Stick McLaughlin: The Prohibition Years Page 2

  *

  “I love feeling your arms around me like this, so tight and snug.” Ellie kissed Stick’s neck lightly, endlessly excited by the intimate turn in their friendship. Private time was a rare, precious thing, and Ellie summoned every reasonable excuse to rendezvous like this in the shadow of her house. For Stick’s strong embrace, she’d risk everything.

  “I can’t get you close enough, El.” She kissed Ellie’s ear. “You’re perfect, you know.”

  “We’re perfect.”

  Stick brought her mouth to Ellie’s and whispered. “Are you sure they can’t see us from the kitchen?”

  “Stop worrying. It’s okay. This is very okay.”

  A figure suddenly raced around the corner of the house and crashed into them, all three of them spilling to the ground like bowling pins.

  “Holy shit!” Davey Matizano scrambled to his feet.

  “Cripes, Davey!” Stick exclaimed, helping Ellie up.

  He peered at them oddly. “What the hell? What’re you two doin’ out here?”

  “Mind your business,” Stick snapped as she brushed off her clothes. “What’s up?”

  He paused in thought, breathing hard and looking from Ellie to Stick. “Were you two…Um, I mean, did I see what—”

  “What’s up, damn it?”

  Davey couldn’t organize his thoughts, so Stick socked him in the shoulder.

  “Talk, stupid!”

  “Um…I-I checked your place, Stick, but…At least I found you. It’s Baggers. We need you bad. He’s…he’s stuck.”

  Stick straightened to her full height and crossed her arms. “He’s stuck?”

  “Yeah. In Henderson’s storage room, Stick. He fell through the floor.”

  “Jesus Christ, Davey!”

  “Yeah, so come on!” He pivoted to run, but Ellie grabbed his arm.

  “What’s he doing in Henderson’s at this hour?”

  Davey froze, then looked at Stick for help. Ellie followed his gaze.

  “Sounds like he’s up to no good,” Stick offered and clasped Ellie’s hands. “We have to help Baggers, Ellie. I gotta go.”

  “But, Stick, if you get caught it’ll look—”

  “Shh. We won’t get caught. Trust me. Look for me here in an hour, okay?”

  Ellie set her jaw and nodded. Stick squeezed her hands and Ellie watched her race away with Davey.

  *

  Within ten minutes, Stick and Davey were at Bagger’s side…or rather his chest, because the rest of him dangled beneath the floor into the cellar.

  Stick found a coil of rope just inside the back door, and they wrapped Baggers up good and tight and began pulling.

  Baggers inhaled sharply as jagged wood threatened to pierce his rib cage. He let loose with a “Yeooowwww!”

  Davey slapped the back of his head. “Shut up, goddamn it!”

  “You’re gonna have the whole damn neighborhood in here, yelling like that,” Stick said.

  “I can’t help it!”

  “Grab onto the rope. C’mon. Use your strength.”

  The floor flexed awkwardly beneath Stick’s feet. “Hold it.” She stepped away and stared at the hole around Bagger’s beefy body. “I’ll go down and find something he can stand on. Watch out for this floor.”

  Old man Henderson kept a kerosene lamp at the top of the cellar stairs, and Stick lit it and made her way down, pausing at the bottom to set it aside. At the broken ceiling where Baggers’s legs swung freely, she piled every crate and box she could find until he could get his feet under him.

  Then she heard shouting from the front of the store. Lots of heavy footsteps thundered across the old wooden floorboards above her, and it only took a second for Stick to know the cops had arrived.

  Panicked, she scanned the dimness for the outside cellar door. There was no chance to help her pals upstairs. Now it was every man—or woman—for herself. She darted across the cellar and tumbled over a pallet, sending several boxes crashing down on her.

  Stick charged back up and shot for the door. Footsteps stormed down the cellar steps.

  She grabbed the paint-chipped doorknob and flipped back the bolt lock just as a cop yelled for her to stop. He was yelling profanities when he stumbled over the kerosene lamp on the bottom step. Fire sloshed across the floor in a wave of illuminating yellow, and Stick rocketed out into the night.

  *

  True to her word, Stick was standing in Ellie’s backyard one hour later. Within minutes, they were huddled together behind Mr. Weston’s massive rose bushes.

  “Ellie, now listen, please.”

  “I want to know what happened, Stick. You’re filthy. Is everyone okay?” She looked off at the sound of emergency sirens a few blocks away.

  “No, it didn’t go too good. Listen, Ellie. It was just one big circus. We almost had him free, out of the hole, when the cops barged in. I was down in the cellar and managed to get out.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Stick shook her head. “Not really. A cop might’ve seen enough to identify me. He yelled for me to stop, but I didn’t ’cause I was too scared and then…then…he knocked over the lantern, and I think the place might have caught fire.”

  Ellie’s hands went to her cheeks in shock. “Oh, no, Stick!”

  “Yeah. So they must have caught Davey and Baggers, and they’re probably gonna be looking for me, but I didn’t do anything, really, I swear.”

  “I know. Shh.” Ellie put her palms on Stick’s flushed cheeks. “It will be okay. Go and tell them what happened.”

  “No! Ellie, I can’t.” Stick paced away and paced back. “They won’t believe a word I say. Henderson already hates me. I have to go hide somewhere for a while.” She bent over, braced her hands on her knees, and took a few deep breaths. It was so, so hard to breathe. Why couldn’t she think clearly? Why didn’t her heart explode? It was pounding so hard her body shook. “They’ll figure out what really happened, right?” She straightened abruptly. “I hate to say it, El, but Baggers and Davey will have to take the fall for this. I feel bad for them, but I didn’t do—”

  “Stick. Slow down, please.” Ellie removed Stick’s cap and combed her hair back with soft, gentle fingers.

  The sensation made Stick pause. She thrust her arms around Ellie’s waist. Eyes closed to calm herself, she clung to her desperately and nearly crumbled at the press of tender lips to her mouth.

  Stick dropped her forehead onto Ellie’s shoulder. “I don’t want you mixed up in this, so I gotta go now.”

  “Where?”

  Stick’s hammering heart threatened to choke her, and judging by the pale expression on Ellie’s face, it was obvious. She was scaring them both to death.

  “Stick, no.” Ellie shook her head vehemently. “You being gone will look suspicious. You have to just act like noth—”

  “Don’t you get it?” Stick’s eyes teared up. Vivid memories of old man Henderson played across her mind like a moving picture show at the Strand. He’d even had a grip on her a couple of weeks ago. He’d finger her as the third kid just out of spite. “El, I have to, at least for a while…until the commotion settles and the truth comes out. I gotta get away from my house and you. I will be in touch with you, though. I promise, ’cause I need you, Ellie. I…I love you.”

  Chapter Two

  The night of the fire, Stick kept to the unlit backstreets and alleys and made her way across to the South Side of Boston and the rail yard. She had walked it with Ray many times when their father was alive, when they’d bring him supper or fetch him to come home. Stick knew the yard well. She allowed her mind to escape into the vivid fantasies she’d concocted as a small girl. The broken, abandoned railcars and the hobos made up the simple houses and folks of a quiet little town all its own.

  So when she picked her way through the darkness, stepping over sections of railroad ties, scattered lengths of rail, chunks of coal, and shattered bottles, she wasn’t intimidated. The back acres of the yard were a vast, decrepit
wasteland, and street people took it in stride. It was, even with its lost and alone atmosphere, far more welcoming than the real city she now feared as a sixteen-year-old on the run.

  How in the name of God had life come to this, she wondered. She couldn’t go home to anything that felt like sanctuary, even if her mother did decide to treat her decently, but separating from Ellie was what really gnawed at her guts. It was turning her aching head inside out. It made her duck into alleys to vomit. It felt like her heart was forcing itself through her chest, reaching out. She wondered if she would die from it.

  Stick poked her head into several boxcars until she found one with a roof without holes. She climbed in and walked the inside perimeter in the pitch black. Determined she had it to herself and there were no men or rats lounging about, she sat down heavily in a corner. She wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t eaten since…she couldn’t remember…but she was more numb than anything else, except for the deep ache in her chest.

  Leaning back against the wall, she sighed hard and closed her eyes. They burned, on the edge of tears, but there’d be no crying. The facts would be out in short order. You can do this. Just buck up. Hang on for a bit. But the here and now was cold. If she was going to get through this insanity, she’d have to take charge of herself. She’d need a few provisions, a little food here and there, and a plan to see Ellie. Such were the necessities of life, she decided, dropping off into an exhausted sleep.

  Come morning, Stick woke with a sore ass and a stiff neck. Shivering, she crawled to the doorway and sat back on her heels surveying the yard. Images of Baggers jammed into that hole, of Henderson’s cellar awash in flame, of Ellie’s scared and teary eyes…They screamed across her mind. What had she done? Jesus. She scrubbed at her face with irritation. What now?

  She wondered how long she could last this way with nothing but the jacket she was wearing, not a penny to her name. This was where grown men never bathed and went days without food, where they shivered in the chill night air and froze to death in the snow. This was where you stole just to stay alive, and slept with one eye open, and stayed away from the law.

  Stick blinked up at the pale early sun, thankful for fair weather. It wouldn’t last, and she knew she couldn’t afford to sit still. She committed the lay of the land to memory. About three acres away, two men shuffled toward the empty guardhouse near the street and, thinking they probably knew where free coffee was available, Stick paid attention.

  “Hey.”

  The gravelly male voice surprised Stick so much she almost fell out of the car. He was taller than she was and a good hundred pounds heavier, and he stood several feet away, filthy from head to toe in a ragged flannel shirt, dark pants, and shoes with no laces. Black curly hair stood up all over his head, and his very scruffy face broke into a broad smile.

  “I’m Smitty. Who are you?”

  Stick was struck dumb and the big man laughed.

  “You got no name? Look, no offense, but…” He squinted at her. “You a boy or a girl?”

  Stick’s jaw flexed. “I’m a girl. My name’s Stick.”

  “Well, then.” Smitty set his big hands on his hips. “You get in last night?”

  Stick weighed just how much she should say. She already regretted using her own name. Better learn faster than that. “Maybe. So?”

  Smitty shrugged. “Just wonderin’. We ain’t got nothin’ here, so hope you ain’t looking for a handout. Those two fellas just went off for coffee.” He nodded in the direction of the guardhouse. “Salvation Army has it every morning. It’s a couple blocks over on—”

  “I know where it is.”

  Smitty squinted at her again. “So you’re from here?”

  Stick kicked herself mentally. If she kept up this carelessness, she’d be in jail in a heartbeat. “You?”

  “Ah, hell no.” Smitty waved his hand in denial. “Pennsylvania. But the other guys, they’re from here, ’cept Heath. He’s been here six years now, I think. Before that, no one knows, but far away would be my guess.”

  Stick just nodded and turned back into the car.

  “How old are you, Stick?”

  She stopped and looked sideways at him. “Old enough.”

  “How much time you lookin’ at?”

  Now, she faced him directly. “I ain’t running from nobody.”

  “You kill somebody?”

  “Shit, no! I said I ain’t run—”

  “Ahuh.” Smitty left her standing in the car doorway. “Fellas’ll be comin’ around soon and you’re welcome to sit in. Might as well get to know everyone. No one’ll hurt you.”

  “I can take care of myself, thanks,” she said toward his backside.

  “Yup. I figured.”

  *

  Once she left the Salvation Army building, having washed up and thrown back two cups of the strongest, sorriest version of coffee she’d ever tasted, Stick spent the day scrounging around the army base in Southie, the fish piers, and then the Leather District. She avoided the naval barracks at Commonwealth Pier and the base in Charlestown because of that horrible influenza everyone was talking about. Sailors were dropping like flies, she heard, so she kept a safe distance.

  Back in her rail car after sunset, she assessed her day’s work: a pair of U.S. Army green pants and matching green socks with only one hole by the right little toe, a wool blanket a fisherman tossed at her, and two leather gloves, one small and one large. She needed a shirt or two. And some underwear was a must, but she had no idea how to land those…except off someone’s clothesline. She knew it probably would come to that, but she still didn’t like it.

  And it turned out the guys in the yard were okay. Friendly and usually pretty funny, and they treated her like one of them.

  It took a good couple of weeks to adjust to that, being “one of the boys,” homeless and down on your luck, but as the days went by and things became more routine, Stick didn’t see their gang as homeless or all that unfortunate. Sure they could use a good meal now and then, and a bath and a decent shirt, maybe, but they had a place to call home and friends they could trust like family. That meant a whole lot.

  But the Thanksgiving holiday threatened to send Stick into the dark doldrums, missing what little festive time she used to enjoy with her parents, siblings, and neighbors. She constantly reminded herself that her mother had become someone whose company few people enjoyed, so she really didn’t miss her at all. Did she? Brother Ray, at nineteen, had become his own version of God’s gift to women and was too irritating to hang with for any length of time, anyway. It was seven-year-old Dottie she missed, her giggles and bright-eyed smiles, and the games they used to play. And then, of course, there was Ellie.

  She mailed Ellie three postcards on Thanksgiving week, staying in touch as best she could and keeping her own spirit from crashing to the yard dirt like so much shattered glass. She wrote about past Thanksgiving nights, when they’d gather around the Westons’ big kitchen table and have leftover potatoes and gravy and big pieces of Mrs. Weston’s pies, either apple or squash. The Westons could be counted on to have a fat, juicy chicken stuffed with cornbread and apples, which was why there never were any meat leftovers.

  At her own house, Stick’s mother always prepared four baked chicken legs, potatoes, and turnip, which was cheap at the A&P, and although Stick never liked that vegetable’s bitterness, she ate it to fill up. There was a cup of custard for each of them as dessert. After heating water for dishes on the old coal stove and washing and putting everything away, Stick always made a beeline for the Weston house across the street.

  She’d stay till bedtime, munching down cookies Ellie made with her mom. Oatmeal with peanut bits. Couldn’t buy them in a store. Crumbly, especially when stashed under a pillow. Special cookies for special moments…with a special girl.

  Now, sitting on a cold chunk of railroad tie and watching the fire, Stick slouched deeper into her jacket and studied the faces of the men in the flickering light. It was Thanksgiving night, and she wonder
ed where each man’s thoughts had gone. She wondered if her first foray into the streets had been like any of theirs. She supposed that growing up, eyeballing the delicious or fun things in stores hadn’t helped keep her on the straight and narrow.

  She sighed and watched her frosty breath dance in the firelight. Any day now, she calculated, the police would tell the newspapers how the whole fire went down, that Davey and Baggers confessed to breaking in, and that the fire was an accident and nobody was really to blame. It was the truth, after all, so it might take a little time, but things would sort themselves out soon. The reasoning gave her hope.

  It was plain to see that once this mess was cleaned up, she’d need a genuine job like other adults. She was one now. That’s how it felt. She would get back on her feet, and life would get better than ever. She needed to start right away. Besides, how could she expect Ellie to even see her, if she was nothing more than a hoodlum, some street tough? How could she give Ellie sweets and flowers, the pretty things she deserved? Stick vowed to climb back to respectability. Tomorrow, she’d send off another postcard and they’d meet behind the A&P again soon, so Stick could make sure Ellie knew her intentions.

  *

  Anonymous postcards arrived every few weeks, and Ellie treasured them all. Stick was present when she held the cards. That shared touch of hands. She missed Stick terribly. Nothing her mother said cheered her. Meal times were subdued; after-school homework sessions grew into prolonged, sad, and secluded hours; shopping at the A&P with her parents was torturous as neighbors always stopped to chat about Henderson’s. Everyone knew the situation was deadly serious. Ellie had little to say to anyone.

  She continued to save all the news clippings of “the crime” which, instead of being unraveled and resolved, had exploded with complexity. A policeman suffered severe burns in the blaze that turned Henderson’s into a vacant lot of charred debris. Firemen wore themselves out fighting the losing battle. Neighbors were all gathered ’round when the police pushed Davey and Baggers into the paddy wagon. Everyone heard the boys shouting explanations of what happened, yelling in protest. Everyone heard the police urgently calling out, asking if any onlookers noticed a fleeing accomplice.