Prohibition

Chapter 4: Raymond

"What the Hell was that for?" Evelyn gasped, shoving Raymond away.

"I don't know," Raymond stammered drunkenly. "Didn't you like it?"

"No, I did not like it!" Evelyn shouted. Through the haze in his brain, Raymond saw she seemed near tears. "I—I—" she sputtered. "Oh, just forget it!" Drawing back her hand, she struck Raymond across the cheek. Then, casting him one last revolted glance, she turned and strode away.

"Dammit!" Raymond muttered, gingerly touching his stinging, crimson-handprinted cheek. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

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The next day, at five past ten, Raymond joined Agent Brant at the docks. Carl and his father were already on board their rumrunner, glaring down at Raymond. "You're late!" Agent Brant snapped as Raymond approached. "Why weren't you here five minutes ago?"

"I have a Godawful hangover," Raymond groaned. "And I don't have to explain anything to you. You're not my boss."

"Well then, maybe you shouldn't have drunk so much last night," Agent Brant said acidly. "And if you don't get on this boat in two seconds flat, you're not going to have any boss—or any job."

"Yes, Mother," Raymond grumbled, stalking up the gangplank.

"Glad to see you could finally join us," Carl greeted him coldly as he stepped onto the boat's deck. "We were about to leave without you."

"You said you weren't leaving until ten-fifteen. You still have ten minutes."

Carl ignored him. "Make yourself useful and pull up the anchor," he ordered finally.

As the little craft steamed away towards the long row of barges and freighters lined up just beyond the fifteen-mile line, Carl's father outlined the plan. "The cargo we're picking up today is on the freighter The Bessel," he explained, pointing out the hulking steel ship as he spoke. "Carl and David will stay on the boat and load the cargo into the hold when we send it down. Raymond and I will go up and get it. Make sense?"

"You and Raymond go up, get the cargo, and send it down," Agent Brant repeated. "Meanwhile, Carl and I watch the boat, and pack the cargo up."

"Correct," Carl's father said approvingly. "Now get ready. We're almost there." As the rumrunner slipped into The Bessel's vast shadow, Agent Brant and Carl dropped anchor, mooring the little craft beside the freighter's massive hull. Then, taking hold of the rungs built into The Bessel's side, Raymond and Carl's father clambered to the top of the ship and stepped onto the deck.

"Name and business?" a smartly dressed sailor demanded by way of greeting.

"John Elliot and his assistant for today, Raymond Adler," Carl's father replied. "We're here to pick up ten cases of Madeira, five cases of Napoleon brandy, and twelve cases of Bordeaux."

"Syndicate or personal agent?" the sailor inquired.

"Caílín," John replied quietly.

Caílín! Raymond thought excitedly. So that was the name of this mysterious, omnipotent syndicate! But what did it mean, he mused, following the John and the sailor belowdecks. Was it a family name? A foreign expression? A nonsensical word—an anagram or logograph of sorts—created to fool everyone? He and Agent Brant would have to find out. Their success hinged on it. For in that word, the key to exposing and terminating the entire syndicate might lie.