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

denim jackets and took off again. Joshua felt calmer. Their disguise was good. He could hear the city start to wake up. The waterfront, too. A sliver of sky lightened over Long Island. Thirty minutes more.
    At the dock in Greenpoint, they humped the sacks of booze into the grubby warehouse Joshua had rented with the last money he had on earth. When the final sack was in, the two men shared a smile, then laughed and slapped each other on the back. They hadn’t spoken since they left the bootleggers splashing in the water.
    â€œThose boys,” Cecil said, “they didn’t know what hit’em.”
    â€œNo idea at all.” Joshua led the way to the small office in the corner of the warehouse. A bare bulb hung over a table with three spindly chairs. He opened the bottles of beer he’d left there, handing one to Cecil. “Not so different from France. Ambush, surprise, deception. Get in and get out.” He swallowed some beer. “The big difference is that these guys are dumber.”
    Cecil shook his head after taking a long draw on his bottle. “There’s some other differences, Sarge.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYeah. Like no bayonets. No hand grenades. No artillery. No gas. And no killing, not yet.”
    â€œNothing we can’t handle.”
    Cecil shook his head again. “Another difference, you know, is that we’re on the other side from the government.”
    â€œSay what? You mean the government was on our side over in France? Do tell.” Joshua tilted his head back and smirked at Cecil, who smiled back. “That’s a hundred fifty sacks, six bottles to the sack, near a thousand bottles.”
    â€œIt looked like bonded stuff.”
    â€œAbsolutely, straight from Scotland. We sell ’em at two bucks apiece. That’s close to two thousand dollars, most of which we take home free and clear.”
    â€œNo taxes.”
    â€œNot a dime.”
    They finished their beers and headed out. Joshua knew it wouldn’t be quite that easy. They’d have to peddle the hooch to neighborhood bars and speakeasies. That was donkey work, a mug’s game. Some would be slow to pay. They’d have to reward a few cops for looking the other way. Maybe the cops’ bosses, too. Maybe the bosses’ bosses. But they’d clear a lot, then use that money to buy a seat at a bigger table. Joshua was aiming at the wholesale end of the business. He wanted to be the guy who paid hungry stiffs like him to run those boats out to the supply ships, then paid other hungry stiffs to sell it around. The return would be better, the risks fewer.

Chapter 8
    T he skirt reached. Violet sighed her relief. It was going to be bad enough using a crutch at a chic nightclub. If people also could see her shriveled lower leg, she would just die. So long as she stood up straight, the leg brace on her upper leg didn’t bulge out, not unless you were looking for it. The colors in the dress were bright enough that few eyes should stray down toward the floor. High heels were out of the question. She could get by with black, medium heels.
    She heard the front door open. She had told her mother to leave the latch off as she left. “Joan?” Joan Battaglia answered, her voice uncertain. “In here,” Violet called. A small squeal from the doorway announced her friend’s approval of the blue and green print dress with the swishy skirt.
    â€œAren’t you going to turn heads tonight,” Joan said. She leaned over to look past Violet’s shoulder at their images in the mirror. “Those colors are wonderful for you. And what an apartment this is.” She gazed up at the high ceiling and turned slowly in place.
    â€œOh, Joan, it’s like any home. Come on, now. You promised to help with the makeup,” Violet said. “I’ve gotten so pale. I look like a ghost.”
    â€œAre you sure that isn’t a good thing tonight?”
    Violet gave