Page 63 of Savannah Royals
“I’m intrigued.”
Paul lifts me from behind, directly into Abe’s waiting arms. And together, the three of us disappear into the master bedroom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TheRoyalsandIplan a rendezvous at Farley’s the week after my birthday. I’m careful to suggest an evening when Matthew is working. If Paul is bothered by my subterfuge, he doesn’t say so. He’s been on his best behavior as of late.
When we arrive, Paul heads to the back room to check on our cache and exchange some stashed scratch. Abe follows him while Tony and I walk up to the bar. A few patrons perch on stools at the far end of the counter, but overall, the place is quiet.
“Hey, Farls,” Tony greets our friend, reaching over the counter to clasp the bartender’s hand.
“Good to see y’all.” Farley bobs his head, his crinkled eyes teasing a smile. “What’ll it be tonight?”
“What do you think, Kat?” Tony turns to me. “A cask of wine and a handle of whiskey?”
“Comin’ right up.” Farley winks before turning around.
Abe joins us at the counter just as Farley is handing over our bottles. He reaches for his billfold, but the bartender stops him.
“You know your scratch is no good here, Abe. I’ll put it on your tab.”
“Thanks, Farley,” Abe answers.
“Hey, when’s he gonna move that powder out?” Farley jerks his head toward the stockroom, where Paul is still puttering around. “Makes me nervous, having that stuff back there.”
I assume he’s talking about bootlegged gunpowder, a frequently passed and traded commodity through the back of the tavern. I examine the shoddy wooden roof and walls of the pub, silently agreeing with Farley. This place could go up in flames with barely a spark, and the gunpowder will more than finish the job.
“Not sure, boss,” Abe admits.
Farley shakes his head. “I don’t like it. It’s risky, that is.”
We take our bottles to a table in the middle of the room. Eventually, Paul emerges to join us. His eyes are shaded by a fedora, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest strains beneath a pair of brown suspenders. He looks a little loose, a little dangerous, a whole lot tempting. Too illicit for his own good.
“Everything jake?” Tony asks, lighting up a cigarette.
“Yeah.”
“Farley wants the powder out,” Abe says.
The barback’s watchful eyes snap to attention as he listens.
“Okay.” Paul glances sidelong at me, then away. “I’ll move it when we leave tonight.”
Abe nods at Farley, who returns to mopping his counter.
Tony pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and starts dealing. The pack is well-worn from many nights of use. I couldn’t even begin to estimate how many hours we’ve spent playing poker here. Far too many to count.
I accept my first hand from Tony and settle in. Abe takes a swig from the whiskey and passes the bottle around.
Tony and Abe make absolute fools of Paul and me in the initial rounds, but as the night progresses, I rally. Paul continues to take a walloping though. His hands get worse and worse as the moon rises.
“Lady Luck is not on my side tonight,” he says, dropping his cards after his umpteenth fold of the evening.
Sometime around midnight, the tavern empties out, but we stay to play a few more hands. Farley putzes around behind the bar, going through his closing routine. I’m busy laughing at something Tony just said, so I don’t immediately notice the door kicking open. What I do notice is Paul’s body as it snaps to attention beside me, his posture tight.
“Sorry, fellas,” Farley calls to the newcomers, stepping out from behind the counter. “We’re closing.”
A gun goes off, and I scream. Farley falls to the floor. Eyes shut, a bullet wound blooming in his chest.
