jessie trusted. It was nice to have someone to share that burden with, though even Joe didn’t know everything about the speakeasy. Where the main stash of gin was, for instance, or the location of the private door Jessie used. Jessie tried to operate on a need-to-know basis, just in case any of her people were picked up by the Feds or one of her rivals. They couldn’t reveal secrets they didn’t know.
And as much as Jessie would love the help, she wanted to keep Joe and Maude as ignorant as possible. The less they knew, the less involved they were, the safer they were.
“I know, Joe. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the offer. I promise if it gets to be too much, I’ll consider it.”
“Uh, huh,” Joe mumbled, pinning her with an exasperated look that said he knew she needed help and was just being too stubborn to ask for it.
Jessie smiled. She loved the old guy. “Actually, now that you mention it, I was thinking of having you help out a bit more. And Charlie too, if he can.”
“Of course. You need Charlie to take more hours in the shop?”
“If he could, just for a few weeks, and I’ll need you to run things here for a few extra nights a week.”
Joe’s brow crinkled. “We’re happy to help, of course. It’s about time you let us take on more.” He folded his arms and stared at her. “You mind if I ask why you’re letting us help all of a sudden?”
“You worry too much, Joe,” she said, standing and giving him a hug.
“Not enough, I’d say. Someone needs to worry about you now and then.”
“Here,” she said, smiling and handing him several folders. “The receipts for the past month and the time sheets for the staff. If you could go over my figures, make sure everything is correct, I’ll get the cash so you can divvy up the payroll.”
Joe nodded and took the files out to the bar area where he could spread everything out.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Jessie slid down in her chair a bit, until her head rested on the back of the chair, and let her eyes close. The stress weighing on her shoulders eased a little. Joe would run things at The Red Phoenix. The shop would be in the capable hands of Charlie. He was only nineteen, not too much younger than she was, though at times he seemed like an over-eager puppy. To be fair, that was mostly when Maude was in the shop. Jessie couldn’t blame him. Maude was divine. Other than that, Charlie had a good level head on his shoulders. Jessie could trust him.
In any case, right now, she could spare a few minutes to relax.
Someone knocked on her door and Jessie stood up and laughed. Looked like quiet time was over.
…
Tony slammed the envelope down on his desk and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to go breaking everything in his office. That would only cost him more money. Money he wouldn’t have unless he could pinch the damn Phoenix and get his career going again. He’d been having fun living on the Feds’ dime, but that clambake wasn’t going to last for long, especially if he couldn’t deliver what they were looking for and soon. The initial month they’d given had come and gone. It had taken much longer to get things set up and get him established at The Corkscrew than they’d anticipated. His timeframe had been extended, but the Feds would run out of patience eventually.
And right now, the only thing he had going for him was that Jessie was working at The Corkscrew. Maybe that meant she wasn’t as close to the Phoenix as they’d thought. Or that they’d had a falling out. Then again, she could be working both sides. Or maybe it meant nothing at all.
Ton sighed and slumped into his chair, rubbing his hands over his face before sliding down so he could rest his head on the back of his chair. He stared at a water spot on the ceiling and for the millionth time, he cursed himself for letting his life fall so completely apart.
Two years ago, he’d been a highly respected detective on the fast track to career glory. He’d brought in more criminals and closed more cases than anyone else on the force. He’d not only been the best at his job, he’d loved it too. Not something every man could say. He’d had it good. A nice apartment, a closet full of good suits, and a beautiful dame on his arm.
Lucille. Now, just her name made him cringe. He’d been a goner for her, one of those guys other guys mocked. He’d have done anything for her. And had. Which was why when she had come to him with a tip on where he could find Willie the Weasel’s newest bootlegging operation, he hadn’t questioned it. All she had to do was blink up at him with her big brown eyes and say, “Trust me,” and he had turned into a total sap. She was his girl.
Or so he had thought.
Turned out she had really been Willie’s girl, and that tip she’d given him was baloney, a smoke screen to keep the cops busy while Willie set up his new operation somewhere else. When Tony had realized he’d been double-crossed, he hadn’t believed it, at first. Hadn’t believed that Lucille had set him up like that. His captain told him to bring her in, but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put her in cuffs and drag her into the precinct like some crook.
He’d been sure she’d been coerced somehow, threatened. Thought if he could get her alone, talk to her, he could find out the truth.
The truth had been that she was a lying, no good floozy that he should have run from the second he’d clapped eyes on her. But he hadn’t wanted to believe that either. He had gone charging in after her, against his captain’s orders, still not believing she’d done him wrong until the gun had rung out and one of Willie’s guys had put a bullet through his partner’s head.
He had lost everything because of her. His job, the respect of his colleagues, his self-respect. His partner.
That’s what kept him up at night. His partner was dead because he hadn’t been able to see past a pair of pretty eyes and soft lips. He deserved the life he lived now because he shouldn’t even be alive. It should have been him who had gone down that night, not Stan. He only thanked God that Stan hadn’t had a family. No more lives that would have been ruined.
If it hadn’t been for Tony’s mother, he would be well on his way to drinking himself to death by now. Prohibition or no Prohibition. Hell, he’d been a cop. He knew where the speakeasies were. He could have done it and would have welcomed the numbness that came with too much booze.
But his ma didn’t have anyone else. She needed him. So here he was. Trying to scrape by doing private investigations for rich men who couldn’t keep their wives from sleeping with the gardener and rich women who thought their maids might be stealing from them. He made enough to get by, but it was a near thing every month. And his ma deserved better than what he could give her right now.
What he needed was for his little songbird to start singing. He didn’t like the idea of using her, but he had no illusions that she was an innocent in this game, though at times he could swear she was. No. Even if she wasn’t in as deep as Jameson thought, she had to be involved, somehow. She had information he needed, information that was illegal to keep, and he wasn’t going to let some gangster’s moll get in the way of getting his life back.
Tony opened his bottom drawer and pulled out the battered, coffee-stained file. He flipped it open. Jessie’s picture stared up at him.
She’d been brought in half a dozen times before Jameson had come to him, but she didn’t seem to know anything. Anything useful, anyway. However, something about her answers seemed off to Tony. He wished he had been in on the interrogations. He was good at reading people, their reactions, body language. He could usually tell when someone was lying. He shied away from the memory of Lucille and focused on what he’d read in Jessie’s files.
Officer: Who is the man known as the Phoenix?
Jessica: I don’t know any man by that name.
Officer: Have you ever been to a speakeasy known as The Red Phoenix?
Jessica: Yes.
Officer: Can you take us there?
Jessica: No.
Officer: So you are refusing to tell us the location of the speakeasy?
Jessica: You didn’t ask me where the location was.
Officer: Where is the location of the speakeasy?
Jessica: In Chicago.
Officer: We are aware of that. Surely you can be more specific. Can you tell us where exactly it is? What street it is located on?
Jessica: Not with any degree of certainty, no.
Officer: Why not?
Jessica: It’s not really on a street.
Officer: If it is located in this city, it must have an address.
Jessica: If it does, I have no idea what it is.
Officer: Fine. We’ll come back to that one. Who supplies the Phoenix?
Jessica: No one.
Officer: He must have a supplier.
Jessica: Why is that?
Officer: He must get the booze he sells from somewhere. Does he run it from Canada, across Lake Michigan or Huron maybe, or is he bootlegging over land from another city? Make it himself?
Jessica: The only person I ever knew who made their own liquor was my father. And he’s dead.
Officer: You said the Phoenix does not have a supplier, which must mean he makes his own liquor. Where is his operation?
Jessica: I can’t tell you that.
Officer: Can’t or won’t.
Jessica: Can’t.
Officer: Young lady, if you do not answer my questions we will charge you with obstruction of justice. You’ll go to jail.
Jessica: I am answering your questions. I can’t help it if you don’t like my answers.
Officer: You are not answering my questions.
Jessica: I have answered every question you’ve asked.
Officer: Where is the Phoenix’s booze operation?
Jessica: The Phoenix doesn’t have one.
Tony rubbed his hand over his eyes, torn between frustration and flat-out laughing. The woman had really taken the poor officer for a ride, though she was correct. She had technically answered every question she’d been asked. Tony had to admire the officer’s restraint in not strangling her, though. He turned back to the statements.
Officer: Can you tell us what days the speakeasy is open?
Jessica: No.
Officer: Why not?
Jessica: Because it always changes.
Officer: But the Phoenix tells you what days it’ll be open so you can pass the information along. Is that right?
Jessica: No.
Officer: No, he doesn’t give you the information?
Jessica: Yes.
Officer: Yes he does?
Jessica: No.
Officer: You said yes.
Jessica: That’s correct.
Officer: What’s correct? Can you clarify your answer?
Jessica: Certainly. What was the question again?
Tony finally gave in to the urge and laughed. He’d love to be the one interrogating the little bearcat. A quick mental flash of her sparkling eyes, full, smiling lips and soft, luscious curves gave him a few other ideas of what he’d like to do the next time they were alone. But he pushed those thoughts away and focused on the case at hand.
The interview had gone on along these lines for a while before the interrogator had given up and let her go. They didn’t have enough to hold her and she wasn’t giving up any information. She never admitted that she knew the Phoenix, but the way she answered other questions made it obvious she did know the man, or at least details of his operation. Though according to her, the man didn’t have a supplier nor did he make his own booze. Which left the question, if he doesn’t buy it or make it, where is he getting the booze he sells? Perhaps he’d stolen it. That could explain why Willie was so interested.
It’d be much easier if he could just ask her what he wanted to know. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit. He preferred to be straightforward and this subterfuge bit wasn’t sitting well with him. He had to admit, now that he was getting to know her, he couldn’t understand why she’d be mixed up with a man like the Phoenix. She didn’t seem the type. She’d seemed more comfortable swinging a knife in her butcher shop than draped in tassels and feathers onstage in the speakeasy.
Then again, she’d been with Russo, though by all accounts it hadn’t lasted long. But now she was mixed up with yet another bootlegger. As incongruous as it was, she must be hiding the man for a reason. Maybe she’d been threatened, though nothing about her indicated that she was afraid. She had come into the precinct when summoned. She had answered questions calmly and coolly. She never seemed to get ruffled. That suggested to Tony that she was willingly hiding something, not being coerced into lying.
She probably was the Phoenix’s dame. Lying to protect her rum running lover. Which made her just as bad as the criminal.
Tony didn’t want to examine why that thought made his gut turn like he’d ingested a vat of rotgut. In the end, it didn’t matter. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it. No matter how he felt about it.