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cap_ironman2014-01-01 02:43 pm
cap_ironman_fe) wrote in cap_ironman2014-01-01 02:43 pm
Secret Santa: Gin Joint Armistice
Happy New Year: Myrmidonna
Title: Gin Joint Armistice
Rating: PG
Universe: 616/AU
Warnings: none
From:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
whizzy
New York City, 1925
The East River's dirty, frigid water lapped against the hull of Tony's boat. Every once in a while his bow knocked against something in the murk. He was never inclined to look too closely at the shapes as they bobbed past on the current, having already encountered one floater too many during his supply runs to Rum Row.
Tony wasn't the only one moving hooch in the wee hours. The warehouses crammed along shore were dark, but the sound of vehicles and merchandise in transit drifted out over the water. He gave a wide berth to other vessels--especially those running without lights as he was--more worried about hijackers close to home than he'd been about dodging the Coast Guard out at sea.
He was straining to pick out familiar sights by moonlight, or else he might have missed the muzzle flash. Even his practiced ear wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the crack that followed, echoing off brick, wood, and water. He hunkered down in the stern, quashing his instinct to outrun trouble, and idled his engine instead. The shooter was positioned on a port-side pier, too distant to pose an immediate threat, but it was possible they were only aiming to spook a passing boat and drive it into a waiting blockade.
If Tony had his landmarks right, he knew who controlled this stretch of shore. The Silvermane family didn't do small-time heists. They were powerful enough to demand a cut from every business in their territory, legal or otherwise--Tony's modest import operation included.
He was paid up, he knew he was. Besides, he was an easy man to pin down on land, and only Rhodey had known he'd be running a shipment tonight. Whatever this was, it couldn't be personal.
The shooter--no, shooters--squeezed off a dozen rounds in rapid succession, and Tony saw that he wasn't the target after all. A shape fleeing down the pier was, indistinct apart from a man's long stride and a flapping coat.
One pursuer paused to reload while the others maintained the chase. They didn't shout, didn't speak at all except with their weapons. Their quarry, either unarmed or outgunned, had to know he was running for his life.
He was also running out of pier.
"Don't do it," Tony murmured to himself. "Don't- Damn it."
The runner didn't slow, nor did he stumble off the end of the boards and into the waiting river. He made a tremendous leap, hanging suspended in the air for a moment with arms outstretched and coat fanned out like a great pair of wings. Then gravity reasserted itself. Hitting feet first, the runner plunged completely beneath the inky surface.
Tony knew from miserable experience just how cold the river was in March. Counting the lapsed seconds, he waited for the runner to reappear, sputtering and flailing. If the icy shock didn't drag the man back under, his sodden coat might do it instead.
The gunmen milling at the end of the pier were likewise weighing their quarry's chances. He'd leaped out too far to double back and shelter against the pier supports. Worse, he was managing to swim well enough to make an attractive target in a new game. They began to take turns, plinking away a round at a time.
There was probably a wager riding on the killing shot.
Tony couldn't watch. He survived on the fringes of an ugly business because he was smart enough not to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Anyone who tangled with the likes of the Silvermanes should expect to meet a bad end.
Just another bullet-riddled floater in the river.
No, not this time. Not if Tony could help it.
He opened his throttle, turning back downriver in a sweeping arc that brought his boat between the pier and the valiantly struggling swimmer. Robbed of their target, the gunmen hollered and took aim at the poor Resilient instead. She was thin-hulled, lightly built for speed; the stacked whisky crates weighing her down served as better protection from stray slugs.
Slowing at the last, Tony drew up within ten feet of the swimmer. It was the best he could do, improvising in the dark. His mooring line, thrown over the side, would have to make up the difference.
"You in the water! Catch this and hold on tight!"
Tony tossed the rope. His aim was good, and he watched the swimmer's confusion give way to relief and purpose when he realized that the strange boat had intervened to rescue him. The man wrapped the rope around his arm and nodded, either not knowing better or trusting that Tony wouldn't speed away and yank his shoulder out of its socket.
As gently as he dared, Tony towed his hanger-on to safety. They didn't need to go far, maybe a hundred yards to escape the effective range of the little popguns the goons on the pier were using. He had better--much better, the benefit of being the bootlegging heir of a war materiel manufacturer--stashed within easy reach. Still, he'd prefer not to have to use the somewhat finicky prototype, and he hoped to be long gone before the goons either dug up more firepower or a chase boat of their own.
Slowing again, Tony began reeling in the line and was disheartened by a lack of resistance on the other end. The swimmer was still out there, more difficult to spot now that he'd given up his frantic splashing. He might have been hit... no, he was bobbing toward the boat, his movements tired but controlled. It was surprising that the cold hadn't eaten through his strength yet.
Tony leaned over the rail to haul him on board, but withdrew at the last second from the man's grasping hand. "Did you steal from them or kill anyone?" he demanded.
The man shook his head and reached again.
"I said-"
"Heard-d you. N-n-no."
"Here's the thing," Tony explained. "Innocent folk don't get gunned down in Maggia territory in the middle of the night. Before I let you on my boat, I need to know-"
"Federal agent! I'm a... In-nternal Reven-nue..."
Of all the fucking luck. Tony was about to drag a Prohibition Agent onto a thirty foot tub with ten thousand street-dollars worth of illegal merchandise stacked in plain sight.
At least it explained why the Silvermane boys would want the guy dead.
"All right, c'mon--up, up. I can help you, but you got to do some of the work yourself."
Tony reeled his catch in by grabbing any handhold he could find--limbs, coat, seat of the pants--and tugging like mad. His hopes for remaining relatively dry were dashed when the prohi slithered over the rail and collapsed into the tiny clear section of deck between crates, bowling Tony down with him.
"Thanks," the prohi panted. "Thank you."
"Save it. We need to get out of here. Can you-" Squirming around, Tony was jabbed in the ribs by a hard object. So, the guy was armed. Odd that he hadn't returned fire.
"What're you-"
"Confiscating your piece, what's it feel like I'm doing?" Tony asked.
"Shovin' your hand down-n my pants?"
"You say that like you've never been frisked before."
"Coat pocket. Right." Awfully trusting. Then again, Tony had just swooped in and saved his hide.
Tony fished out the pistol and clambered upright. "So you don't get ideas." He made a show of removing the magazine and checking the chamber before dropping the weapon on the prohi's chest. "Hang on to something. Ride's going to be bumpy."
Hundreds of boats like his plied the river every day. There was little chance he'd been recognized, but it was still too risky to make for his own dock straightaway. Rhodey wouldn't approve if Tony showed up with unexpected company.
Hell, Rhodey was never going to let him live down this escapade, period.
Back on the wheel, Tony opened up the engine, smiling at the prohi's startled yelp when the props churned the water behind them to froth and Resilient surged forward. Another benefit to being the heir of a former war materiel manufacturer was access to surplus parts, which a gifted mechanic might assemble in secret and coax to roaring life. He sped back down river as far as the Williamsburg Bridge and ducked into the old ferry landing.
The prohi had made it to his feet, but between the pitch of the boat and his violent shivering, he wasn't having an easy time staying there. "What now?"
"We wait a bit, make sure nobody tried to follow us. Then I suppose I've got to find a place to put you off where you can get warm and dry, because you're sure as hell not-"
"Bellevue."
"The hospital?" Sitting on the waterfront, it did have its own pier, but it wasn't exactly the kind of place Tony wanted to dock a load of hooch. It was bound to be well lit, for one thing. "I'm sure there's somewhere closer. I'm not running a taxi service here."
The prohi said carefully, "I think the hospital is a good idea." He stumbled a step closer and showed Tony the hand he'd been pressing to the side of his neck. His glove was slick with dark blood.
"Jesus Chri- Why didn't you say you were hit?!"
"I'll live."
Tony spun the guy around and propped him against some crates. "Oh yeah? Cause to me it looks like you're losing a not-trivial amount of blood." He needed light, but if he lit up Resilient and they had been followed, they'd be sitting ducks.
"N-not as bad as it looks. Trust me."
"I can't fucking believe I'm doing this." Tony didn't carry a flask, but he had split open one of the crates to taste test the merchandise. "Where the hell did I... here." Bottle located, he pulled the cork with his teeth and shoved a fifth of high-quality incriminating evidence at his new friend the half-drowned Prohibition Agent.
The man shook his head.
"You need it. It'll warm you up."
"I'd d-drop it." Protesting on practical grounds, not principle. Interesting.
"Fine, I'll pour and you drink. Ready?"
With Tony tipping the bottle, the prohi got a good couple swallows down, and pushed away an offer of more. "Thanks."
"On the house." Tony took a swig himself to ward off the chill. "Doesn't look like we were followed, but we should take it easy going back up river. Speed draws attention. Unless..."
"-'s all right. 'm not exsanguinating."
Tony spotted an opportunity, a barge chugging its way north. He eased Resilient forward, aiming to shadow the larger vessel and hopefully disguise his own silhouette from the shore. "Exsanguinating?"
The prohi slithered down to the deck at Tony's feet. "Bleedin' to death."
"I know what it means. I'm just-" Surprised you do. "-wondering if you'd know if you were." When he didn't get an answer, he nudged the guy with his knee.
"Still here."
"All right."
After a moment, the prohi touched Tony's ankle and kept his hand there, squeezing every now and then to prove his point.
They crawled past the Silvermane warehouses, Resilient all but lost against the bulk of the barge. Once clear, Tony chanced a little more speed, and they covered the remaining mile or so to their destination in roughly ten tense minutes.
Bellevue was a dozen stories and sprawling, unmistakable from the water. Its dock was deserted and, as Tony had suspected, brightly lit. He got his first good look at his friend, but there wasn't much to see besides matted blond hair. The coat was a military cut, not American. Could explain the precise way the guy had folded his scarf into a bandage to press against his wound. It had been black to start; there was no telling how much blood it had absorbed.
"We're here. Steady while I moor us." Engine cut, the boat glided in against the boards on pure momentum. Tony hopped ashore to secure the line. When he turned back, he found the prohi standing, surveying Tony's boat and cargo. It made him glad that he habitually masked Resilient's markings for these runs.
"Twenty cases, good quality."
Dressed rough for the weather, Tony saw no reason to pretend to be anything but a common smuggler. "I wouldn't know about that. I'm just the delivery boy."
"Course you are."
"Want to arrest me? You're welcome to try."
The guy held out his arm. He was unexpectedly young; and to guess by the way he was now studying Tony, the youthful surprise was mutual. "Help me to the door an' I'll make you a toothless old fisherman in my report."
It was an easy step down to the dock. The stairs leading up to the hospital would be worse. "Thanks, I think." Tony steadied the guy but wasn't permitted to shoulder much of his weight.
"Least I can do."
It must not have been unusual for the hospital to take in patients off the river. Their arrival apparently observed, a nurse came out of the building to escort them up the second flight of steps. "What's happened?" she asked, crisp and unruffled, then visibly paused. "Steve?"
"-'lo Moira."
"Repeat customer?" Tony asked. Was that how they were acquainted? "Is, er, Steve here in the habit of getting shot?"
"Just winged," Steve mumbled.
"I'll be the judge of that. Give him here," Moira demanded, taking over from Tony. "D'you know you're sopping wet as well?"
"Hadn't noticed."
Tony volunteered, "I caught him trying to swim the river."
"Why would you do a daft thing like that? You'll catch your death of cold!"
"Fish don't d'fend their territory with guns."
Tony glanced back toward the dock. He'd rather not leave Resilient unattended longer than necessary, especially if the Silvermane boys were still looking for her. "You seem to be in good hands now. It's time I vanished into the night."
"Wait. I owe you my life and I don't even know your name."
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," Tony said. "Godspeed to you, Steve the prohi--though given our respective business, I must confess a hope that our paths won't cross again." His wink was mostly for Steve; for the nurse, he pretended to tip a hat. "Ma'am."
Ignoring the protest Steve threw after him, Tony made for the dock as quickly as he could while still appearing nonchalant. Thankfully, Resilient was waiting just as he'd left her.
Only half an hour delayed. Rhodey wouldn't be fretting too much yet.
Tony cast off, and was in the process of cranking the engine when he heard a clatter of footsteps on the dock. The nurse was rushing toward him, a bundle in her arms.
"Hold up!"
He could pretend he hadn't heard her, but he had, regretfully, made eye contact. He stepped to the rail only after the engine had coughed to life, ready to make a hasty retreat if she launched into a teetotaling tirade. His cargo had certainly caught her attention.
"Well!" She transferred the bundle under her arm, planting a fist on her hip. "The plot thickens. Least I know now why you were in such an almighty hurry."
Tony shrugged and smiled his winningest. "I had a hunch my escape was too easy. Did he send you to delay me while he rounds up reinforcements?"
"He sent this with his gratitude, you suspicious lout." She threw the bundle at Tony's head, and he caught it awkwardly. "If you're half as wet as he is, you'd do well to strip down an' wear that instead."
It proved to be a worn wool blanket, army surplus by the color. "Thanks," Tony said, surprised by the gesture. "For playing messenger. Could you tell him- Never mind."
"If you can't think of a nice word to give, I'll make up one on your behalf," she warned.
"Do you think he'll be all right?"
She jerked her head back toward the hospital. "We'll patch him up good as new, you can be sure of that--just as soon as the matron is done bawling him out for getting shot in th' first place."
"Popular with the nurses, is he?"
"We're the closest that boy's got to family. I fear for the day his body shows up on a slab in the morgue," she made the sign of the cross, "Lord help it never happens."
"Tell him that I appreciate the blanket," Tony decided, "and that I'm glad I happened along when I did."
~~~~~
Tony had a late start the next day. He'd finished out the morning by helping to unload the shipment and drive it across town. Rhodey had wanted to send him home straightaway to get dry, but Tony had shucked his damp outer layers in favor of the blanket and taken his customary place in the passenger seat, machine gun across his knees.
Unlike Resilient, the truck wasn't fast enough to outrun trouble. One driver, one armed deterrent was his rule--more for safeguarding his people than his liquor.
Between sleep, meals, and making his rounds to his three other speakeasies, he didn't return to the Tailwind until evening, when business was in full swing.
Well, business should be in full swing, he confirmed, checking his watch. He wouldn't know what kind of crowd he'd drawn tonight until he made it inside.
"Open the door."
"I'm sorry, sir. The Tailwind is a private club."
"Jarvis, please. It's cold out here and people walking down the sidewalk are starting to look at me funny."
"Not without the password. The rules are explicit."
"I know they are, I made them--they're my rules."
Both Jarvis' voice and the little that was visible of his face through the peep window were expressionless, but it was clear that the old coot was loving this. "As I recall, you devised the password as well. Sir."
"Fine. Give me one of the trivia questions instead."
"What is the wingspan of a Fokker D-"
"Thirty feet."
"I haven't finished."
"The wingspan of a Fokker D.VII is thirty feet--I wrote the questions too," Tony reminded. "Now let me in."
There was an exaggerated sigh. "Very well." The tiny window snapped shut, and a second later the door opened on well-oiled hinges. Jarvis stood aside, holding out his arm for Tony's coat and hat. "I say sir, I am constantly amazed by the things you can and cannot remember. The word you were searching for is cranberry."
That did sound familiar.
"Aw, you told him!" someone shouted from the bar. "That's no fun. I'd rather watch him squirm!"
Tony ambled in the direction of the jokester. Tailwind was by far his classiest speak--good location, intimate and well appointed, top-notch liquor selection--but it struggled to break even most months. This was because it had, through fortunate accident, become the exclusive haunt of aviation enthusiasts.
On a typical night, the bar might hold a line of thirsty mechanics; the largest table a lively discussion over a new set of blueprints; and the coveted armchairs near the fireplace an assortment of veterans, barnstormers, daredevils and would-be record breakers. Tony was one of the few who moved effortlessly between coteries, and he knew everyone in his strange little family of regulars.
Unfortunately, every family had its black sheep. "Evening, Ty. I hadn't heard you were back in town." Where was Pepper? Pepper should have warned him.
"I'm not. Not officially. You know how it is. It's only a matter of time until I'm ratted out to Mumsie, and then my social calendar becomes hers for the filling."
"All those dinners and parties, " Tony drawled, stepping behind the bar to pour himself a drink. "How dreadful. My condolences."
Ty Stone was a handsome youth, buffed to a high shine from head to toe by family money. His knowledge of airplanes was limited to being able to quote the sales figures of each model rolled out by his father's factory. "You know I'd rather be here, slumming it in my favorite dive." The glass he raised was brimming with Tony's best scotch.
That was the joy of Ty. An old schoolmate, he'd followed with great interest Tony's fall from equally privileged son to orphan, then to bankrupt orphan pariah, and finally to common criminal. The man was incapable of delivering a straightforward compliment. But Ty was a constant from Tony's old life, and his quips and digs were comforting precisely because they followed the same pattern they always had. It was as if Ty went out of his way to continue treating Tony as a worthwhile target--and hence an equal.
"Say, old sport. There's someone I think you should meet."
"No. No more well-heeled widows." There were less painful ways to fund his ambitions than marrying back into money.
"Not this time," Ty promised. "Here, by the fireplace."
Tony picked out the back of an unfamiliar blond head; its owner was enthroned in Captain Braddock's habitual seat of honor, presiding over an unusually lively conversation. "Huh. Who is he?" He'd heard rumors of a French aircrew come to New York to take a stab at the Orteig Prize.
"Walked in alone, bold as you please, right past your draconian gatekeeper." Ty rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Come on, pour me another and I'll introduce you."
Where the hell was Pepper? It wasn't like her to leave the bar unattended for more than a few minutes. Sighing, Tony poured another scotch. The good stuff, because Ty liked to show off and never had a problem paying his outrageous tab.
Glasses in hand, Ty led to the enclave of armchairs, taking an approach that let him slink up behind the newcomer and sneak his arm around the man's shoulder in an overtly familiar fashion.
Aha. This wasn't about introductions. Ty had already staked his claim, and this was a show to induce jealousy or envy, or both.
"Your fresh drink," Ty leaned to murmur against the blond's ear, passing the glass with a lingering brush of fingers.
"Oh. Thanks." The responding voice was warm and husky, receptive.
A displaced Braddock, perched on the arm of Powell's chair, flashed Tony a grimace. They all knew that Ty was at his most obnoxious in Tony's presence.
"Right," Tony said. "Some other time. I need to find-"
"It this the fella you were telling me about?" The blond was twisted around, half out of his seat; Tony grasped the significance of the bandage wrapped around his throat before the face registered.
"None other." Ty was as pleased as a prize spaniel who'd just fetched his master's slippers. No joke, he honestly thought he had a shot with-
"Steve," Tony blurted.
-the prohi he'd last seen cold, wet, and bleeding on the hospital steps. Without the bandage, it would have taken Tony a lot longer to recognize him, he cleaned up that well. Not a gleaming hair was out of place; and though not bespoke, the blue pinstripe suit had been tailored to within an inch of its life to accommodate broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
Ty's expression faltered. "You know each other?"
"Not by name, no," Steve said smoothly, "but our paths have crossed." He cut in front of Ty to offer Tony his hand. "Steve Rogers. Delighted to meet you at last, Mr Stark."
"Just Tony, please." Tony hoped he didn't look as confused as Ty did. He'd been presented a rare opportunity to knock the wind out of Ty's sails, and the How? and Why? and What the hell? could wait.
Rogers beat Tony to the punch. He began, "Ah, if you have a moment, I'd like to revisit the matter from the other night..."
Why the hell not. An insinuation like that couldn't damage Tony's nonexistent reputation any more than being dragged from the joint in handcuffs would. "Of course. Perhaps some privacy? Let me show you to the back room."
"Just what I had in mind."
"Oh, you won't be needing this." Tony plucked the scotch from the prohi's hand and passed it off to the boggling Ty. "The occasion warrants breaking out my private stash." He guided Rogers toward the door behind the bar, hand hovering over the small of his back.
If Rogers was armed, where would he be hiding the piece, waistband or pocket?
Was it really going to matter?
As soon as the door was closed behind them, Rogers held up his hands. "Let me explain-"
"Just to be clear, I did not serve you that drink. Or are you here to extort a 'protection' fee?"
"Tony!" Pepper chose that moment to rush in from the hallway that led to the back alley.
"There you are."
She pulled up short when she saw that Tony wasn't alone. "Tony..."
"To be clear, she didn't serve you any illegal liquor, either."
Rogers almost smiled. "I'm fairly sure she did."
"Rye, neat, keep the change miss," Pepper recalled. She never forgot a name, a face, or a drink, especially when they belonged to a good tipper. "Tony, trouble. There's been an odd man lurking in the alley, and I just saw a Black Maria pull up to meet him. I think there's a raid brewing."
Tony took Pepper by the shoulders and turned her to face Rogers. "Pepper, Pep. The raid has arrived. It is here--present tense. You sold the nice Prohibition Agent a drink, and I promise to bail you out of jail as soon as humanly possible. However, while you're in there, do you think you could chat up the other incarcerated gals, see if you can pick up some pointers-"
Pepper stomped on Tony's foot. She said to Rogers, "You're a prohi."
"I don't know anything about a raid. I don't-" Rogers patted his pockets. "I'm not here on official business. I'm not carrying my piece... I don't even have my badge!"
"But you're so..." Pepper hunted for the appropriate word, but settled on, "...polite."
"I'm sure the raid is a massive coincidence, and you're here for the pleasing decor and comfortable armchairs. Oh, and let's not forget the delightful company. You set me up," Tony hissed. "After I saved your ass! I don't know how you found me, but you have a funny way of showing gratitude!"
Rogers pointed at Pepper. "Do you have a plan for this kind of thing?"
"What?"
"Do you have a plan to get rid of the evidence?"
"The liquor? Yes, of course."
"Do not tell him the plan. You do not divulge plans and secrets to the enemy," Tony said.
"Do it," Rogers told Pepper. "Go. They'll bust in front and rear at the same time. If your locks are strong, you might buy yourselves a minute or two."
"Tony?"
"Go now," Rogers said, sending Pepper rushing out into the bar, where she began to spread the alarm.
"I'm a little confused by what just happened," Tony confessed. He winced at the sound of Pepper or Jarvis prying open the trapdoor. It led to a vertical stairwell, which led to a chute, which eventually dumped into an old sewer line. A lot of rather expensive merchandise was about to go down the drain.
"The front and rear'll be covered. There another way out of this joint?"
"You want to know the location of my hypothetical secret passage," Tony repeated for clarification. "Why don't I just give you the address to my warehouse while I'm at it?"
"I can't be found here," Rogers said. No, he pleaded, all blue-eyed and guileless. "I didn't know about any raid because I'm supposed to be laid up recovering. I came on my own time to settle a personal matter, and now there's two dozen witnesses can place me in a speak, rye in hand, consorting with a known bootlegger. You know what that looks like?"
Under different circumstances, Tony would have fallen for it in a heartbeat.
Hell, he was falling for it now. "It looks like you're dirty. It looks like you're on my payroll, taking bribes to turn a blind eye or worse. And you already know your fellow Revenue Agents won't find a drop of hooch in the place, so if they catch you here they're going to assume you tipped me off."
"Mr Stark, please."
"All right! Yes, damn it. There is a passage, but it doesn't lead out. It leads somewhere safe."
"Show me."
Tony shook his head. "I'll take you."
~~~~~
"Pepper, wait." Tony rescued several pricier bottles that were about to go down the chute. He balanced two in his coat pockets and handed the others to Rogers. "We're going to roost. Call Murdock if you or Jarvis get taken in."
"You owe me, Tony," Pepper said. "I'm thinking jewelry this time."
"Diamonds it is."
Rogers pocketed his bottles and, after hesitating, scooped up four more.
"There's a ladder," Tony warned him.
"I'll manage."
They had to hurry down the stairwell, avoiding the narrower hole at the cellar landing, and called up to Pepper when they were clear. The sound of rattling, breaking glass followed them through an opening concealed behind a wall of shelves. The passage beyond was crude and poorly lit by a single bare bulb.
It was also a very tight squeeze, and Tony didn't enjoy having his unprotected back to Rogers. Call him paranoid, but Rogers could easily bash Tony's head with a bottle and claim he'd chased down a fleeing criminal.
"Should I be worried about where you're taking me?" Rogers asked, his voice low and definitely emanating from within bashing reach.
"A little further." The passage ran parallel to the street, and wasn't deep enough below ground to blot out the city's perpetual din. He wouldn't be able to hear the raid, couldn't be positive Tailwind was the target. He might have just jettisoned a week's supply of liquor for no reason.
"We're leaving fresh footprints," Rogers said. "Obvious the tunnel's been used."
"They won't find it."
"I hope you're right."
"Why, because you're an accomplice now? Aiding and abetting?"
"I suppose I am." Rogers sniffled a little, then sneezed.
A cold would serve him right.
They were dumped into a second cellar from another concealed door. Killing the light behind them and switching on the one ahead, Tony led up a staircase to a heavy door. He dug out the key and, once they were through, secured the door again from the inside.
Rogers set down his bottles against the baseboard. "Quite a priest hole you got. What is this place?"
"You can look around, but don't turn on any more lights." Tony kept his few important possessions at the garage. There should be nothing interesting for Rogers to unearth.
Rogers wandered into the dim front room. "We're in that swank club up the street."
"The Nest, padlocked for one year for violations of the Volstead Act." Tony had neatened the furnishings some, and aside for the small living area he'd set up for himself, the club was ready and waiting to reopen for business in eight months. "I told the owner I'd watch the place while it sits empty."
"Uh huh, watch the place." Rogers drifted past Tony's bedding, laid out on a cushioned bench along with the army blanket. A spare suit hung nearby on a coat rack.
"Not the glamorous lifestyle you expected."
"I didn't know what to expect."
"Don't-"
Rogers ignored him and peeked out the edge of a drawn curtain.
"Well?"
"Tailwind's hit, all right."
Damn it. "How long will we have to lay low?" Tony wondered if he could scrounge up a deck of cards, find something to do to pass the time besides make agonizing smalltalk.
"Maybe an hour, more if the press shows and the- er, my colleagues scramble for something to show 'em." Rogers returned to Tony and squared his shoulders. "I been thinking. The raid has to be my fault. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring trouble down on you."
"You wouldn't be sorry- I wouldn't be sorry if you'd left the damned matter," Tony snapped. "How in the hell did you find me, anyway? I'm careful. I have rules I usually follow--one of which is to not antagonize the Silvermanes, by the way. I haven't had my photograph-" In the papers, not since the jackals had grown bored a few years ago with the Stark family misfortunes.
Rogers retrieved a page from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Tony.
It was a sketched likeness of Resilient, including the cargo of liquor crates. Below it was an enlarged and more than passable rendering of her Liberty 12. "You found me with- You did this from memory?"
"I know a little about engines," Rogers admitted. "Never seen a monster like yours on a boat that size. I started asking about a rum runner with an airplane powerplant, and Tailwind came up as the place to go. Your doorman quizzed me when I didn't know the password. I guessed, got lucky is all."
"Twice in two days. You should take that streak to the racetrack and pick a trifecta." Tony remembered, "How's your neck?"
"Sore."
"What is your game, Rogers? I can't get a handle on you."
"No game, Mr Stark," he said firmly. "A debt."
Forget cards. Liquor was looking like a more attractive option by the minute. "Just Stark, or Tony. I'm not my father."
Rogers visibly regrouped. "My apologies. Your friend told me some of your story."
The unflattering parts, Tony was sure. So, liquor it was. He chose the better of his two bottles and slid into the booth where he liked to do his drafting work. The way the high back was angled, he could use a small lamp here without the light being visible from the street. "I couldn't help but notice that you two were on awfully good terms, considering you'd just met."
Physically, Rogers was up to Ty's standards, but there was something suspect about the way he'd had Tailwind's snobbish set eating out of his hand. Not just Ty, the pilots as well. You practically had to be an ace from the war to get in with Braddock.
Sitting opposite, Rogers watched Tony wrap his lips around the bottle rim and take a pull--a glass was too reserved for the night he was having.
"What? I know you're not a damned teetotaler. Even if you were, I wouldn't give a shit."
"I do without," Rogers began. "Mostly. Volstead's got nothing to do with it. I think the Eighteenth Amendment is bunk, and now that I've been on the righteous side of the law, I'm more convinced than ever that it's impossible to enforce."
Tony hoped Rogers' pals were doing a lousy job of it at the Tailwind. "Go on," he urged, curious despite himself. "I'm waiting for the punchline."
"Aside from the risk of poisoned bathtub gin?"
Tony frowned. "I only serve undiluted product in my establishments." It was less profitable, but he'd got his start in the business quietly selling off his father's substantial alcohol collection, and he'd earned a reputation for quality.
"The Silvermanes don't. Two dead and six blinded at one of their smoke joints last week." Rogers' thumb tapped out a nervous beat on the tabletop, and he wouldn't quite look at Tony. "The thing is... I'd had more than my fill of clubs and drink by the time I shipped off for the war. I was sixteen."
"I wanted to be a fighter pilot more than anything," Tony confided out of a sudden and bizarre desire for common ground. Either that or he falling into old social habits, wanting to smooth out the conversation and put his guest at ease. "I was too young and I looked it." A commission had been out of the question, especially since Howard had threatened every high-ranking Army connection at his disposal to keep his heir safely grounded.
Oh, the irony.
"The enlistment office wouldn't take me, either. I heard from a friend-" Rogers put a sour inflection on the word. "-that the American Field Service needed ambulance drivers, and they were taking women and college kids. Didn't matter that I was so scrawny back then a stiff breeze could have knocked me over, all I had to do was pay my fare to France. Couldn't wait to get away."
Ambulance driver. Hadn't Bellevue operated a base hospital during the war? He must have stayed with the outfit, after. There was one piece of the puzzle solved.
"You heard from a 'friend' like Ty." Tony guessed.
Now Rogers met Tony's eyes. "Ty was just an easy mark. I know his type of man. They'll keep the rounds coming in exchange for the attentive company of a pretty young face. Sometimes they want more, and they'll pay handsomely for it."
"Am I that type of man?" It was probably unwise to ask, but Tony had to know. He had a rule about avoiding people who could see through his facade--with a few select exceptions.
Rogers didn't consider; he'd already made up his mind. "You wouldn't enjoy flattery, and you wouldn't want to be offered anything outright. It would need to be your idea, and you'd want the illusion of having to work for it."
You're wrong, Tony wanted to tell him. "All I'm working for is the money to put some of my designs in the sky." Make a fresh name for himself, scrape together a legitimate business doing what he loved. Maybe be good enough at it to buy back the mansion some day. Bootlegging was a leg up; Tony's future was aviation. "I've got no use for a prohi with a funny conscience who's done nothing but hamper my goal."
"Fair enough," Rogers said after a moment, leaning back to disengage from the conversation. Disappointment was a good look on him; Tony could admire the slight protruding of a plump lower lip even though he was irritated with the man.
He was still irritated. And perplexed. And suspicious--he'd be a fool not to be.
Tony slid the bottle across the table to Rogers. "Doesn't seem right, not sharing."
"Thanks." Rogers took a sniff and a cautious sip.
"You know... I could take what you just told me to the Bureau and ruin you."
"I know. It'd be easy, too. Been called up for insubordination twice in the three months I been on the job."
"Let me guess. You were too soft on Granny Moonshine when you caught her peddling hooch by the teacup out of her parlor."
"Something like that," Rogers said. "Folks rat on their neighbors, and small busts are easy and good for numbers. My superior would rather I harass Granny Moonshine for minding her business in her own damned home than go after the big outfits, the ones doing real harm. I don't know if he's bought or lazy, but let's just say that last night wasn't the first time I ditched my partner and went snooping where I'd been warned not to."
Unbelievable. "Did it not occur to you that your superior might have warned you away from Silvermane turf so you wouldn't get shot? Or maybe, just maybe, you're a stubborn pain in the ass, and he knows that telling you not to do something is a guarantee you'll do it."
Rogers' frown was as good as an admission. "Setup or not, it doesn't matter. I won't shirk from doing right-"
"What you feel is right."
"-just because it's difficult or dangerous. I knew from the start that my Bureau days are numbered; sooner or later I'll wind up back at the hospital, just like Moira says."
"Driving the ambulance or riding under a sheet in the rear?" Tony pressed.
"Won't know until it happens," Rogers responded mildly.
Tony delivered a kick beneath the table that made Rogers flinch, and knocked the bland expression off his face. "Hey! I didn't save your life just to watch- for you to throw it away again at first opportunity. God knows how you survived this long without a sense of self preservation."
"I used to have one. Misplaced it outside Château-Thierry."
"I'm serious."
Rogers said, "So am I. It was the night our evacuation convoy was hit by a stray round of shelling. We drove through it because we had no choice. I found out later that one of the boys I was transporting had been killed by the shrapnel. He'd already lost an arm; I pried his good luck charm out of his remaining hand, wiped the blood off it, and put it with his effects to send home to his family."
Tony didn't know how to answer that. He noticed that his own hands were fidgeting on the table and stilled them.
"Some people call bravery the absence of fear. The bravery I saw over there came from the certainty that, even with the Devil's own luck, a man can't dodge his due forever."
"So that's it. Your time is up when it's up, and until then you're going to keep tempting fate to kick you in the balls."
"When you put it that way, yes."
"You-" Tony stabbed his finger in the air at Rogers, but that didn't adequately convey the sentiment, so he did it again, with his fist. "Rrr! Ungrateful bastard. I never should have fished you out of the river."
Rogers rubbed the bandage at his neck. "Why did you?"
Because he was a criminal, not a monster. Because he hated senseless waste. Because thought of Rogers sinking beneath the river with a bullet hole between his vacant eyes offended Tony in an inexplicably personal manner.
"I might have left you there if I'd known the trouble you'd cost me--you'd keep on costing me."
The way Rogers smiled ever so slightly said that he knew it was a damned lie.
"You come to me the next time, understand? Before you and your death wish go running off to paint the sidewalk with your blood, come see me. I've been in this business a lot longer than you. I know the lay of the land, I've got connections, information. You can do whatever the hell you want, after. My conscious will be clear; I'll send a nice wreath of flowers for your funeral. But let me-"
Tony snapped his jaw shut.
"It would need to be your idea, and you'd want the illusion of having to work for it."
"I'll be damned," he muttered. "Son of a bitch."
Rogers' smile was spreading, and he ducked his head a little to hide it. "For what it's worth, everything I said was true. I really did track you down to thank you proper for last night. That's all. And I still intend to make good on that debt, somehow."
"Accept my damned offer, Rogers, before I come to my senses."
"How about we make it a bargain, an exchange that goes in both directions." Rogers held out his hand. "I do know some things about this business you don't."
Tony grumbled, "That remains to be seen. I've never been shot." He shook on it anyway.
"If it's any consolation, I've gotten to where I sort of like you too."
~~~
A/N:
The Tailwind is loosely based on a speakeasy called the Wing Club. (I can't imagine a Tony in the 1920's not interested in aviation.) At one point, it was one of about 40 located on 52nd St in Manhattan.
It's estimated that in 1925, NYC had between 30,000 and 100,000 speaks, and only 2,500 prohibition agents.
Prohibition enforcement was a mess, with neither the federal nor the state governments wanting to foot the bill. New York's Mullan-Gage Act allotted local police for enforcement, which led to contact with bootleggers and widespread corruption. The act was repealed in 1923, after which enforcement in NYC fell largely on federal agents. So Steve got to be a fed instead of a cop.
Given Steve's background, he almost certainly would have been a democrat and a wet (pro-alcohol.) The city was predominantly wet, thanks in part to its large immigrant population. It was said that for prohibition to work for the rest of the country, it had to succeed in NYC. It didn't. After a brief decline, New Yorkers were back to drinking even more than they had when alcohol was legal.
Rum Row was a massive alcohol "supermarket", a flotilla of merchant ships anchored off the eastern seaboard, just inside international waters. There were so many that at night their lights were visible for miles.
Other sources of alcohol included toxic methanol (wood alcohol) and "renatured" ethanol. Industrial alcohol is denatured with additives to discourage people from drinking it. Renaturing attempts to remove the additives and make the booze safe(er), which didn't always work. The government cycled through increasingly toxic denaturing recipes during prohibition, making lethal a product they knew people were going to drink. In 1926, poisoned alcohol killed about 400 in NYC.
Title: Gin Joint Armistice
Rating: PG
Universe: 616/AU
Warnings: none
From:
whizzyNew York City, 1925
The East River's dirty, frigid water lapped against the hull of Tony's boat. Every once in a while his bow knocked against something in the murk. He was never inclined to look too closely at the shapes as they bobbed past on the current, having already encountered one floater too many during his supply runs to Rum Row.
Tony wasn't the only one moving hooch in the wee hours. The warehouses crammed along shore were dark, but the sound of vehicles and merchandise in transit drifted out over the water. He gave a wide berth to other vessels--especially those running without lights as he was--more worried about hijackers close to home than he'd been about dodging the Coast Guard out at sea.
He was straining to pick out familiar sights by moonlight, or else he might have missed the muzzle flash. Even his practiced ear wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the crack that followed, echoing off brick, wood, and water. He hunkered down in the stern, quashing his instinct to outrun trouble, and idled his engine instead. The shooter was positioned on a port-side pier, too distant to pose an immediate threat, but it was possible they were only aiming to spook a passing boat and drive it into a waiting blockade.
If Tony had his landmarks right, he knew who controlled this stretch of shore. The Silvermane family didn't do small-time heists. They were powerful enough to demand a cut from every business in their territory, legal or otherwise--Tony's modest import operation included.
He was paid up, he knew he was. Besides, he was an easy man to pin down on land, and only Rhodey had known he'd be running a shipment tonight. Whatever this was, it couldn't be personal.
The shooter--no, shooters--squeezed off a dozen rounds in rapid succession, and Tony saw that he wasn't the target after all. A shape fleeing down the pier was, indistinct apart from a man's long stride and a flapping coat.
One pursuer paused to reload while the others maintained the chase. They didn't shout, didn't speak at all except with their weapons. Their quarry, either unarmed or outgunned, had to know he was running for his life.
He was also running out of pier.
"Don't do it," Tony murmured to himself. "Don't- Damn it."
The runner didn't slow, nor did he stumble off the end of the boards and into the waiting river. He made a tremendous leap, hanging suspended in the air for a moment with arms outstretched and coat fanned out like a great pair of wings. Then gravity reasserted itself. Hitting feet first, the runner plunged completely beneath the inky surface.
Tony knew from miserable experience just how cold the river was in March. Counting the lapsed seconds, he waited for the runner to reappear, sputtering and flailing. If the icy shock didn't drag the man back under, his sodden coat might do it instead.
The gunmen milling at the end of the pier were likewise weighing their quarry's chances. He'd leaped out too far to double back and shelter against the pier supports. Worse, he was managing to swim well enough to make an attractive target in a new game. They began to take turns, plinking away a round at a time.
There was probably a wager riding on the killing shot.
Tony couldn't watch. He survived on the fringes of an ugly business because he was smart enough not to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Anyone who tangled with the likes of the Silvermanes should expect to meet a bad end.
Just another bullet-riddled floater in the river.
No, not this time. Not if Tony could help it.
He opened his throttle, turning back downriver in a sweeping arc that brought his boat between the pier and the valiantly struggling swimmer. Robbed of their target, the gunmen hollered and took aim at the poor Resilient instead. She was thin-hulled, lightly built for speed; the stacked whisky crates weighing her down served as better protection from stray slugs.
Slowing at the last, Tony drew up within ten feet of the swimmer. It was the best he could do, improvising in the dark. His mooring line, thrown over the side, would have to make up the difference.
"You in the water! Catch this and hold on tight!"
Tony tossed the rope. His aim was good, and he watched the swimmer's confusion give way to relief and purpose when he realized that the strange boat had intervened to rescue him. The man wrapped the rope around his arm and nodded, either not knowing better or trusting that Tony wouldn't speed away and yank his shoulder out of its socket.
As gently as he dared, Tony towed his hanger-on to safety. They didn't need to go far, maybe a hundred yards to escape the effective range of the little popguns the goons on the pier were using. He had better--much better, the benefit of being the bootlegging heir of a war materiel manufacturer--stashed within easy reach. Still, he'd prefer not to have to use the somewhat finicky prototype, and he hoped to be long gone before the goons either dug up more firepower or a chase boat of their own.
Slowing again, Tony began reeling in the line and was disheartened by a lack of resistance on the other end. The swimmer was still out there, more difficult to spot now that he'd given up his frantic splashing. He might have been hit... no, he was bobbing toward the boat, his movements tired but controlled. It was surprising that the cold hadn't eaten through his strength yet.
Tony leaned over the rail to haul him on board, but withdrew at the last second from the man's grasping hand. "Did you steal from them or kill anyone?" he demanded.
The man shook his head and reached again.
"I said-"
"Heard-d you. N-n-no."
"Here's the thing," Tony explained. "Innocent folk don't get gunned down in Maggia territory in the middle of the night. Before I let you on my boat, I need to know-"
"Federal agent! I'm a... In-nternal Reven-nue..."
Of all the fucking luck. Tony was about to drag a Prohibition Agent onto a thirty foot tub with ten thousand street-dollars worth of illegal merchandise stacked in plain sight.
At least it explained why the Silvermane boys would want the guy dead.
"All right, c'mon--up, up. I can help you, but you got to do some of the work yourself."
Tony reeled his catch in by grabbing any handhold he could find--limbs, coat, seat of the pants--and tugging like mad. His hopes for remaining relatively dry were dashed when the prohi slithered over the rail and collapsed into the tiny clear section of deck between crates, bowling Tony down with him.
"Thanks," the prohi panted. "Thank you."
"Save it. We need to get out of here. Can you-" Squirming around, Tony was jabbed in the ribs by a hard object. So, the guy was armed. Odd that he hadn't returned fire.
"What're you-"
"Confiscating your piece, what's it feel like I'm doing?" Tony asked.
"Shovin' your hand down-n my pants?"
"You say that like you've never been frisked before."
"Coat pocket. Right." Awfully trusting. Then again, Tony had just swooped in and saved his hide.
Tony fished out the pistol and clambered upright. "So you don't get ideas." He made a show of removing the magazine and checking the chamber before dropping the weapon on the prohi's chest. "Hang on to something. Ride's going to be bumpy."
Hundreds of boats like his plied the river every day. There was little chance he'd been recognized, but it was still too risky to make for his own dock straightaway. Rhodey wouldn't approve if Tony showed up with unexpected company.
Hell, Rhodey was never going to let him live down this escapade, period.
Back on the wheel, Tony opened up the engine, smiling at the prohi's startled yelp when the props churned the water behind them to froth and Resilient surged forward. Another benefit to being the heir of a former war materiel manufacturer was access to surplus parts, which a gifted mechanic might assemble in secret and coax to roaring life. He sped back down river as far as the Williamsburg Bridge and ducked into the old ferry landing.
The prohi had made it to his feet, but between the pitch of the boat and his violent shivering, he wasn't having an easy time staying there. "What now?"
"We wait a bit, make sure nobody tried to follow us. Then I suppose I've got to find a place to put you off where you can get warm and dry, because you're sure as hell not-"
"Bellevue."
"The hospital?" Sitting on the waterfront, it did have its own pier, but it wasn't exactly the kind of place Tony wanted to dock a load of hooch. It was bound to be well lit, for one thing. "I'm sure there's somewhere closer. I'm not running a taxi service here."
The prohi said carefully, "I think the hospital is a good idea." He stumbled a step closer and showed Tony the hand he'd been pressing to the side of his neck. His glove was slick with dark blood.
"Jesus Chri- Why didn't you say you were hit?!"
"I'll live."
Tony spun the guy around and propped him against some crates. "Oh yeah? Cause to me it looks like you're losing a not-trivial amount of blood." He needed light, but if he lit up Resilient and they had been followed, they'd be sitting ducks.
"N-not as bad as it looks. Trust me."
"I can't fucking believe I'm doing this." Tony didn't carry a flask, but he had split open one of the crates to taste test the merchandise. "Where the hell did I... here." Bottle located, he pulled the cork with his teeth and shoved a fifth of high-quality incriminating evidence at his new friend the half-drowned Prohibition Agent.
The man shook his head.
"You need it. It'll warm you up."
"I'd d-drop it." Protesting on practical grounds, not principle. Interesting.
"Fine, I'll pour and you drink. Ready?"
With Tony tipping the bottle, the prohi got a good couple swallows down, and pushed away an offer of more. "Thanks."
"On the house." Tony took a swig himself to ward off the chill. "Doesn't look like we were followed, but we should take it easy going back up river. Speed draws attention. Unless..."
"-'s all right. 'm not exsanguinating."
Tony spotted an opportunity, a barge chugging its way north. He eased Resilient forward, aiming to shadow the larger vessel and hopefully disguise his own silhouette from the shore. "Exsanguinating?"
The prohi slithered down to the deck at Tony's feet. "Bleedin' to death."
"I know what it means. I'm just-" Surprised you do. "-wondering if you'd know if you were." When he didn't get an answer, he nudged the guy with his knee.
"Still here."
"All right."
After a moment, the prohi touched Tony's ankle and kept his hand there, squeezing every now and then to prove his point.
They crawled past the Silvermane warehouses, Resilient all but lost against the bulk of the barge. Once clear, Tony chanced a little more speed, and they covered the remaining mile or so to their destination in roughly ten tense minutes.
Bellevue was a dozen stories and sprawling, unmistakable from the water. Its dock was deserted and, as Tony had suspected, brightly lit. He got his first good look at his friend, but there wasn't much to see besides matted blond hair. The coat was a military cut, not American. Could explain the precise way the guy had folded his scarf into a bandage to press against his wound. It had been black to start; there was no telling how much blood it had absorbed.
"We're here. Steady while I moor us." Engine cut, the boat glided in against the boards on pure momentum. Tony hopped ashore to secure the line. When he turned back, he found the prohi standing, surveying Tony's boat and cargo. It made him glad that he habitually masked Resilient's markings for these runs.
"Twenty cases, good quality."
Dressed rough for the weather, Tony saw no reason to pretend to be anything but a common smuggler. "I wouldn't know about that. I'm just the delivery boy."
"Course you are."
"Want to arrest me? You're welcome to try."
The guy held out his arm. He was unexpectedly young; and to guess by the way he was now studying Tony, the youthful surprise was mutual. "Help me to the door an' I'll make you a toothless old fisherman in my report."
It was an easy step down to the dock. The stairs leading up to the hospital would be worse. "Thanks, I think." Tony steadied the guy but wasn't permitted to shoulder much of his weight.
"Least I can do."
It must not have been unusual for the hospital to take in patients off the river. Their arrival apparently observed, a nurse came out of the building to escort them up the second flight of steps. "What's happened?" she asked, crisp and unruffled, then visibly paused. "Steve?"
"-'lo Moira."
"Repeat customer?" Tony asked. Was that how they were acquainted? "Is, er, Steve here in the habit of getting shot?"
"Just winged," Steve mumbled.
"I'll be the judge of that. Give him here," Moira demanded, taking over from Tony. "D'you know you're sopping wet as well?"
"Hadn't noticed."
Tony volunteered, "I caught him trying to swim the river."
"Why would you do a daft thing like that? You'll catch your death of cold!"
"Fish don't d'fend their territory with guns."
Tony glanced back toward the dock. He'd rather not leave Resilient unattended longer than necessary, especially if the Silvermane boys were still looking for her. "You seem to be in good hands now. It's time I vanished into the night."
"Wait. I owe you my life and I don't even know your name."
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," Tony said. "Godspeed to you, Steve the prohi--though given our respective business, I must confess a hope that our paths won't cross again." His wink was mostly for Steve; for the nurse, he pretended to tip a hat. "Ma'am."
Ignoring the protest Steve threw after him, Tony made for the dock as quickly as he could while still appearing nonchalant. Thankfully, Resilient was waiting just as he'd left her.
Only half an hour delayed. Rhodey wouldn't be fretting too much yet.
Tony cast off, and was in the process of cranking the engine when he heard a clatter of footsteps on the dock. The nurse was rushing toward him, a bundle in her arms.
"Hold up!"
He could pretend he hadn't heard her, but he had, regretfully, made eye contact. He stepped to the rail only after the engine had coughed to life, ready to make a hasty retreat if she launched into a teetotaling tirade. His cargo had certainly caught her attention.
"Well!" She transferred the bundle under her arm, planting a fist on her hip. "The plot thickens. Least I know now why you were in such an almighty hurry."
Tony shrugged and smiled his winningest. "I had a hunch my escape was too easy. Did he send you to delay me while he rounds up reinforcements?"
"He sent this with his gratitude, you suspicious lout." She threw the bundle at Tony's head, and he caught it awkwardly. "If you're half as wet as he is, you'd do well to strip down an' wear that instead."
It proved to be a worn wool blanket, army surplus by the color. "Thanks," Tony said, surprised by the gesture. "For playing messenger. Could you tell him- Never mind."
"If you can't think of a nice word to give, I'll make up one on your behalf," she warned.
"Do you think he'll be all right?"
She jerked her head back toward the hospital. "We'll patch him up good as new, you can be sure of that--just as soon as the matron is done bawling him out for getting shot in th' first place."
"Popular with the nurses, is he?"
"We're the closest that boy's got to family. I fear for the day his body shows up on a slab in the morgue," she made the sign of the cross, "Lord help it never happens."
"Tell him that I appreciate the blanket," Tony decided, "and that I'm glad I happened along when I did."
~~~~~
Tony had a late start the next day. He'd finished out the morning by helping to unload the shipment and drive it across town. Rhodey had wanted to send him home straightaway to get dry, but Tony had shucked his damp outer layers in favor of the blanket and taken his customary place in the passenger seat, machine gun across his knees.
Unlike Resilient, the truck wasn't fast enough to outrun trouble. One driver, one armed deterrent was his rule--more for safeguarding his people than his liquor.
Between sleep, meals, and making his rounds to his three other speakeasies, he didn't return to the Tailwind until evening, when business was in full swing.
Well, business should be in full swing, he confirmed, checking his watch. He wouldn't know what kind of crowd he'd drawn tonight until he made it inside.
"Open the door."
"I'm sorry, sir. The Tailwind is a private club."
"Jarvis, please. It's cold out here and people walking down the sidewalk are starting to look at me funny."
"Not without the password. The rules are explicit."
"I know they are, I made them--they're my rules."
Both Jarvis' voice and the little that was visible of his face through the peep window were expressionless, but it was clear that the old coot was loving this. "As I recall, you devised the password as well. Sir."
"Fine. Give me one of the trivia questions instead."
"What is the wingspan of a Fokker D-"
"Thirty feet."
"I haven't finished."
"The wingspan of a Fokker D.VII is thirty feet--I wrote the questions too," Tony reminded. "Now let me in."
There was an exaggerated sigh. "Very well." The tiny window snapped shut, and a second later the door opened on well-oiled hinges. Jarvis stood aside, holding out his arm for Tony's coat and hat. "I say sir, I am constantly amazed by the things you can and cannot remember. The word you were searching for is cranberry."
That did sound familiar.
"Aw, you told him!" someone shouted from the bar. "That's no fun. I'd rather watch him squirm!"
Tony ambled in the direction of the jokester. Tailwind was by far his classiest speak--good location, intimate and well appointed, top-notch liquor selection--but it struggled to break even most months. This was because it had, through fortunate accident, become the exclusive haunt of aviation enthusiasts.
On a typical night, the bar might hold a line of thirsty mechanics; the largest table a lively discussion over a new set of blueprints; and the coveted armchairs near the fireplace an assortment of veterans, barnstormers, daredevils and would-be record breakers. Tony was one of the few who moved effortlessly between coteries, and he knew everyone in his strange little family of regulars.
Unfortunately, every family had its black sheep. "Evening, Ty. I hadn't heard you were back in town." Where was Pepper? Pepper should have warned him.
"I'm not. Not officially. You know how it is. It's only a matter of time until I'm ratted out to Mumsie, and then my social calendar becomes hers for the filling."
"All those dinners and parties, " Tony drawled, stepping behind the bar to pour himself a drink. "How dreadful. My condolences."
Ty Stone was a handsome youth, buffed to a high shine from head to toe by family money. His knowledge of airplanes was limited to being able to quote the sales figures of each model rolled out by his father's factory. "You know I'd rather be here, slumming it in my favorite dive." The glass he raised was brimming with Tony's best scotch.
That was the joy of Ty. An old schoolmate, he'd followed with great interest Tony's fall from equally privileged son to orphan, then to bankrupt orphan pariah, and finally to common criminal. The man was incapable of delivering a straightforward compliment. But Ty was a constant from Tony's old life, and his quips and digs were comforting precisely because they followed the same pattern they always had. It was as if Ty went out of his way to continue treating Tony as a worthwhile target--and hence an equal.
"Say, old sport. There's someone I think you should meet."
"No. No more well-heeled widows." There were less painful ways to fund his ambitions than marrying back into money.
"Not this time," Ty promised. "Here, by the fireplace."
Tony picked out the back of an unfamiliar blond head; its owner was enthroned in Captain Braddock's habitual seat of honor, presiding over an unusually lively conversation. "Huh. Who is he?" He'd heard rumors of a French aircrew come to New York to take a stab at the Orteig Prize.
"Walked in alone, bold as you please, right past your draconian gatekeeper." Ty rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Come on, pour me another and I'll introduce you."
Where the hell was Pepper? It wasn't like her to leave the bar unattended for more than a few minutes. Sighing, Tony poured another scotch. The good stuff, because Ty liked to show off and never had a problem paying his outrageous tab.
Glasses in hand, Ty led to the enclave of armchairs, taking an approach that let him slink up behind the newcomer and sneak his arm around the man's shoulder in an overtly familiar fashion.
Aha. This wasn't about introductions. Ty had already staked his claim, and this was a show to induce jealousy or envy, or both.
"Your fresh drink," Ty leaned to murmur against the blond's ear, passing the glass with a lingering brush of fingers.
"Oh. Thanks." The responding voice was warm and husky, receptive.
A displaced Braddock, perched on the arm of Powell's chair, flashed Tony a grimace. They all knew that Ty was at his most obnoxious in Tony's presence.
"Right," Tony said. "Some other time. I need to find-"
"It this the fella you were telling me about?" The blond was twisted around, half out of his seat; Tony grasped the significance of the bandage wrapped around his throat before the face registered.
"None other." Ty was as pleased as a prize spaniel who'd just fetched his master's slippers. No joke, he honestly thought he had a shot with-
"Steve," Tony blurted.
-the prohi he'd last seen cold, wet, and bleeding on the hospital steps. Without the bandage, it would have taken Tony a lot longer to recognize him, he cleaned up that well. Not a gleaming hair was out of place; and though not bespoke, the blue pinstripe suit had been tailored to within an inch of its life to accommodate broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
Ty's expression faltered. "You know each other?"
"Not by name, no," Steve said smoothly, "but our paths have crossed." He cut in front of Ty to offer Tony his hand. "Steve Rogers. Delighted to meet you at last, Mr Stark."
"Just Tony, please." Tony hoped he didn't look as confused as Ty did. He'd been presented a rare opportunity to knock the wind out of Ty's sails, and the How? and Why? and What the hell? could wait.
Rogers beat Tony to the punch. He began, "Ah, if you have a moment, I'd like to revisit the matter from the other night..."
Why the hell not. An insinuation like that couldn't damage Tony's nonexistent reputation any more than being dragged from the joint in handcuffs would. "Of course. Perhaps some privacy? Let me show you to the back room."
"Just what I had in mind."
"Oh, you won't be needing this." Tony plucked the scotch from the prohi's hand and passed it off to the boggling Ty. "The occasion warrants breaking out my private stash." He guided Rogers toward the door behind the bar, hand hovering over the small of his back.
If Rogers was armed, where would he be hiding the piece, waistband or pocket?
Was it really going to matter?
As soon as the door was closed behind them, Rogers held up his hands. "Let me explain-"
"Just to be clear, I did not serve you that drink. Or are you here to extort a 'protection' fee?"
"Tony!" Pepper chose that moment to rush in from the hallway that led to the back alley.
"There you are."
She pulled up short when she saw that Tony wasn't alone. "Tony..."
"To be clear, she didn't serve you any illegal liquor, either."
Rogers almost smiled. "I'm fairly sure she did."
"Rye, neat, keep the change miss," Pepper recalled. She never forgot a name, a face, or a drink, especially when they belonged to a good tipper. "Tony, trouble. There's been an odd man lurking in the alley, and I just saw a Black Maria pull up to meet him. I think there's a raid brewing."
Tony took Pepper by the shoulders and turned her to face Rogers. "Pepper, Pep. The raid has arrived. It is here--present tense. You sold the nice Prohibition Agent a drink, and I promise to bail you out of jail as soon as humanly possible. However, while you're in there, do you think you could chat up the other incarcerated gals, see if you can pick up some pointers-"
Pepper stomped on Tony's foot. She said to Rogers, "You're a prohi."
"I don't know anything about a raid. I don't-" Rogers patted his pockets. "I'm not here on official business. I'm not carrying my piece... I don't even have my badge!"
"But you're so..." Pepper hunted for the appropriate word, but settled on, "...polite."
"I'm sure the raid is a massive coincidence, and you're here for the pleasing decor and comfortable armchairs. Oh, and let's not forget the delightful company. You set me up," Tony hissed. "After I saved your ass! I don't know how you found me, but you have a funny way of showing gratitude!"
Rogers pointed at Pepper. "Do you have a plan for this kind of thing?"
"What?"
"Do you have a plan to get rid of the evidence?"
"The liquor? Yes, of course."
"Do not tell him the plan. You do not divulge plans and secrets to the enemy," Tony said.
"Do it," Rogers told Pepper. "Go. They'll bust in front and rear at the same time. If your locks are strong, you might buy yourselves a minute or two."
"Tony?"
"Go now," Rogers said, sending Pepper rushing out into the bar, where she began to spread the alarm.
"I'm a little confused by what just happened," Tony confessed. He winced at the sound of Pepper or Jarvis prying open the trapdoor. It led to a vertical stairwell, which led to a chute, which eventually dumped into an old sewer line. A lot of rather expensive merchandise was about to go down the drain.
"The front and rear'll be covered. There another way out of this joint?"
"You want to know the location of my hypothetical secret passage," Tony repeated for clarification. "Why don't I just give you the address to my warehouse while I'm at it?"
"I can't be found here," Rogers said. No, he pleaded, all blue-eyed and guileless. "I didn't know about any raid because I'm supposed to be laid up recovering. I came on my own time to settle a personal matter, and now there's two dozen witnesses can place me in a speak, rye in hand, consorting with a known bootlegger. You know what that looks like?"
Under different circumstances, Tony would have fallen for it in a heartbeat.
Hell, he was falling for it now. "It looks like you're dirty. It looks like you're on my payroll, taking bribes to turn a blind eye or worse. And you already know your fellow Revenue Agents won't find a drop of hooch in the place, so if they catch you here they're going to assume you tipped me off."
"Mr Stark, please."
"All right! Yes, damn it. There is a passage, but it doesn't lead out. It leads somewhere safe."
"Show me."
Tony shook his head. "I'll take you."
~~~~~
"Pepper, wait." Tony rescued several pricier bottles that were about to go down the chute. He balanced two in his coat pockets and handed the others to Rogers. "We're going to roost. Call Murdock if you or Jarvis get taken in."
"You owe me, Tony," Pepper said. "I'm thinking jewelry this time."
"Diamonds it is."
Rogers pocketed his bottles and, after hesitating, scooped up four more.
"There's a ladder," Tony warned him.
"I'll manage."
They had to hurry down the stairwell, avoiding the narrower hole at the cellar landing, and called up to Pepper when they were clear. The sound of rattling, breaking glass followed them through an opening concealed behind a wall of shelves. The passage beyond was crude and poorly lit by a single bare bulb.
It was also a very tight squeeze, and Tony didn't enjoy having his unprotected back to Rogers. Call him paranoid, but Rogers could easily bash Tony's head with a bottle and claim he'd chased down a fleeing criminal.
"Should I be worried about where you're taking me?" Rogers asked, his voice low and definitely emanating from within bashing reach.
"A little further." The passage ran parallel to the street, and wasn't deep enough below ground to blot out the city's perpetual din. He wouldn't be able to hear the raid, couldn't be positive Tailwind was the target. He might have just jettisoned a week's supply of liquor for no reason.
"We're leaving fresh footprints," Rogers said. "Obvious the tunnel's been used."
"They won't find it."
"I hope you're right."
"Why, because you're an accomplice now? Aiding and abetting?"
"I suppose I am." Rogers sniffled a little, then sneezed.
A cold would serve him right.
They were dumped into a second cellar from another concealed door. Killing the light behind them and switching on the one ahead, Tony led up a staircase to a heavy door. He dug out the key and, once they were through, secured the door again from the inside.
Rogers set down his bottles against the baseboard. "Quite a priest hole you got. What is this place?"
"You can look around, but don't turn on any more lights." Tony kept his few important possessions at the garage. There should be nothing interesting for Rogers to unearth.
Rogers wandered into the dim front room. "We're in that swank club up the street."
"The Nest, padlocked for one year for violations of the Volstead Act." Tony had neatened the furnishings some, and aside for the small living area he'd set up for himself, the club was ready and waiting to reopen for business in eight months. "I told the owner I'd watch the place while it sits empty."
"Uh huh, watch the place." Rogers drifted past Tony's bedding, laid out on a cushioned bench along with the army blanket. A spare suit hung nearby on a coat rack.
"Not the glamorous lifestyle you expected."
"I didn't know what to expect."
"Don't-"
Rogers ignored him and peeked out the edge of a drawn curtain.
"Well?"
"Tailwind's hit, all right."
Damn it. "How long will we have to lay low?" Tony wondered if he could scrounge up a deck of cards, find something to do to pass the time besides make agonizing smalltalk.
"Maybe an hour, more if the press shows and the- er, my colleagues scramble for something to show 'em." Rogers returned to Tony and squared his shoulders. "I been thinking. The raid has to be my fault. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring trouble down on you."
"You wouldn't be sorry- I wouldn't be sorry if you'd left the damned matter," Tony snapped. "How in the hell did you find me, anyway? I'm careful. I have rules I usually follow--one of which is to not antagonize the Silvermanes, by the way. I haven't had my photograph-" In the papers, not since the jackals had grown bored a few years ago with the Stark family misfortunes.
Rogers retrieved a page from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Tony.
It was a sketched likeness of Resilient, including the cargo of liquor crates. Below it was an enlarged and more than passable rendering of her Liberty 12. "You found me with- You did this from memory?"
"I know a little about engines," Rogers admitted. "Never seen a monster like yours on a boat that size. I started asking about a rum runner with an airplane powerplant, and Tailwind came up as the place to go. Your doorman quizzed me when I didn't know the password. I guessed, got lucky is all."
"Twice in two days. You should take that streak to the racetrack and pick a trifecta." Tony remembered, "How's your neck?"
"Sore."
"What is your game, Rogers? I can't get a handle on you."
"No game, Mr Stark," he said firmly. "A debt."
Forget cards. Liquor was looking like a more attractive option by the minute. "Just Stark, or Tony. I'm not my father."
Rogers visibly regrouped. "My apologies. Your friend told me some of your story."
The unflattering parts, Tony was sure. So, liquor it was. He chose the better of his two bottles and slid into the booth where he liked to do his drafting work. The way the high back was angled, he could use a small lamp here without the light being visible from the street. "I couldn't help but notice that you two were on awfully good terms, considering you'd just met."
Physically, Rogers was up to Ty's standards, but there was something suspect about the way he'd had Tailwind's snobbish set eating out of his hand. Not just Ty, the pilots as well. You practically had to be an ace from the war to get in with Braddock.
Sitting opposite, Rogers watched Tony wrap his lips around the bottle rim and take a pull--a glass was too reserved for the night he was having.
"What? I know you're not a damned teetotaler. Even if you were, I wouldn't give a shit."
"I do without," Rogers began. "Mostly. Volstead's got nothing to do with it. I think the Eighteenth Amendment is bunk, and now that I've been on the righteous side of the law, I'm more convinced than ever that it's impossible to enforce."
Tony hoped Rogers' pals were doing a lousy job of it at the Tailwind. "Go on," he urged, curious despite himself. "I'm waiting for the punchline."
"Aside from the risk of poisoned bathtub gin?"
Tony frowned. "I only serve undiluted product in my establishments." It was less profitable, but he'd got his start in the business quietly selling off his father's substantial alcohol collection, and he'd earned a reputation for quality.
"The Silvermanes don't. Two dead and six blinded at one of their smoke joints last week." Rogers' thumb tapped out a nervous beat on the tabletop, and he wouldn't quite look at Tony. "The thing is... I'd had more than my fill of clubs and drink by the time I shipped off for the war. I was sixteen."
"I wanted to be a fighter pilot more than anything," Tony confided out of a sudden and bizarre desire for common ground. Either that or he falling into old social habits, wanting to smooth out the conversation and put his guest at ease. "I was too young and I looked it." A commission had been out of the question, especially since Howard had threatened every high-ranking Army connection at his disposal to keep his heir safely grounded.
Oh, the irony.
"The enlistment office wouldn't take me, either. I heard from a friend-" Rogers put a sour inflection on the word. "-that the American Field Service needed ambulance drivers, and they were taking women and college kids. Didn't matter that I was so scrawny back then a stiff breeze could have knocked me over, all I had to do was pay my fare to France. Couldn't wait to get away."
Ambulance driver. Hadn't Bellevue operated a base hospital during the war? He must have stayed with the outfit, after. There was one piece of the puzzle solved.
"You heard from a 'friend' like Ty." Tony guessed.
Now Rogers met Tony's eyes. "Ty was just an easy mark. I know his type of man. They'll keep the rounds coming in exchange for the attentive company of a pretty young face. Sometimes they want more, and they'll pay handsomely for it."
"Am I that type of man?" It was probably unwise to ask, but Tony had to know. He had a rule about avoiding people who could see through his facade--with a few select exceptions.
Rogers didn't consider; he'd already made up his mind. "You wouldn't enjoy flattery, and you wouldn't want to be offered anything outright. It would need to be your idea, and you'd want the illusion of having to work for it."
You're wrong, Tony wanted to tell him. "All I'm working for is the money to put some of my designs in the sky." Make a fresh name for himself, scrape together a legitimate business doing what he loved. Maybe be good enough at it to buy back the mansion some day. Bootlegging was a leg up; Tony's future was aviation. "I've got no use for a prohi with a funny conscience who's done nothing but hamper my goal."
"Fair enough," Rogers said after a moment, leaning back to disengage from the conversation. Disappointment was a good look on him; Tony could admire the slight protruding of a plump lower lip even though he was irritated with the man.
He was still irritated. And perplexed. And suspicious--he'd be a fool not to be.
Tony slid the bottle across the table to Rogers. "Doesn't seem right, not sharing."
"Thanks." Rogers took a sniff and a cautious sip.
"You know... I could take what you just told me to the Bureau and ruin you."
"I know. It'd be easy, too. Been called up for insubordination twice in the three months I been on the job."
"Let me guess. You were too soft on Granny Moonshine when you caught her peddling hooch by the teacup out of her parlor."
"Something like that," Rogers said. "Folks rat on their neighbors, and small busts are easy and good for numbers. My superior would rather I harass Granny Moonshine for minding her business in her own damned home than go after the big outfits, the ones doing real harm. I don't know if he's bought or lazy, but let's just say that last night wasn't the first time I ditched my partner and went snooping where I'd been warned not to."
Unbelievable. "Did it not occur to you that your superior might have warned you away from Silvermane turf so you wouldn't get shot? Or maybe, just maybe, you're a stubborn pain in the ass, and he knows that telling you not to do something is a guarantee you'll do it."
Rogers' frown was as good as an admission. "Setup or not, it doesn't matter. I won't shirk from doing right-"
"What you feel is right."
"-just because it's difficult or dangerous. I knew from the start that my Bureau days are numbered; sooner or later I'll wind up back at the hospital, just like Moira says."
"Driving the ambulance or riding under a sheet in the rear?" Tony pressed.
"Won't know until it happens," Rogers responded mildly.
Tony delivered a kick beneath the table that made Rogers flinch, and knocked the bland expression off his face. "Hey! I didn't save your life just to watch- for you to throw it away again at first opportunity. God knows how you survived this long without a sense of self preservation."
"I used to have one. Misplaced it outside Château-Thierry."
"I'm serious."
Rogers said, "So am I. It was the night our evacuation convoy was hit by a stray round of shelling. We drove through it because we had no choice. I found out later that one of the boys I was transporting had been killed by the shrapnel. He'd already lost an arm; I pried his good luck charm out of his remaining hand, wiped the blood off it, and put it with his effects to send home to his family."
Tony didn't know how to answer that. He noticed that his own hands were fidgeting on the table and stilled them.
"Some people call bravery the absence of fear. The bravery I saw over there came from the certainty that, even with the Devil's own luck, a man can't dodge his due forever."
"So that's it. Your time is up when it's up, and until then you're going to keep tempting fate to kick you in the balls."
"When you put it that way, yes."
"You-" Tony stabbed his finger in the air at Rogers, but that didn't adequately convey the sentiment, so he did it again, with his fist. "Rrr! Ungrateful bastard. I never should have fished you out of the river."
Rogers rubbed the bandage at his neck. "Why did you?"
Because he was a criminal, not a monster. Because he hated senseless waste. Because thought of Rogers sinking beneath the river with a bullet hole between his vacant eyes offended Tony in an inexplicably personal manner.
"I might have left you there if I'd known the trouble you'd cost me--you'd keep on costing me."
The way Rogers smiled ever so slightly said that he knew it was a damned lie.
"You come to me the next time, understand? Before you and your death wish go running off to paint the sidewalk with your blood, come see me. I've been in this business a lot longer than you. I know the lay of the land, I've got connections, information. You can do whatever the hell you want, after. My conscious will be clear; I'll send a nice wreath of flowers for your funeral. But let me-"
Tony snapped his jaw shut.
"It would need to be your idea, and you'd want the illusion of having to work for it."
"I'll be damned," he muttered. "Son of a bitch."
Rogers' smile was spreading, and he ducked his head a little to hide it. "For what it's worth, everything I said was true. I really did track you down to thank you proper for last night. That's all. And I still intend to make good on that debt, somehow."
"Accept my damned offer, Rogers, before I come to my senses."
"How about we make it a bargain, an exchange that goes in both directions." Rogers held out his hand. "I do know some things about this business you don't."
Tony grumbled, "That remains to be seen. I've never been shot." He shook on it anyway.
"If it's any consolation, I've gotten to where I sort of like you too."
~~~
A/N:
The Tailwind is loosely based on a speakeasy called the Wing Club. (I can't imagine a Tony in the 1920's not interested in aviation.) At one point, it was one of about 40 located on 52nd St in Manhattan.
It's estimated that in 1925, NYC had between 30,000 and 100,000 speaks, and only 2,500 prohibition agents.
Prohibition enforcement was a mess, with neither the federal nor the state governments wanting to foot the bill. New York's Mullan-Gage Act allotted local police for enforcement, which led to contact with bootleggers and widespread corruption. The act was repealed in 1923, after which enforcement in NYC fell largely on federal agents. So Steve got to be a fed instead of a cop.
Given Steve's background, he almost certainly would have been a democrat and a wet (pro-alcohol.) The city was predominantly wet, thanks in part to its large immigrant population. It was said that for prohibition to work for the rest of the country, it had to succeed in NYC. It didn't. After a brief decline, New Yorkers were back to drinking even more than they had when alcohol was legal.
Rum Row was a massive alcohol "supermarket", a flotilla of merchant ships anchored off the eastern seaboard, just inside international waters. There were so many that at night their lights were visible for miles.
Other sources of alcohol included toxic methanol (wood alcohol) and "renatured" ethanol. Industrial alcohol is denatured with additives to discourage people from drinking it. Renaturing attempts to remove the additives and make the booze safe(er), which didn't always work. The government cycled through increasingly toxic denaturing recipes during prohibition, making lethal a product they knew people were going to drink. In 1926, poisoned alcohol killed about 400 in NYC.
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I may have thought about this a little. >_>
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Nicely done!
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Tony is trickier in this time period, because while he's a businessman, he's not interested in merely running a company. There would need to be an aspect of it that appeals to his engineer's heart, and straight-up bootlegging would not fit the bill.
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