Prohibition

Chapter 2: Raymond

Rain poured down onto Raymond, soaking his clothes, plastering his hair to his forehead, and blurring his vision. Usually, Raymond hated rain—especially rain this torrential—, but today nothing could dampen his mood. Walter had given him and Agent Brant the syndicate case—grudgingly and with a caveat, but he had given it to them! It was clear to Raymond that he had not expected him to come up with information so quickly, and the promptness of Raymond's work had caught him off guard. And, although Walter had warned him that they only had the case as long as his preferred agents were busy, Raymond was sure he and Agent Brant could have the case almost wrapped up—if not finished—by the time one of them was free to take over. Their job now was to infiltrate the syndicate by becoming rumrunners or bootleggers themselves and find out everything they could about the hierarchy of the syndicate and its ringleaders.

"Raymond." Agent Brant spoke directly in his ear. "Those fellas over there are unloading cases of Highland Queen." 

A few yards in front of the building Raymond and Agent Brant were hiding behind, two men were carrying wooden cases of alcohol off a nondescript gray fishing vessel. One of the men was much older than the other one—probably a father and his son. Both were tall and rangy with messy hair tucked under shabby tweed caps. But the son's hair was dirty blond, while the father's hair was a whitish gray. Although it was hard to tell from a distance, both men appeared to have dark, chocolate-brown eyes. Under their thin jackets, their denim work shirts and pants were threadbare. Both appeared to be unarmed and looked completely unthreatening.

Pistols cocked and tucked away in their rain slickers, Raymond and Agent Brant stepped towards the rumrunning vessel and the two men unloading it. Just a few feet away from them, Raymond and Agent Brant stopped. "Well hello, fellas," Raymond said cheerfully as the two men spun around to face them. "Mind if we join you?"

***

"Please don't report us!" the older man begged. "I have a family to provide for. This is my livelihood!"

"Forget it, Pops. They're not going to listen to you," the younger man huffed. Raymond instantly disliked him.

"No, no—I'm listening," he assured the young man, his face a picture of perfect attentiveness. "Go on."

"You want to know something?" the young man snarled. "I'll tell you something!" Raymond found himself suddenly staring at the cold, metal end of a pistol barrel. Shit. Apparently at least one of the men was armed. "Talking's done," the young man said coldly, placing his thumb over the trigger. "Any last words before I shoot you?"

"Don't do it, Carl!" his father cried out, seizing his son's arm.

"Sorry Pops," Carl apologized, shoving his father away. "I'm doing this for us."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Agent Brant warned as Carl fingered the trigger once more. "You shoot my pal, I shoot you—and then I shoot your father. You don't want that. Drop the gun, and we'll all talk real civilly about this."

"Fine!" Carl huffed, lowering his pistol. "Let's talk."

***

"Let me get this straight," a disbelieving Carl said a few minutes later. "You two random fellas walk up, threaten us, then say you want to join us. And now you want us to show you the syndicate office? Are you crazy?"

"Nope," Raymond responded. "Are you?"

"We don't know who you are!" Carl sputtered. "You could destroy everything!"

"Don't give me that much credit," Raymond told him. "I couldn't destroy everything. Half, maybe."

"I—" Carl started, but Agent Brant interrupted.

"We aren't going to destroy anything. I'm sick of my job. I work like a slave and get paid almost nothing. Raymond, here, feels the same way. For once in our lives, we'd like to actually make some money."

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" Carl's father asked. "Because this isn't just us you're talking about putting in jeopardy, it's everybody in the syndicate."

"You don't," Raymond admitted. "We have nothing but our word as honest, hardworking men."

"Whatever that's worth," Carl grumbled.

His father ignored him. "We aren't taking you two to the syndicate office," he said firmly. "I'm sorry, but even my generous nature doesn't trust you that much. But, if you really want to join us, I'm willing to help you out." He sighed heavily. "I've been in your position far too often to turn you away. Here's what we'll do instead: I know a man who's looking for one or two able-bodied young men to help him on his boat. He wants to start shipping in larger cargoes, and with some more people helping him load, unload and deliver it, he could do just that. So," he ended, "would you be willing to work for him?"

"Yes sir, we would," Agent Brant answered.

"Good. That's settled then," the old man said. "Meet me here tomorrow at ten-o-clock sharp. You can work with us for one day to learn the basics of rumrunning, then meet my friend the day after. I can't pay you anything, but I can train and prepare you. And don't be late!" he warned, as they all stood up to leave. "We leave the harbor at ten-fifteen, so if you're late, I'll leave you behind."

"Yes sir!" Raymond responded smartly.

"You tie up for the night, Pops," Carl said as Raymond and Agent Brant began to walk away. "I want to walk with these two fellas for a bit."

"Yes?" Raymond inquired as Carl approached him.

"I don't know what funny business you're up to or why the hell you came to us, but I don't trust you," Carl growled, his voice harsh as a file on metal. "And if either of you so much as thinks about betraying my father and me, I'll make sure it's the last thing you ever do." Sliding his hand into his coat pocket, he hefted his pistol menacingly.

"Got it" Raymond said, sidestepping Carl and continuing on his way.

"You shouldn't talk to him like that," Agent Brant chided, casting a sideways glance back at Carl who was glaring at Raymond.

"He's just scared," Raymond replied. "He wouldn't actually do anything. And, with any luck, we'll be done with this job in a week or two. So don't worry about it."

"I think you're overestimating our abilities and how easy this job's gonna be," Agent Brant sighed. "I think you're overestimating a lot of things."

"Maybe," Raymond agreed unconcernedly. "But enough of that. I have to get going."

"Another party?" Agent Brant asked.

"That's right," Raymond told him, grinning. "I have party to get to."