Snippet #2695077

The heat in Louisiana was god awful, and no one would ever convince Sophia otherwise. She didn’t know how the natives put up with it, but contented herself with the knowledge they’d all wilt in a Chicago winter whenever Rem teased her lack of appreciation for the southern climate. It wasn’t even the heat so much as the humidity that came with it, oppressive and constant, leaving a damp sheen on her skin that always lingered. It lent a sleepiness to the small town that Sophia wasn’t built for. She needed to be out on the move, doing something, anything really. Hustling, stealing, transporting goods, it didn’t matter as long as she felt they were getting ahead. But she didn’t run with the Fangs anymore, and Sophia never had. That woman who’d prowled the streets of Chicago, powerful and unafraid was long dead, and all she’d left behind was a scarred, used up freeloader whose only talent these days seemed to be racking up debt with the Bates like some god damn stray.

Sophia gave up on understanding what wired the Bates and their tendency toward charity a long time ago. She didn’t understand it, had never been around anything like it, but she’d been forced to conclude they weren’t running some elaborate con; not on her or the other countless they’d helped in Gretna. The Bates were a rare sort, genuine in a way Sophia had never known people could be, and she’d tentatively taken up space in their orbit. Debt was as foreign a concept to Remington and Harlow Bates as generosity was to Sophia, but that didn’t mean they weren’t owed. It certainly didn’t mean Sophia could live with it hanging over her.

The Honey Stop was a prominent fixture in Gretna, and certainly one of Sophia’s current haunts. It was also bleeding more money than a sugar daddy with a new tomato on his arm. Charity wasn’t cheap. If the Honey Stop was going to stay afloat, the Bates were going to need a new source of revenue. Harlow and Rem might not have warmed up to the idea yet, but hooch was a hot commodity in these parts with a limited supply and a highly enthusiastic demand. Sophia might not have herself any fancy education, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that was a recipe for serious dough. Sooner or later, they were going to feel the pinch, more than they’d be able to ignore, and Sophia planned to have a solution in hand to offer when that day came. In the interest of serving that end, she’d do what she had to. If Sophia were a woman prone to pride, it might even make her blush.

“Love the way that dress fits you darlin’.” It’s breathed into her neck hot and sweaty, much like the man whose hand was sliding across her ass like a ripe peach. Louis McGee wasn’t a hell of a lot to look at. Middle aged, overweight, and balding, Lou was a perfect storm of inadequacies and resentment that made him an ideal mark. Women didn’t pay attention to him, never had, and it left him feeling slighted. Men like that could have a real mean streak when it came to the fairer sex, but a few compliments also went a long way. A little ego stroking, and Sophia could play him like a fiddle. ”Maybe tonight you’ll even let me take it off…”

“Why Lou, tryin’ ta undress me in a crowd fulla people? That’s darin’ even fer you!” Sophia hawed, eyes half lidden as she pawed at his shoulder. Lou was about as daring as an accountant, but that wasn’t the point. The accolade hit its mark, and Sophia watched him practically puff up with it, even swaying a bit to the music. This sorry excuse for a speakeasy was little more than a converted barn, far enough from any of the local towns to avoid prying eyes, but well known enough to keep plenty of the locals bent on a regular basis. Word about town was also that it served the smoothest shine outside New Orleans, the kind folks could only get before Uncle Sam put every legitimate still in the country out of business. That made it the only recipe worth stealing.

”Don’t tease Effie. I’ve got a better idea for that dirty mouth of yours.” He growled in her ear, grip tightening into something more painful. Sophia gritted her teeth, hand twitching as she resisted the urge to rip his hand off and maybe break a few of those fingers in the process. Instead she turned, arms slinking around his neck as her rouged lips twisted playfully. “Does that mean yer finally gonna show me that cellar?” Sophia purred. His lust darkened eyes was the only answer she needed as Lou led her through the dancing throng out back. The steps they descended led to a converted root cellar, as much stone as dirt, and much cooler than the makeshift dancehall above. It was also filled to the brim with cases of illicit hooch, including jars with the much revered shine. What she didn’t see however, was a still. That could be a problem.

“Gee daddy, you made all this? I don’t see a bathtub.” Sophia made a show of glancing around, playing the dumb Dora. Lou chuckled, sounding so very superior. “We don’t make it here sugar. Can’t make it too easy on those coppers y’know.”

“So ye what…make it out in the bayou?” Sophia pulled a face that invited him to continue, and Lou took the bait beautifully.

“Not me personally darlin’, but I’ve seen a couple of the stills they’ve got out there. Ain’t out in the open or nothin’ if that’s what’s got you all in a twist.” He soothed, pawing at her arm to yank her closer. “They keep it inside, pack it up, and good ol’ Joe Murphy runs it down my way.” Something icy and volatile settled in Sophia’s gut when she heard that name. Yet another name on her list that needed scratched off.
“Good old Joe Murphy. He still running around with Adam Mulligan and fucking pigs?” Sophia intoned with icy cheer. Lou’s eyebrows shot skyward in surprise, either from her sudden turnaround in tone, the sudden Chicago accent, or that she knew those names was anyone’s guess.

”Wait a…Gwen-?!” The light of recognition came too late to his eyes, and Sophia marveled again at how long it had taken. Amazing what a haircut, a fake accent, and the right makeup could do. In his defense, Gwen Farris was dead, he’d helped make sure of that, and the man had only spent one car ride with her in a dark jalopy. Regardless, he didn’t react in time to the bottle she swung at his head, sending him crashing to the floor in a stunned, bleeding heap. She was on him without missing a beat, straddling his torso, holding his face down with one hand and whipping her gun out with the other. “Well look here Lou, I brought something to put in your mouth too!” Sophia grinned, eyes glittering with malice.

“You bit-ahhh!” Sophia gripped his hair, smashing his head back down on the wooden floor.

”I didn’t tell you to sing yet bunny.” She drawled, emphasizing her point with a click from her colt as she pulled down the hammer. He didn’t seem to quite understand his position, and it needed to be corrected. He eyed the gun warily, but didn’t flap his gums again. “Where are they keeping that barrel house Lou? Is it the one near Gretna?” Those blow ins from Detroit were real nasty pieces of work. Sophia could smell a dirty cop a mile away, but if they were after the same prize, things could become problematic.

“Gretna? Psssh, that dead town?” Lou scoffed. “Nah, it ain’t over there, but that’s all you’re gettin’ outta me!” He sneered spittle trailing down his lip as he found his courage. Sophia didn’t hesitate, dropped her gun down to his knee and pulled the trigger. The music upstairs didn’t stop when he screamed, not from his blown out knee, or when Sophia took a jar of that fine shine and pored it over the mess. It didn’t stop when Sophia repeated the process, or while Lou spilled his guts about the still house hidden two towns over, and it certainly kept going when Sophia planted one last bullet in his head. This really was a great cellar.