April 1947

  Providence, Rhode Island

  “I don’t give a shit, Carl!” the bulbous man growled the name, turning it into a demeaning threat. He shoved a stubby finger into the skinny kid’s chest, pushing him against the side of the box truck. “Get behind that goddamn wheel and drive.” The greasy man pulled back a fraction, making just enough room for the terrified twenty-something to breathe air that wasn’t stained with smoke and booze. “Or do you need some help? I could get you some help.”

  “No! No, sir! I can handle it.” The young man pleaded.

  “Sir? Do I look like a General to you? Is this the army?”

  “Mister Stanfield! I got it. Sorry, Mister Stanfield.”

  The big man slapped him across the face. “Get the fuck out of here.” He turned away, walking on small feet down a wet alley.

  The trembling boy pulled open the door to the blue truck, the side of it reading “Office Supply Company” in chipped, black lettering, and pulled himself inside. He started up the engine. The wheels spun and squeaked as he sped away.

  “Take it easy, dumbass!” the chunky man yelled as the vehicle veered out onto the street, horns blaring as a car nearly careened into it. “Little prick,” he grumbled, pulling a flask from his jacket pocket.

  A dozen feet ahead of him, a tall woman, red hair, mid-twenties, and built like a lumberjack, was taking a cigarette break. “Kid’s brother just died.”

  “That’s my problem?” He took a swig as he walked toward the door beside her. “He’s lucky to have a fucking job.”

  “How many family members have you lost, Sal?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Don’t you have work to do, Margaret?” He said her name contemptuously. The one time he called her Marge he’d ended up with a black eye.

  Margaret dropped her cigarette and stepped on it as she pushed herself off the grimy brick wall. She needed to cool Sal down. He was an asshole and, as her brother used to say, assholes spread shit. As he marched over to a metal service entrance, she pulled it open for him. “You make it to the game on Saturday?”

  He looked at her, feeling his anger temper. “Yeah.”

  “Slaters took ‘em to church,” she said. “Cole had the Chiefs eating out of his hand.”

  “The Chiefs never showed up. But Cole’s headed for the majors soon. Then what the hell are the Slaters gonna do?”

  “You played in high school.” Margaret suggested with a smirk.

  “Yeah, should they be so lucky,” he chuckled, and they walked into the busy warehouse that smelled of cardboard and exhaust. Sal ambled off while Margaret surveyed the area as the crews went about their work.

  Along the wall to the right were wide openings, docks, for loading and unloading box trucks parked outside, nearly each dock occupied. Opposite was the clerks’ office, break room, Margaret’s own office, though she spent little time there, and dispatch; where they kept the vehicle keys, outgoing paperwork, and ran radio operations with the fleet. The floor was filled with the usual hustle and bustle—men rolling deliveries on and off trucks, drivers getting permits and receipts settled with the clerks’ office. At the far end of the warehouse was the machine shop, an undersized space for their overworked mechanics to fix their burgeoning fleet of vehicles.

  Above it all a metal walk ran along the room, with a single large office looming at the center, its windows tacked up with notices, call sheets, schedules, anything that needed quick appraisal when time meant money. Standing outside its entrance was Boss Johns, watching. He had a clipboard in one hand, his round gut pressing against the railing, slacks held up by suspenders hidden around his belly.

  A pretty woman walked up to him, his secretary, wearing a short skirt and tight blouse, as required. She collected his clipboard and handed him another. He looked it over, crossed something out, scrawled something else, and signed it. “He doesn’t like it, he can come pick it up himself,” he said and shoved it back. She turned and walked back down the metal stairs, Johns staring at her backside.

  Margaret watched it unfold from below. The woman descended and approached her, rolling her eyes. “He’s raising Anthony’s rate again. Your boys are packing, yeah?”

  Running her hand over the top of her head, the redhead squeezed the back of her long braid. “We’re truck drivers, not hoodlums.”

  “Anthony seems to think otherwise.”

  “He’s already paid, Suze.” Margaret crossed her arms, muscles flexing. “This is theft.”

  “I think it’s extorsion, actually. But Johns calls it business.” She shrugged and walked away.

  “Margaret!” the round man shouted from upstairs. She looked up at him and he waved her up.

  Wearing a taught white T-shirt, her brawny body on intimidating display, she bounded up the stairs two at a time, heavy boots clanging on the catwalk.

  She shut the door behind her as Johns waddled around a messy desk, settling into his chair with a groan. She stood before him, hands at her waist, looking hard and strapping. He glanced up at her and gawked. “Take a seat, Hercules.”

  She pulled around a chair and sat, leaning forward, rubbing her hands, as she got to eye level with the much shorter man. “You’re making Anthony pay again?” disapproval in her voice.

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “What about Craig and his broken leg?”

  “Fuck Craig. He’s a hothead. His own damn fault.”

  “Then why are we all carrying heaters?”

  “To stop shit like this from happening.” Johns scoffed. “Margaret, I didn’t call you in here to argue with me. I got a job for you.”

  “A job?” She leaned back. “A promotion?”

  “What? No. I need you to make a delivery.”

  “Delivery?” She hadn’t driven a delivery in years. Not since she’d taken over managing. “Why the hell do you need me to make a delivery?”

  “This is a special client, alright? I need someone I can trust.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You know the crew I run. They’re smart and loyal.” The fact he was asking for trust meant he was doing something he shouldn’t.

  “Yeah, yeah. I need to make a good impression. And Margaret.” He put his hands out, beholding her. “You make a hell of an impression.”

  A compliment. This was uncharacteristic. “Okay. Thanks, Boss.” She felt uneasy.

  “Leave at five, after your shift. I’ll pay you time and a half. Truck Seven. Here’s the sheet.” He held out a fresh piece of yellow filing paper.

  She took it and noted missing details: just four ‘boxes’, no weight, size, no contents. And there was a lack of wear on the form. This was just put together, not run through the clerks downstairs and passed through the office with grubby smudges and creases to show. Johns didn’t take orders himself.

  “Marty’s Cigars?” she asked, reading the destination. “They’re a front. Bigalow Brothers runs their drugs.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “We don’t run drugs.” She held the sheet like it was garbage.

  “We’re not going to.” Johns was getting annoyed.

  Margaret continued, “You’ve been working Markos for weeks now, trying to get a deal. He’s dirty as dog shit. And Marty’s his main competitor. What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Jesus Christ, what’s with the interrogation?” Johns was turning red, but he stifled his anger. That also was out of the ordinary. “Forget about Markos. No deal. Marty’s gone straight and they need new drivers. So, we’re making the pitch. That’s why I’m putting you on it.”

  Margaret looked at the sheet again. This was all wrong, but the conversation was over. “Alright. Truck Seven. Five o’clock.” She looked at him. “Want me to bring this downstairs?” she held up the sheet.

  He grabbed it from her. “Suzie will handle it. Get to work.”

  Margaret got up, clenching her fists, and exited the office. She hadn’t been talked to like that before without a thrown punch in response. Taking a deep breath, she calmed her temper. Her beef was with Johns, and she didn’t want to spread that anger around her crew. Her father always took his rage out on his family, people he knew couldn’t fight back, until one day her brother did.

  When she first started as a driver, Office Supply Company had a staff of five, including her. Margaret had just arrived from Chicago, where she’d been a mechanic and Johns brother ran a shop out there. She’d been recruited for this new company. They wanted to save costs by hiring drivers who could repair the rigs themselves. It was a boost in pay for sure, but more work than she was counting on. Years went by, and she distinguished herself. Soon she was running the warehouse; drivers, packers, and mechanics, while Johns hired clerks to handle the paperwork so he could schmooze with clients and keep a sharp eye on the money.

  It was a cutthroat industry, with the mob in deep at the port it was impossible to stay legitimate and run a successful company. But Margaret had always made it clear, and Johns had agreed, to keep things clean—no drugs, no guns. Nothing illegal in the trucks. That agreement seemed in question in recent months as the paperwork became vague, if not incomplete. And now there was even outright violence between competitors, with frequent sabotage of vehicles and theft of cargo.

  She’d been considering quitting, but her crew looked to her as Johns had gotten rough with his workers. He had enforcers, supposedly to keep the drivers safe, but just as often to keep them in line and make the delivery even if it meant heading to ripped-off clients with cargo they paid double for. Johns wanted to replace her crew with these goons, but Margaret had stood up for her guys, and it had only caused more tension. She felt her time at “Office Supply Company” was ending, and this delivery job might be the final straw.

  Back downstairs, Margaret kept to her business. Whatever Johns was up to, it wouldn’t benefit her if he thought she was keen to it. She needed to get some answers, but she had to stay in her lane today while she did it.

  “Hey Charlie,” she called to a driver loading up a truck, a middle-aged man wearing overalls and a Red Sox cap. He set the hand dolly aside and walked over to her. “You drove Seven two days ago, yeah?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “How’d she run?”

  He shook his head. “Accelerator’s a little sticky. Been like that a while, but…” He shrugged.

  “I’ll talk to Jerry.” She patted Charlie on the shoulder, and he got back to work.

  Margaret walked to the other end of the warehouse, through a door and into the workshop, the pungent smell of oil and gas greeting her first. Three mechanics huddled around the open hood of a truck, two of them having a pronounced disagreement over the source of the vehicle’s troubles. The eldest of the men and leader of the crew spotted her. He grabbed a rag and cleaned the grim and grease from his hands.

  “Hi Jerry,” Margaret said, shaking his hand, and then looked past the two arguing mechanics to another rig parked in the second bay and the man going about his work on the vehicle. His eyes were bloodshot and shoulders heavy. “Hey Juan,” she called out and caught his attention. He put aside an engine part he was holding and came closer, past the two other men. “How’s your boy?” she asked.

  “Still home,” he shook his head, staring at the ground.

  She put a hand on his shoulder and glanced at Jerry, who nodded in unspoken agreement. “Take the day. Be with Manny. These two idiots can cover for you.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Juan looked up at her and almost protested, but Margaret gave him a hug and felt him gulp as emotion welled up inside him. He hurried away, not wanting the others to see him tearing up.

  She and the older man watched him grab his coat and lunch before heading out the exit, making sure he got away without being hassled or questioned by anyone. Meanwhile, the conversation happening by the hood of the truck grew louder, the two other mechanics oblivious.

  Margaret looked at Jerry, who asked, “What’s up?”

  “Number Seven. Accelerator’s been sticking.”

  “It’s on the list. But,” he motioned to the two men behind him and the truck taking up the one garage space for repairs, “Three’s open right now and it’ll be awhile. Five’s brakes are being replaced. At least Seven can stop itself.”

  “And the backup is still on bricks?”

  He nodded. “I need another bay, Margaret.”

  “We need another building. Four’s coming in this afternoon. You just tuned her, yeah?”

  “That’s right. She’s in shape. Why?” Jerry asked.

  “Put Seven on deck after you finish with the brakes on Five.”

  “Alright. But Seven is loaded, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a small order. I’ll move it when Four gets back. Thanks Jerry.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Margaret walked away, glancing up toward Boss Johns’ office and the catwalk where he loomed over his workers. He’d taken up position again, smoking a cigarette. She could feel his eyes on her. He was sloppy but paranoid, which made up for the handicap, if only a little. Margaret caught the attention of the closest driver and struck up a conversation to relieve the tension.

  “Hey Jimmy. You set for your ride?” she asked a balding middle-aged man with a comb-over as he flipped through the manifest of his delivery.

  “Sure. But which one is the brake again?” he joked.

  Margaret smiled, “How’s Martha doing at Bergdorf’s?”

  “She likes it. Says we’re saving money on perfume now. I’m thinking, what the hell were we spending on it before?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The day went on like this: Margaret making her rounds and keeping to her routines. When she had the excuse, she stopped by the clerks office, a room with four women working phones and handling administration, surrounded by walls of filing cabinets. Upon entering, Margaret navigated to the back right desk, where a young woman in glasses sat, blonde hair done up in a bun, her blouse open a few buttons to make an impression. She smiled at Margaret as she approached.

  “Hey Shirl, how’s Mickey?” Margaret asked as she took a seat at the edge of her desk.

  “Still a slob,” she answered as she organized a file of papers and receipts before flipping it closed. She leaned forward on her desk to give Margaret a better view and grinned at her. “Not a strong, gentlewoman like you,” she grinned as the muscular woman tried not to stare down her blouse.

  “Thanks, Shirl.”

  “You’re such a sweetie.” The young blonde blushed and winked at her. “You know he’s leaving town for a few days next week…”

  Margaret tried to ignore the suggestion, at least for now. “Do me a favor…”

  “Anything,” Shirl answered.

  “Pull me the last order from Bake N’ Go.”

  The bespeckled woman frowned. “Is that all?” She bolted up, chest bounding before Margaret’s face. The buff woman turned red as she leaned back.

  Shirley smirked and walked across the room to a tall metal cabinet, pulling open a long drawer with a heavy yank. The contents shifted and thudded inside as it shunted to a halt. Standing on her toes, she flipped through folders and then pulled a file, opened it, thumbed through papers, and then yanked a single form out. She replaced the file, slammed the drawer and walked back to stand before Margaret. “Here ya go.”

  “Thanks, you’re a doll.”

  “I know.”

  Margaret looked over the order; she needed to confirm a delivery date with one of their intermediaries in the port. She noted the information and handed the sheet back to Shirl. “One more thing,” she said.

  “Yeah?” the blonde batted her eyelashes.

  “Seven is headed out tonight,” she said, watching the woman’s expression animatedly deflate, “and we’re missing the manifest.”

  “Cath,” Shirl called out unhappily.

  A thirty-something woman across the room, phone in hand, pen in the other, looked over at her and answered, “I’m on the phone. What?”

  “You put out Seven’s order?”

  “Seven doesn’t have an order today.”

  “Nothing with Marty’s Cigars?” Margaret asked, offering a smile for the trouble.

  “One sec…” the woman said into the phone and set it down. “Marty’s Cigars? They a client?” She pulled open a drawer in her desk and flipped through some files. “Nothing. Did an order come in?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Margaret answered.

  “’kay.” Cath closed her drawer again and picked back up the phone, resuming the call.

  “Anything else?” Shirl asked the buff woman softly.

  “Not right now,” Margaret answered with a coy smile.

  “Well, you know where to find me if that changes.” The woman put her hand on her shoulder and trailed her fingers down her muscular arm as she walked back around to her chair.

  Margaret let out a sigh and exited the office. Johns was playing her. But to what end? As best as she tried, they hadn’t been dealing in anything illegal, and she kept a close eye on what was being hauled by her drivers. Despite his protests, Margaret had acted as Johns moral compass, if not his backbone, over the years. But the company had changed and continued to grow. She hadn’t been as involved in the business side of things as much. In hindsight, it seemed inevitable this would happen.

  The day rolled into afternoon, and the usual urgent issues had kept the sturdy woman occupied. During a stop by the dispatch office, she discreetly pocketed the keys to truck Seven, not that she needed an excuse, but people talked and Johns was always listening. Eventually truck Four pulled into the lot, box empty and ready for its next haul.

  Outside the warehouse, Margaret met the driver as he dropped from the cab of the truck, the fuel pumps nearby, long hoses ready to fill it back up.

  “How’s it riding, Paul?” she asked.

  “Fine…” he said uneasily. It wasn’t like her to come out like this to greet returning drivers, unless there was a problem.

  “Don’t worry, you’re fine. I just need to switch trucks. Seven’s on deck for some work and we’re transferring the order.” She pointed over to a row of straight trucks, facing out. “Just back it in, I’ll take care of the freight.”

  “Sure thing, Margaret.” Paul got to work re-fueling.

  She looked toward the warehouse; the windows lining the top of the building where Johns would stroll the catwalk, his office on the opposite side of the building. She didn’t see him lurking and headed toward the parked box trucks, pulling the keys for Seven from her pocket. Moving around to the back of the vehicles, she found the truck and slid the key into the rear door, unlocking it. She pulled up the lever and shoved open the back gate. Inside were several boxes of varying size, strapped into place. The order form just said four, two-foot boxes. She hopped up onto the bed and pulled a flashlight from her pocket. Shining the light over the packaging, she saw stamps and markings from a variety of different companies and countries. This was lost freight, stuff they ‘recovered’ in various ways that never made it to its destination, usually because the buyer wouldn’t pay Johns for it a second time. Why would they be sending over abandoned product to Marty’s Cigars?

  She heard the engine of a truck backing in. It was Paul pulling Four in. She jumped down from the back and re-sealed the doors. She wouldn’t bother transferring the cargo. If the order form was right, this was a mistake; if this was what they wanted, then the order form was wrong. Either way, Margaret didn’t want to be caught with it.

  Paul walked around with the keys in hand. “Here ya go. Want any help with the cargo?”

  “That’s alright. Head inside and sign off with dispatch. Thanks Paul.”

  He smiled at her and trotted away.

  Margaret soon followed, keeping both sets of keys in her pockets. The next few hours went by more slowly. She couldn’t figure a way to glean anymore information on what this was about. She could either just not make the delivery and probably get fired, which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But she deserved answers. Margaret built this business as much as Johns or anyone else. What the hell was he doing?

  Five o’clock rolled around. The day staff punched out, the clerks office going dark, Shirl getting in one more flirt on the way out the door. The mechanics closed up shop, and the small dispatch office changed shifts. Boss Johns ambled down the steps, jacket in hand, eyes on Margaret as she lingered, saying goodnights to her crews. He waited for her to finish and then motioned toward the lot.

  “Making sure I didn’t forget?” she asked.

  “Important new client. First impressions and all. Don’t want you to lose track of time.”

  So timing was important. Another warning sign. “Got it,” she said, and walked over to her office. She stepped inside, taking her leather jacket off the back of her chair, and hesitated. Realizing this could very well be the last time she was here. She grabbed a lighter off her desk, something a soldier from the war had given her back in Chicago, and pulled a little black book from the top drawer. She turned off the lights and walked back to Johns as he waited at the exit. He opened the door for her. “Thanks.” She walked over to truck Four and hopped inside. Johns wouldn’t know which truck was which. Unless you were a regular driver, you couldn’t tell other than reading the plates, and Johns didn’t know those either. She saw the gluttonous man at the corner of the building watch as she fired up the engine and pulled out of the lot. He finally headed toward his car on the other side of the warehouse, and she turned onto the main avenue.

  Marty’s Cigars was a short drive, but traffic was at its heaviest. After twenty minutes she drove past the storefront, making a round of the block to check it out. The building was a three-story walk-up; the bottom floor was the smoke shop, a front for selling drugs. It wasn’t much of a secret, and the cops had been turning a blind eye to it. Probably paid off. She didn’t get mixed up in these things and she wasn’t about to start on Johns account.

  Parking her truck a few blocks over in an empty lot, Margaret put on her leather jacket and returned on foot. She strolled casually up to the smoke shop. It looked the same as always, no change in ownership apparent, as Johns claimed. There weren’t any customers inside that she could see. Pulling open the front door, the smell of tobacco blew into her face. She stepped inside, her heavy boots stepping onto a grubby, matted carpet, the original color buried under filth. Across from her, dusty smoking pipes were tacked up on the opposite wall. In front of her were low shelves stocked with cigarettes and cigar boxes. To her left, a man in a white button-up shirt, oiled hair, fifties, stood at the counter; a shotgun hung prominently on the wall behind him. He watched her across the room.

  “Can I help you?”

  Margaret glanced at him and then took a stroll down an aisle, looking at cartons of cigarettes. She was trying to quit, but not very hard. “What do you think of Old Gold? I usually stick to Camels.”

  “I don’t smoke,” the man replied dryly.

  She looked at him. He wasn’t kidding.

  “You’re Margaret,” he said. “With the delivery?”

  Putting her hands in her jacket pockets, she realized she didn’t really have a plan. “There was a mix-up. The order was bungled and the paperwork is incomplete. You’ll have to reach out to the clerks office tomorrow.”

  He grunted. “Come on back.” He moved from the counter to a door a few paces away at the corner.

  “Just pass along the message,” she insisted.

  He unlocked the door and pulled it open for her. “I wasn’t asking.” Reaching over behind the counter, he pressed a button, and the bolt clicked shut on the front entrance. Margaret felt her heart race. A man emerged from the door to the back. He was big, heavyset, wearing a tank top and looked impolite.

  “Come on, sweetie. Let’s not make this unpleasant.”

  “Don’t call me sweetie, asshole.” She steeled herself.

  The man lumbered over to her. Margaret reached over and swung her arm through a shelf, tossing cartons at his face before kicking him in the groin. He barely grunted, and she threw a punch, cracking him in the jaw. It hurt like hell. For her.

  “Christ!” she shook her hand. She felt something break.

  The hulking man reached his wide arms around her and squeezed, grabbing and lifting her off the ground. She leaned back; her face uncomfortably close to his craggy mug, and then head-butted him, forehead smashing his nose. Blood squirted, and he let out a howl and dropped her to the ground, grabbing his nose. Margaret made for the exit, ready to smash through the glass window if necessary.

  Then a boom went off. The shotgun. The man at the counter had it aimed at her, debris falling from the ceiling where he’s just let off the warning shot.

  “Let’s go,” he commanded.

  Margaret raised her hands slowly, her eyes dashing around the room, looking for any more opportunities to make a distraction, to try for another escape. The enormous man, nose streaming blood, thudded around behind her, grabbing her arms and holding them behind her back. “Move it!” he yelled, and she was shoved forward, forced across the room, the shotgun trained on her the entire time before she was tossed through the door. It slammed shut behind her. She was in the storage room, smaller than the storefront, with nothing but cardboard boxes piled high. Directly across from her was another door. She approached one container, the top folds opened, and looked inside. She saw it filled with smaller items wrapped up in paper; it reminded her of a steak from the butcher. Then it clicked. These were drugs.

  She recoiled and rushed to the other door; it was unlocked, and she burst through. She emerged into an open garage with a delivery truck backed in, its rear doors open. More boxes were inside, and it was no mystery what they contained.

  Sirens filled the air as cop cars roared into the lot and hustled out of their vehicles. Officers started screaming at her to put her hands up. Margaret did as she was told. Closed her eyes. Took a breath. And let it out.

  She was charged with transporting narcotics, with potential federal charges pending. Margaret spent the next day in lock-up, a cold concrete cell with a narrow window and a metal bunk, alone, with no visitors, only the sounds, often shouts and protests, of others arrested and awaiting their release, or transport to a more long-term facility. She had no idea what was going to become of her. Was this it? All her hard work, her honesty and fortitude through all the crap she’d been dealt, and this was her reward?

  There was a click and the sound of the outside door opening. Margaret heard footsteps, the clipped yet uneven tapping of loafers approaching. A blond man with short, neat hair, dressed in a navy-blue suit, walked into view, leaning on a cane to support a pronounced limp.

  “Margaret Flaherty,” he said.

  “Yeah…”

  “I’m here to help. My name is Max Everhart.”

  Three months later, on a beautiful morning, Margaret arrived outside the entrance to Guff. She gazed out at the ocean beyond the lighthouse, a free woman, the charges dropped. Boss Johns’ scheme to secure a deal with Markos, a known mobster, failed spectacularly, and he, along with numerous co-conspirators, were the ones going to trial. This was thanks entirely to her lawyer, Max, who was standing at her side.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Your new home.”

  “I’ll never be able to repay you,” she said, looking at him, feeling a lump in her throat. “You saved my life.”

  “I’m just doing my bit,” he said uncomfortably. “Let’s head inside, and you can meet your real savior.”