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Chapter Eighteen
White Bear Lake, Minnesota, 1925
The steady tick of bugs hitting the metal shield protecting the streetlamp was like a clock ticking away the seconds. Patience had never been one of Ty Bradshaw’s best virtues, not even when his life had depended on it during long stays in trenches overseas. A product of the Selective Service Act, he’d been one of the ten thousand soldiers shipped to France each day courtesy of the US armed forces eight years ago. Unlike many other twenty-year-olds back then, he’d come home alive.
Because he was lucky.
That’s what he was counting on now. Luck. His experience using a machine gun during the days of the Great War might come in handy, too. That was up in the air. He hadn’t needed to use a gun since he’d returned, and as far as he’d discovered, Roger Nightingale didn’t approve of gunfire at his resort, but the gangsters Nightingale associated with didn’t care where they burned powder. They’d pump lead into people while they were sleeping. He knew that firsthand.
Maybe he did have more patience than he gave himself credit for. He’d waited five years for this chance.
Then again, maybe he was just dedicated and savoring his revenge.
Headlights turned the corner, and deep in the shadows, Ty stood stock-still. Waiting. Watching. His smile a secret, held inside where only he knew about it, along with the rush of blood flowing through his veins like an underground spring.
The car slowed and pulled up to the curb, and Ty let loose a portion of his grin as the headlights lost their glow. The long, sleek touring car put his Model T, the cheapest and most popular one Henry Ford ever made, to shame. However, his old Ford served its purpose, allowing him to maintain his cover. Ready to put the final legs of his plan into place, Ty’s pulse hitched up one more notch as the touring car’s engine went silent.
Roger Nightingale had arrived. A legal bootlegger—if there was such a thing—Nightingale was the man behind most of the alcohol in the upper Midwest. Yet, in Ty’s eyes, “The Night” was a small fish, a means to the end. He was after the high pillow. The real McCoy. Ray Bodine. Ty had followed the trail Bodine had left of bottom-barrel boys, triggermen and torpedoes from New York to Chicago, and now to St. Paul.
With federal agents on his tail, Bodine had escaped New York by faking his own death. Using an alias, he’d made plenty of money in Chicago the past year via front men, eluding and paying off agents, and now they’d moved into St. Paul—the headwater of the whiskey trade. The vast northern woods and endless waterways made running booze—namely a local brew known as Minnesota Thirteen—a mug’s dream, and Bodine wanted that more than a drunk wanted his next prescription. The mob boss would have plenty of competition here, and not just from Ty. Mobsters from all over had ties to St. Paul, and almost every loop led one way or another to Roger Nightingale. Ty had coveted that information, and now he was prepared to use it. Bringing down Bodine is what he was here to do, and he didn’t care who he had to put the screws to in order for that to happen.
Palooka George’s birthday was coming up in two weeks. The one-time boxer had a long list of friends, and enemies. Gangsters far and wide would attend the birthday bash. Ty would be there, too, come hell or high water.
The Cadillac’s driver’s door opened—a red phaeton with four doors and a fold-down black roof. New. The red paint still had a showroom gleam that glistened brightly in the yellow-hued light cast from the bug-attracting streetlamp.
A foot appeared, and a second one, covered with black patent leather shining as brightly as the paint on the car.
With heels.
Ty was still taking note of that when what emerged next had him licking his lips to wash aside the wolf whistle itching to let loose. A fine pair of legs. Shapely, and covered in sheer silk stockings. He bit down on his bottom lip as the woman completely exited the car. The hem of her dress stopped just below her knees, giving way for plenty to be admired. He continued to admire as his gaze roamed upward, over subtle curves that had him sucking in a good amount of air just to keep that whistle contained.
Women were a lot like whiskey. He didn’t need either on a regular basis, but sampling a taste every now and again was something he didn’t mind doing, and Norma Rose Nightingale was one classy dame. The real cat’s meow.
He’d only seen her from afar, through the lenses of his binoculars while hiding in the woods near the resort, but it had been enough for him to know he’d liked what he’d seen. He liked it now, too. The way her skirt swirled as she spun around to shut the car door. Black, or navy blue maybe, the material of her dress hugged her body just so and glistened in the glow from the streetlight outside the hoosegow.
With slow, precise movements, Ty tugged the front of his hat lower on his forehead and eased back against the building until the coolness of the bricks penetrated his suit coat—he needed the chill to douse the flames spiking in his lower belly. He could see her, but unless Norma Rose turned all the way around and peered directly into the shadows cast by the overhead awning, she couldn’t see him.
Roger Nightingale, Norma Rose’s father, was the person Ty had expected to visit the jail tonight. Her arrival changed his plan. He tossed around a couple of alternate options while admiring the way Norma Rose’s hips swayed as she walked around the front of the Cadillac.
A dark little hat, probably the same shade as that tailored dress, covered her short blond waves, and a small handbag with a gold-chain handle dangled from one hand. She was wearing pearls, too, a long strand tied in a knot just below rather a nice set of breasts. Dressed to catch a man’s eye, that’s what she’d done all right, dolled up just like the other night, when she’d been welcoming guests into her father’s resort.
Nightingale’s Resort was a hot vacation place for big shots with bankrolls to blow, not just those from the bustling metropolis of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Secluded deep in the woods, and just a short jaunt north of the city, the resort catered to butter-and-egg men from all over. Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, New York. To rent one of the dozen or more lakeside bungalows for a single evening cost more than Ty and most other folks made in a month.
Palooka George would stay in one of those bungalows. Ray Bodine would be in one, too, and Ty needed to know which one Bodine would be in, so he could get the graft on the New York mobster whose killing spree had set a ball of fire in Ty’s stomach years ago.
Turning slightly, Ty watched Norma Rose step onto the sidewalk. The hoosegow was in the center of the city, surrounded by dungeons transformed into speakeasies, high-end clip joints and nightclubs pretending to serve only coffee and tea, yet she hadn’t cast a single glance around. Her steps were purposeful, her back straight. Confident. He liked that.
The heels of her shoes clicked on the pavement as she strolled past the brightly lit front door of the city jail, heading straight for the unmarked chief of police’s private entrance.
Ty pushed off the wall and straightened his suit coat, making sure his piece—a cheap government-issued pistol—was well-concealed beneath his arm,
