Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

As she entered her room, she left the light off, being more fearful of light than of the dark. She acknowledged that was standard criminal behavior.

Hands still unsteady, she set the pistol on the dresser. The handgun was small enough to fit in her palm, but Irv had assured her that the business end of it would give pause to anyone with harmful intent. He’d also assured her that it wasn’t the one Derby had used to kill himself.

Feeling claustrophobic, she hastily undressed. When she was down to her chemise, she poured water from the pitcher into the wash bowl and sponged off a film of nervous sweat. Then, moving to the bed, she sat on the edge of it and bowed her head, if not in prayer, certainly in relief.

Over the past several weeks, she had become so wrapped up in her exciting new enterprise, that, at times, she had to pause and remind herself that she wasn’t playing a high stakes game where she was merely trying to out-trick an opponent. She was breaking the law. If caught, the penalty was steep. She did not want to go to jail. Nor did she want to be responsible for Irv and Ernie being incarcerated.

When she’d first laid out her idea to use bakery goods as a cover for moving moonshine, Irv had responded with guffaws. Then he’d put up stubborn resistance, followed by pessimistic predictions. But after talking herself hoarse, she’d finally won his grudging support to try it.

“Just for a time. If it doesn’t work, I’ll stop.”

He’d retorted, “If it doesn’t work, we’ll all be behind bars.”

Clyde Martin, the restauranteur, had been the logical choice for their first prospective client.

“He used to keep a bootlegged stock,” Irv had told her. “So long as it was only a state infraction, and a fine if caught, he poured bourbon and scotch on the sly and called it ‘Mama’s sweet tea.’ He bought his moonshine from me. But the new law spooked him. He stopped buying, and, as far as I know, has gone completely dry. I don’t figure he’s a convert to abstinence, though. Might be worth me going to see him.”

“Let me.”

Irv had argued, but ultimately relented. “All right. But… Don’t take this wrong, Laurel. When you go soliciting, wouldn’t hurt if you girlied up some.”

“Girlied up? What does that mean?”

“You know what it means. Every woman in the world knows what it means.”

“I’m not soliciting at Lefty’s.”

“All’s I’m saying is, you might want to throw away those baggy old shirts of Derby’s and fix yourself up to be more…girlified.”

She’d spent that evening taking in the waistlines of garments that she’d let out during her pregnancy. As an afterthought, she’d also taken up the hemlines an inch and a half. She’d ironed a blouse with a front placket flanked by strips of lace, and had dusted off her best hat.

She’d timed her arrival at the café during the lull between the midday meal and dinner. She gave the busboy her name and asked to see Mr. Martin. After getting clearance, he’d escorted her to a cramped office off the kitchen.

When she’d walked in, Clyde Martin had been standing behind his desk, looking the picture of benevolence. “Mrs. Plummer. I’d like to express my sincere condolences for your—”

She’d cut him off. “You’re losing money, Mr. Martin.”

“I…I beg your pardon.”

“Try this.” She’d taken a mason jar of moonshine from her tote bag, strode forward, and set it on the paper-littered desk.

“And this.” Also from the tote, she’d produced a slice of apple pie wrapped in wax paper and set it beside the jar. “You need to be offering both in your café. I’ll come back tomorrow to work out the particulars of a deal. Have a pleasant afternoon.” She’d left him with his mouth agape.

When she’d returned the following day, Mr. Martin had been eager to negotiate terms. He’d soon learned that she was no shrinking violet, further weakened by grief. Settling on a price, he’d placed an initial order for two pies and 4 jars of moonshine. “I’ll come by twice weekly to deliver the products and take your next order,” she’d told him.

As they shook hands on the deal, he’d said, “I thought you were going to apply for a waitress job.”

“This pays better.”

Initially, Irv had kept up his route and the handyman cover, but once the new still was in operation, she’d suggested that she take over his deliveries. “I could drive your route on the days I don’t bake.”

“You can’t drive my truck.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a truck.”

She’d given him a roll of her eyes. “I could drive it, but you make a valid point. It would attract unwanted curiosity. Instead, what if you built some kind of false floor in my car, the way you did in your truck?”

He’d fashioned a false bottom in her trunk, creating a hidey-hole underneath, which she padded with an old quilt. Thus outfitted, she’d begun driving his route. As she became better acquainted with the roads and back roads in the area, she’d gone further afield, scouting for new opportunities.

She’d picked up two cafés in two different towns, both of which had been customers of Irv’s before becoming gun shy of the Prohibition law. In addition to delicious pies, cobblers, and corn whiskey, she’d promised her customers utmost discretion.