Prohibition

Chapter 50

A cold rainfall dripped down around Scott, soaking his threadbare clothes and almost extinguishing the tiny fire that flickered at his feet. Freezing droplets ran down his hands and splashed to the ground, now dyed red with blood. He needed a place to clean his hands before someone noticed them and started asking questions. Here, in the heart of the Hell Hounds' territory, he was fairly safe. Still, he knew the people living around them watched what happened. They would never dare to question aloud what had happened. But whispers, passed from ear to ear behind closed doors and on unguarded pillows could snowball into accusations more damning than any question asked aloud.

Sparks leapt from the fire at his feet onto his leather shoes, but they died quickly. Leather didn't burn; years working on cattle ranches had taught him that. The best he could hope for with Charlie's wallet was to char it beyond recognition and destroy the contents within before he threw it in the bay. Conner would be livid if he found out how much money Scott was currently burning—nearly a thousand dollars in cash. Scott couldn't blame him for that; years ago, having a thousand dollars would have been like finding out that he was the long-lost king of England. Even now, with the gang bringing in more money than he had ever dreamed of making, he was still low-class enough to understand the magnitude of burning a thousand dollars. But he wanted nothing to do with that dirty money. Anything that Charlie's hands had touched was good for nothing but kindling. And the money couldn't be found on him anyway. Bills could be traced, back to him, back to the Hell Hounds. Walter turned a blind eye to the gang's violence and extortion so long as it was contained to gang affairs, but he could no longer ignore them if their murders extended to New York's high-class citizens. So, the crime had to look random—an unfortunate robbery and mugging.

Up to a few months ago, Scott wouldn't have cared if he was caught. His life had ended with his mother's death and then again when his father threw the packet of letters in his face. All drive except the desire for revenge had fled his life—and that was truly Conner's dream, not his. But desperate for something—anything—to make him feel again, he had let the fires of revenge consume him. Meeting Evelyn, holding her in his arms, laughing with her, working with her, simply walking with her, had cleansed the festering bitterness from his soul, as though he had been bathed in holy water. Knowing her, at long last, had breathed new life into him. Happiness was not a feeling he was familiar with. But, for almost the first time in his life, the way he felt could nearly be described as that.

So, hearing what Charlie had done to her, knowing that all those times he had gazed at her picture in the newspaper her sweet smile had been hiding so much pain, had torn him apart. The moment Raymond revealed Evelyn's secret, Scott knew Charlie must die. After that, it was simply a matter of opportunity.

During the war, Scott had learned to forget things. If he remembered everything that happened—every innocent man he had gunned down in cold blood, every scream, every trinket and family photo that was packed into dirty cardboard boxes to be sent home in place of a body—he would've gone mad. Don't think, he had learned to tell himself. Push everything to the back of your brain. You're not strong enough to think about it now...you'll never be strong enough...

With Charlie, he didn't want to forget. He had taken no pleasure in killing him, only grim satisfaction. But he needed to remember. For, if he hid it at the back of his mind, if he forgot, he would start to feel helpless again...

It had been remarkably easy to find Charlie. He frequently visited a whorehouse in the Five Points, no doubt looking for someone new to dominate and torment now that Evelyn had left him. That night, as he had stumbled out of the brothel, drunk and gloating, Scott had been waiting for him. Next to his ribs, the cold metal of his gun weighed heavy. But a bullet was too easy, too quick and painless, too undeserved for a monster like Charlie. "I want to feel his blood on my hands," Raymond had said. Well, Scott did too.

For a dazed, drunken man, Charlie had put up a good fight. Several times, his fists had connected with Scott's face, his gaudy rings splitting Scott's skin open in multiple places. But he was no match for the storm of emotions that had taken over Scott, guiding his attack.

All his life, Scott had felt helpless. Helpless to protect himself from the derisive taunts and relentless fists of the town bullies. Helpless to protect his mother from her depression, her alcoholism, and her cruel, unfair death. Helpless to protect his best friend, the man he cared about more than anyone else in the world, from the cold, unfeeling bullets of German guns. Helpless to protect Rose from her father and husband. Helpless to protect his sister from the monster who had wrecked her life and nearly destroyed her. But now, he was helpless no longer. He had had not been able to save Evelyn from Charlie. But he could make sure Charlie never touched her again.

When he was finished, his hands were slick with blood, his clothes drenched in it. Charlie lay on the ground, his face unrecognizable. Looking down at him, his fancy clothes torn and stained, his once-handsome face a mass of bloody pulp, Scott felt something loosely akin to pity for him. Charlie could've had a good life with a good woman who loved him. With Evelyn by his side, he could've been the happiest man in the world. But he had fucked up, and he had paid the price. Not the ultimate price, Scott knew, for there were many things worse than death. Death was a relief compared to the horrors and atrocities of this world. But it was the worst he could give Charlie. He took nothing from Charlie's body except his wallet. Everything else he left—Charlie's monogramed cigarette lighter and case, his lavish gold pocketwatch with the inscription from his parents on it, and the large college ring he wore on his finger. He wanted Charlie to be identified, wanted the whole world to see him lying in a muddy puddle outside a brothel. All the material goods that he had surrounded himself with and flaunted in life couldn't protect him in the end. And, although the world wouldn't know it, he knew—at long last, his sister was safe.