Prohibited (Tulsa City Sinners #1)

17. Roberts

Chapter seventeen

Roberts

Two AM, that’s what Stanley said. Two AM and everything was going to go up in smoke. Roberts had fully entertained the idea of pretending that he was otherwise occupied, but Stanley wanted the police involved in an official capacity when he went in, and the tiny shred of conscience he had left in him told him that he should probably be present to keep Stanley reeled in. The other attacks, well… Roberts was going to pretend like he didn’t know a thing about them. And frankly, there wasn't much that he did know.

His knowledge was limited to this: There were four or five other properties that Lockwood and Laurent owned, and Stanley was planning on attacking all of them simultaneously while they raided The Red Crystal. This involved an ambush that had something to do with arson and gunfire. And it was all set to go down… now.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” said Stanley, getting out of the unmarked car where Roberts sat behind the wheel. “I’ve waited long enough to get her back.” He tucked his pocket watch back into the small pocket of his waistcoat. The look on his face was something akin to grim determination. He put his hand into his coat and pulled out his revolver, popping out the chamber to check the ammunition again.

“No innocent people,” Roberts said in warning for the thousandth time. “We’re here to get her and to arrest them and any of their accomplices.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” Stanley said in that empty voice of his. The laissez faire attitude didn’t convince Roberts, and he was, he felt, rightly nervous. Both of them knew when it came down to it that Stanley would do whatever he wanted to do. Andrews got out of the back of the car last and threw his cigarette aside, checking the revolver in the holster he kept on his hip. Up and down the street, other men were getting out of their cars and checking their weapons, their batons. Some of them were in official uniform and others were Stanley’s guys in street clothes.

Jesus, you’d think they were going to war.

The lookout let them in with his hands up, no questions asked. He and Stanley led the way down the steps. At the secret door, Roberts put his revolver up to the tiny window and said, “The password is Tulsa City Fucking Police, open up.”

The pale faced kid did as he was told and stood back with his hands in the air .

“HANDS UP, EVERYBODY!” Roberts bellowed. “THIS IS A POLICE RAID. DO NOT MOVE, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FLEE!”

The merry sound of the piano came to a tinkling halt and so did the chatter and the laughter that only moments before had been muffled but pronounced on the stairwell down into the speakeasy.

“Where are they?” Stanley said, looking around as the cops and his men filtered in around him. “I want Laurent and Lockwood both, alive.”

“They aren’t here,” said the old bartender, who had paused making a cocktail in a fine crystal tumbler. His composure was shockingly intact.

Stanley walked right up to the bartender, an elegant old man in at least his seventies who wore a crimson jacket. He grabbed him by his black silk tie and dragged his face down onto the bar and pressed the barrel of his revolver against the old man’s head.

Roberts had a very unpleasant flashback to the scene with Linus and he held his breath, ready to move forward if necessary.

To his credit, tension was apparent in the old man’s body language, but he did not otherwise show his fear.

“I’ll give you one chance and one chance only to tell me where she is,” Stanley said in a low, cold voice that sent a chill through the room.

“Sal!” A woman, about twenty-five years old, with a head of long wild coppery red curls pushed forward until she was standing across the bar from Stanley, staring into his eyes with a courage that Roberts frankly found impressive. It was not uncommon for people to recoil from the sheer chill of Stanley’s gaze. “Stop it. He’s an old man. Leave him alone!”

A look of cold amusement passed over Stanley’s face and he nodded down to the old man. “You want to take his place?”

“Gladly, if that means you’ll stop bullying people who can’t defend themselves,” she said, fists clenched by her sides. It didn’t surprise him at all that the woman was wearing knickerbockers instead of a skirt. Fucking self-righteous suffragette.

Stanley surveyed her with cold scrutiny.

“You know this man?” Stanley said after a moment of thick silence, tilted his head toward the old man again.

The young woman swallowed. “Yes. I do. He’s a f-friend.”

“You know the other owner of this place?” he asked.

Another pause. She said nothing, just glanced at the old man, conflict tightening her face.

“Arrest her,” Stanley said, glancing at Roberts. Then he bore down on the old man again.

“No!” The young woman shouted and attempted to lunge across the bar at Stanley. But two officers were already taking her by the elbows and dragging her toward the stairs. “No!” she shouted again. “Leave him alone, he doesn’t know anything! He just works here!”

“Stop,” Stanley said, watching her with slightly narrowed cold eyes. “Bring her back over here. ”

The officers turned and dragged her back. Her creamy skin became even paler under the freckles that positively covered her face.

“And what do you know?” Stanley asked in his soft, cold voice.

The young woman hesitated, and he drew back the hammer of his pistol, still held against the old man’s head.

“Wait!” she said, taking short, shallow breaths. “Okay, I know they keep the hooch in the back corridor.”

“The hooch?” Walter laughed, a sound that sent a chill down Roberts’ spine. “I’m not here for the hooch, little girl. Where is Evelyn?”

“Evelyn?” she said, faintly.

“She’s not here,” the old man said, quietly.

“Where is she?” Stanley said through gritted teeth, pressing the barrel of his gun into the old man’s head until he winced.

“They moved her.” The old man spoke in a soft, shaking voice.

“Sal,” the young woman said, a tense expression on her face. “What’s happening? What is he talking about?”

“Stanley,” Roberts said. That cold gleam in his eye usually preceded madness.

“I don’t know,” the old man said. “One of the other properties.”

“Which one?” Stanley said, gripping the side of the old man’s head with his hand, white to the lips.

“I don’t know,” the old man said, smothering a groan.

Roberts’ stomach nearly dropped through his feet .

“Spread out,” he said in a clear, loud voice. “Search the place.”

The beat cops that he brought with him began to flow around him, herding the speakeasy guests, knocking on walls, floors, and all of the usual places where secret compartments lived.

“Andrews,” Stanley said sharply. “Send cars out to the other hit spots. Now.” Then he looked back at the old man.

“Who is this girl?” Stanley asked, glancing up at the redhead. The look he gave her could have chilled hell.

The old man remained silent.

“I won’t ask you again,” Stanley said in a deadly calm voice.

“I’m–” The young woman started to say, but Stanley turned his unnerving gaze back on her.

“I asked him. I didn’t ask you,” Stanley said. Then he looked back at the old man. “I’m not a patient man, bartender.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” the old man said, voice trembling slightly. “She’s just a kid that hangs around.”

A long, pregnant moment passed that pulsed with tension.

“I don’t believe you,” Stanley said. And he pulled the trigger, blowing blood and brain matter all over his face and the starched white collar of his shirt. The old man’s body slid to the floor with a thud.

The young woman screamed, a sound so blood curdling that Roberts was sure he would hear it in his dreams for months to come. The entire place erupted into pandemonium.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stanley!” Roberts said as his officers and Stanley’s men faced down the people trapped with them in the speakeasy, pistols raised, trying to restore peace.

In a smooth, fluid movement, he jumped across the bar and landed on the floor in front of the young woman. He took her face in his hand and dug his fingers into her cheek so hard that she cried out. He put his face so close to hers to speak that Roberts almost didn’t hear him, ears still muffled from the close gunshot.

“I think you’ve probably realized by now that I never bluff,” he said, fitting the muzzle of his revolver under her chin. Though she was trembling with fear and her eyes glittered with unshed tears, the look of determined defiance never left her face.

“Funny,” she said, voice laced with shaky sarcasm. “Neither do I.”

“She’s Lindsay’s sister,” someone said from the crowd. Roberts turned to look. The piano player was standing, holding his hat to his chest. “She’s just his kid sister, don’t hurt her. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Arrest him,” Stanley said. “Arrest all of them. I want every person in this building questioned.” His eyes turned back to the redhead. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the young woman said through gritted teeth. A tear slipped down her cheek. “They keep the hooch in the back corridor. ”

“Show me,” Stanley said. He glanced at the cops on either side of her and said, “Let her go.” Then, shifting his revolver so that it was hovering near her face, he took her by the upper arm. “Show me.”

Swallowing, she said, “I’ve never been back there, I’m not sure–”

Stanley cocked back the hammer of his revolver and the young woman fell silent. She began to move toward the wall to the left of the bar where a painting of a fancy woman in a white wig and a red dress hung. With a shaking hand, she reached up and pulled on the candle to the right of the painting. The formerly seamless wall swung inward, a door. It was truly a marvel of engineering. Roberts had seen a lot of hidden doors, compartments, and trap doors that all varied from bad to good, and this one was by far the best.

Stanley pushed her toward the mouth of the corridor. “Lead the way.”

They entered the dark hallway, dimly flickering with the light of lanterns situated on hooks down the passageway. There were several doors. The first one, on the right just past the door, was full of crates of liquor and large barrels, likely of cider or wine. They searched the room carefully, Stanley holding the young woman in front of him, the revolver still pointed toward her head with a steady hand.

Then, they proceeded down the hallway slowly, searching the rooms. All filled with crates. Not a soul to be found. When they came to the last door, Roberts kicked it open, revolver held in front of him, and several boys in blue flowed through the door after him. The room was dominated by a cell. Just the sight of it sent a stab of fury and frustration through him. All this time, she’d been here and he hadn’t known.

“Clear,” Roberts said, putting up his revolver and then fitting it into the holster at his hip. He turned to find Stanley staring at the empty cell with eyes that nearly glowed with rage.

He turned toward the redhead girl and grabbed her face again, slamming her back into the wall. The barrel of his gun found its way to her cheek.

“Where is she?” he asked, more anger in his voice than Roberts had ever heard.

“Stanley,” he said, putting his hand on Stanley’s arm. “Stanley, she’s a fucking girl!”

Stanley huffed a small laugh, eyes flashing. “Why do you imagine that would make a difference to me?”

“She hasn’t done anything!” Roberts said, not relinquishing his hold on Stanley’s arm.

“Roberts, know your place,” Stanley said in a cold, quiet voice that did what it intended to. Roberts fell silent.

A surge of fury went through him, but Roberts calmed himself, taking in a deep breath through his nose. He scrambled for a solution that wouldn’t involve the body of one more innocent person he had to clean up. “She could be useful. More useful alive. Don’t do anything rash.”

Stanley stood still as a statue, staring at the young woman, who glared back at him. Then the corner of his scarred lips lifted into a brief, humorless smile that vanished as quickly as it came. “You know, Roberts, I think you may be right.”

Then, he unceremoniously shoved the young woman toward him, causing them both to stumble.

“Take her to my house.”