Free The Whiskey Sea by Ann Howard Creel Page B

cardboard box. And the weight of the powerful engine meant the boat would sink in mere minutes.
    “Anyways, that would be your job when we get to the rummies. You have to keep that engine dry as you can and squirt pyrene if you have to. We never shut down, in case we have to leave quick. The other day some idiot’s engine caught fire because the gas rags he was using to clean up oil got on the hot engine.
    “We go out mostly when there’s little or no moon, leave at dusk. It’s close to an hour and a half out and more than two and a half back, then the drop-off, and we bring her back in. A full night’s work. I need me a full-time mechanic for the runs and to always keep her in tip-top shape. You get twenty-five cents a case we sell and twenty-five dollars a week, same as I paid Hector.”
    She squinted back at him. “Why me?”
    Dutch stood still, his eyes full of surprised reappraisal. Perhaps he thought his offer was so good he’d never considered that she wouldn’t simply jump at the chance.
    “You’re the best man for the job.”
    Frieda smiled wryly. She didn’t mind his choice of words. That’s exactly how she wanted them to see her—as another man. She hadn’t worn a dress in two years or bothered with her hair, and still it hadn’t been much of a deterrent to some of the crusty old dogs who made leering remarks from time to time. It revolted her.
    Finally he said, “I also know you got yourself some troubles now. How is Silver doing anyways?”
    “The same.”
    She stood with her feet planted firmly against the sway of the tides she could feel on the pier’s end. She wanted to steer the conversation back to the boat and the job. “How many cases can you carry?” she asked.
    “Six to eight hundred, depending on the seas.”
    She did the mental math, and blood rushed to her head. She’d heard that contact boat captains were almost doubling their initial investment on each case. But men like Dutch had boat payments and other expenses resting on their shoulders. Her money would be free and clear. If they ferried seven hundred cases on a run, she would make about $175 on each night out and make another $100 or so per month. It could mean everything. It could put everything she wanted for Bea within grasp. After high school she could go to college and get away from the place where her mother had sold herself. And now with Silver’s stroke, Frieda would need more money than ever to assure he got the care he needed. This money would take care of that, and she could cancel the loan against the house. Sure there were risks, and it was a bit terrifying to think of breaking a law, but finally she’d be making as much as a man did, doing the same job. She looked toward the water, where Silver’s face swam into view. She recalled one of the last things he had said to her before the stroke: “Don’t do it.”
    Was that the last advice he would ever give her?
    It had been three weeks since she’d made her “indecent” proposal to Hicks, and because of Silver’s stroke she hadn’t even thought about joining the rumrunning business again. She’d never dreamed that any of the men would take on a woman as crew. Now this had fallen into her lap.
    Dutch gestured toward the shining city across the bay. “We work just as hard as them schmucks over there, harder even, and before now we made nothing. Now that’s changed. It could change things for you, too. I’m giving you a fine opportunity here. Only you got to prove something to me first.”
    He didn’t need to say more. Frieda knew what money could do.
    “So what do you say?”
    Frieda stood in a quandary. Reason told her to think about the possible consequences. She had considered this a few weeks ago, but at the time it was just an idea she had no way to bring to fruition without Hicks’s help. She had always been pretty sure he would turn her down, so she had never let her hopes soar high. Now she had a real opportunity in front of her. And she