Tales of Old Brigands Key by Ken Pelham

The Rum War
    Brigands Key, Florida, February, 1932
    L ou Denton eased
the heavy black shutter board aside from the window and looked out. He
scratched the stubble on his chin, knocked back another drink of Scotch whiskey,
and settled in to watch his boat like a hawk from the second floor loft of the
warehouse.
    Watching
his stolen boat.
    Each
sip burned his gut. He didn't particularly care for the stuff, even though it
paid the bills and had gotten more popular than it had been when it was legal.
But he needed it tonight. He needed to be on edge and a little drunk to go
through with what needed to be done. This was going to be a long hard night,
one he might not live through.
    They
took his damn boat! His boat, his family's boat for fifteen years, now
defiled by some desk boys in the Coast Guard.
    Goddamn
crooks. They stole it, and with it a small fortune in goods.
    He
took another drink. This needed fixing, and soon. The window would slam shut
and then it would be too late, maybe by tomorrow. The boat would be gone and
he'd likely be in jail.
    The
sons of bitches already had Anna in jail. He shook his head. His sister had
tried hard to do a good job, but weren't too damn smart, and not near quick
enough on her feet to get out of a jam. Kind of lacked the Denton brains and
mean streak.
    That
didn't make him feel no better about it. Worse, if anything. She'd probably go
to federal pen for a long time, and it was his fault. He knew she couldn't
sneak her way through.
    He
had to act tonight, but he couldn't pull it off alone
    A
hand snatched the shutter from his own hand, slammed it shut, and slid a bolt
down to lock it in place. "Damn you, Denton," Cleveland Ross said.
"This is my joint. You ain't s'pose to open the window any time, much less when the damn
Coast Guard is in town. Jesus, you're stupid. Once more and you're gone."
    Lou
glared at him, and sulked over and took a seat. "Fine. Set me up with
another Scotch."
    "That'll
be a dollar, in advance."
    "A
dollar! I sold you the damn stuff."
    "You
wanted whiskey, you should have kept some for yourself. A buck."
    *
* *
    A
half-hour later, Lou huddled alone over another drink, smoking his fifth
cigarette. The joint had filled. All the rooms upstairs hummed with vice; this
room—the biggest, the speakeasy—hummed the loudest. The other three rooms,
peopled by ladies entertaining gentlemen, hummed quietly, punctuated by
occasional shouts of gusto. Like Brigands Key had any gentlemen in it.
Downstairs, all was dark and quiet, a rusted rat-hole warehouse.
    Drinks
flowed, the piano played, jokes abounded, all by the light of hanging kerosene
lamps. A fistfight or two. Lou's friends trickled in and made themselves
welcome, Pat Johnson and worthless Jack Rabbit Abbott, but they all stayed well
clear of him. When your shadow business dragged you into in the spotlight,
thing was, you were pretty much on your own. You didn't expect the others, who
committed the same things and worse, to stand up for you. You just didn't. Life
had to go on. There were mouths to feed.
    But
Lou needed help tonight.
    So
when two strangers entered, Lou fixed a close, studying eye on them. One of
them, a tall thin sort, seemed a little too precious for what needed to be
done, and fidgeted and glanced like he didn't want to be in the joint.
    The
other man, now there might be something to him. Weathered like a baseball
glove, although he didn't seem old, and built real stocky. A broad dark
mustache sprawled across his square head. A little rough around the edges, but
not a whole lot. Maybe enough. Seemed a little too smart, but that might be a
good thing.
    The
two men ordered, and two glasses of beer soon appeared on their table.
    Lou
stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered over. "You gents mind some
company?"
    The
dainty one said, "Well, actually, we were only going to be here a minute
or two."
    "Settle
down, Max," the other said. "Live a little. Sure, mister, pull up a
seat." He waved to the bartender. "This