The Runaway Daughter by Lauri Robinson Page B

had sent him. He’d thought twice about even answering her. Roger Nightingale made it perfectly clear that men—especially men who worked for a living—had better stay miles away from his daughters.
    Slowing to make the corner onto the main road, Brock forced his mind back to Jimmy Sonny. The mechanic said Ford was designing a radio to be installed in cars. That was thrilling. Someday people could listen to him playing while they drove.
    Right now, though, the only one listening to him was him.
    The town of White Bear Lake was quiet, and hopefully St. Paul would be, too. There were four five-gallon cans of gas strapped to the truck. A stray bullet could put a stop to his trip before it even started.
    * * *
    Less than an hour later, Brock discovered St. Paul wasn’t as quiet as he’d hoped. The traffic block ahead said a late night raid was taking place. Easing the gears down, he rolled to a stop as a copper with a shiny set of wrist-nippers dangling from his belt loop strode toward the driver’s door.
    Brock leaned an elbow out of his window. “Evening.”
    “What you got under that tarp?” the policeman asked.
    “Instruments.”
    “Mind if I take a look?”
    “Not at all,” Brock answered.

Chapter Two
    The dust building up under the tarp had Ginger pinching her nose, but she almost wet herself when she heard Brock give the policeman permission to look under the tarp. She couldn’t be discovered, not this close to home.
    They might as well haul her to the hoosegow. At least she’d get bread and water there. At home, her father would lock her in the room that he’d had his men paint pale pink on her last birthday and throw away the key. Pale pink. Norma Rose got a new Cadillac. Ginger, a pale pink paint job. She didn’t even like pink. Red was her color. Bright red. Like her lipstick and fingernail paint.
    To be fair, her father had bought her new furniture along with the paint, but a new bed was no fun when you slept alone. That’s what she was tired of. Being alone. Watching all the dancing and fun through the staircase rail. She wanted to live it all, not watch it.
    “Peterson, what are you doing? Keep that traffic moving!”
    Ginger willed not so much as an eyelash to flutter. That wasn’t Brock or the other voice she’d heard a moment ago. It was pitch-black under the tarp, but the noise said they’d entered town and they might even be surrounded by coppers.
    “Might have us a bootlegger here, Sarge.”
    The answer came from the first man Brock had spoken to. Ginger’s very toes quivered. She was right. Coppers. Plenty of them.
    “No runner’s gonna drive up to a blockade,” the third man said.
    Ginger chewed on her lip so hard her lipstick lost its cherry flavor. Panicking right now wouldn’t cut the mustard. She bit down harder, focusing on the pain instead of her welling fear.
    “Don’t you recognize that truck?” the third man asked. “It’s the milkman’s. How’s your father doing?”
    “Good,” Brock answered.
    That was a lie. Ginger knew Brock’s father hadn’t walked since he’d been shot while delivering milk in St. Paul, near Pig’s Eye Tavern early one morning last year.
    “Sorry thing what happened to him.” The third man was still talking. “Real sorry thing. Where you headed?”
    “Chicago,” Brock answered.
    “You don’t say? What for?”
    “Got a chance to perform on the radio. The back’s full of instruments. And gas. Enough to make it most of the way. Go ahead and take a look.”
    “No need for that,” the man said. “But you best take the river road. There’s a standoff a few blocks up this way.”
    “Thanks,” Brock answered.
    “Good luck,” the man answered before shouting, “Peterson, clear a path for him to turn around, and then send the rest of the traffic around that way.”
    “Yes, Sarge.”
    Ginger grabbed the edge of the sideboard as the truck jerked and jolted before it made a full U-turn. Then a loud whistle made her smack her head