Free The Babe Ruth Deception by David O. Stewart Page A

V12 Liberty plane engines. He half expected it to take off and fly. He touched Cecil’s arm. With the engine noise as cover, he started out on the dock. On his toes, staying low. Cecil right behind.
    The skipper cut the engine to glide the last three hundred yards. Joshua and Cecil froze. They weren’t quite to the dock’s T intersection. The oars lay a few feet in front of them, left of the T. The two onshore bootleggers stood to the right of the T, looking only at the arriving speedboat. Joshua slowed his breathing. The boat slid out of the mist, a man in the front dangling a rope end. The boat swung alongside the dock. The crewman threw the rope to one of the shore crew, then turned to the back of the boat.
    Cecil’s hand pushed him as Joshua rose and reached for an oar. He sprang forward and swung. He hit his man across the shoulders, launching him into the water with a startled shout that the water swallowed. Cecil ran by, wielding his oar like a jousting lance. He caught the other man as he turned and reached into his coat for a weapon. An oof , another splash.
    Joshua was swinging the oar at the crewman on the boat. The man dodged the blow but lost his balance. Wearing a surprised look, he fell awkwardly into the drink. Joshua dropped the oar and jumped into the boat, pulling out his pistol. The skipper was reaching for the boat’s throttle. Joshua fired a shot in his direction, aiming high. The skipper raised both hands. The struggling men churned the water around them. A clotted shout: “Can’t. Swim.” The man was in the wrong line of work. Joshua waggled the gun. “Off! Off!” he shouted.
    Before the skipper could move, Cecil clouted him with the oar. Cecil dropped the oar, climbed into the boat, and heaved the skipper over the side. “The rope,” he yelled. Joshua unwrapped the bowline. Cecil fired the engine and swung them away from shore. A thump on the right side of the hull. Must have been a bootlegger.
    Heading toward the East River, Cecil hugged the shoreline. He kept the engine at midspeed, trying not to be noticed. This early on a January morning, a small boat in New York harbor was probably running booze. Joshua rifled the boat’s storage compartments until he found a container of oil. He carried it back next to Cecil.
    They came around a long pier with tugs tied up on either side. A spotlight glared from the Brooklyn shore. An amplified voice came through a megaphone, but the words sloshed into each other. Cecil gunned the engine. The bow pushed high as the propeller bit into the water. The cargo, piled around them, held down their speed. A coast guard cutter was casting off, pointed right at them.
    When Joshua regained his balance, he hauled the oil can out onto the boat’s back ledge. Looking away to shield his eyes, he poured oil on the hot twin engines. Acrid smoke billowed up and mingled with the mist already in the air. Cecil slowed the engine to a purr and turned them toward New Jersey. He cut across the path of a tug that was plowing along from that direction. Then he spun the boat around and hit the gas. They dove into the shadow of the tug and clung to it, lurking on its Manhattan side.
    When they passed under the Brooklyn Bridge, Cecil dropped his speed further and eased them over toward Brooklyn. They scanned the waterfront for the coast guard. Joshua looked at Cecil and shrugged. Cecil turned them around again, back toward where they’d left their rented boat. They went slowly, as quietly as a powerboat could, staying just beyond the reach of the lights from shore. This was the worst part. They probably couldn’t shake the coast guard a second time, not with dawn coming on. Joshua’s heart hammered against his ribs.
    Their rental was a tired-looking workboat, ropes and tackle strewn across its deck. They tied up next to it. Both of them carried the whiskey bottles into the workboat’s hold. They changed into overalls and