Live by Night

“They are saying this country will soon return to the despair of wanton alcohol consumption, of husbands beating their wives because of the rum, of carrying home venereal disease because of the rye, of falling to sloth and losing their jobs and the banks putting even more little ones out in the street because of the gin. Don’t blame the banks. Don’t blame the banks,” she whispered. “Blame those who profit from sin, from the peddling of flesh and the weakening of it through spirits. Blame the bootleggers and the bordello owners and those who allow them to spread their filth through our fair city and in God’s sight. Pray for them. And then ask God for guidance.”

God apparently guided some of the good citizens of Tampa to raid a couple of Coughlin-Suarez clubs and take axes to the rum and beer barrels. When Joe heard, he had Dion contact a guy in Valrico who made steel barrels and they put them in all the speaks, lifted the wooden casks into them, and waited to see who would come through their doors and take a swing now, snap their holy elbows off their holy fucking arms.

Joe was sitting in the front office of his cigar export company — a fully legitimate corporation; they lost a small fortune every year exporting superior tobacco to countries like Ireland and Sweden and France, where cigars had never really caught on — when Irv and his daughter walked through the front door.

Irv gave Joe a quick nod but wouldn’t meet his eyes. In the years since Joe had shown him those pictures of his daughter, he hadn’t met Joe’s eyes once and Joe estimated they’d passed each other on the street at least thirty times.

“My Loretta has some words for you.”

Joe looked up at the pretty young woman in her white dress and bright, wet eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Do take a seat if you’d like.”

“I’d prefer to stand, sir.”

“As you wish.”

“Mr. Coughlin,” she said, clasping her hands over her thighs, “my father said there was once a good man in you.”

“I wasn’t aware that man had departed.”

Loretta cleared her throat. “We know of your philanthropy. And that of the woman with whom you choose to cohabitate.”

“The woman with whom I choose to cohabitate,” Joe said, just to try it out.

“Yes, yes. We understand she is quite active in charitable work within the Ybor community and even in Greater Tampa.”

“She has a name.”

“But her good works are strictly temporal in nature. She refuses all religious affiliation and rebuffs all attempts to embrace the one true Lord.”

“She is named Graciela. And she is a Catholic,” Joe said.

“But until she publicly embraces the Lord’s hand moving through her work, she is — however well intentioned — aiding the devil.”

“Wow,” Joe said, “you completely lost me on that one.”

She said, “Luckily, you have not lost me. For all your good works, Mr. Coughlin, we both know they are unmitigated by your evil deeds and your distance from the Lord.”

“How so?”

“You profit from the illegal addictions of others. You profit off people’s weakness and their need for sloth and gluttony and libidinous behavior.” She gave him a sad and kindly smile. “But you can free yourself of that.”

Joe said, “I don’t want to.”

“Of course you do.”

“Miss Loretta,” Joe said, “you seem like a lovely person. And I understand Preacher Ingalls has seen his flock triple since you’ve begun preaching before them.”

Irv held up five fingers, his eyes on the floor.

“Oh,” Joe said, “I’m sorry. So attendance has quintupled. My.”

Loretta’s smile never left her face. It was soft and sad. It knew what you were going to say before you said it and it judged those words pointless before they left your mouth.

“Loretta,” Joe said, “I sell a product people enjoy so much that the Eighteenth Amendment will be overturned within the year.”

“That’s not true,” Irv said, his jaw set.

“Or,” Joe said, “it is. Either way, Prohibition is dead. They used it to keep the poor in line and it failed. They used it to make the middle class more industrious, and instead the middle class got curious. More booze was drunk in the last ten years than ever before, and that’s because people wanted it and didn’t want to be told they couldn’t have it.”

“But, Mr. Coughlin,” Loretta said reasonably, “the same could be said of fornication. People want it and they don’t want to be told they can’t have it.”

“Nor should they.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nor should they,” Joe said. “If people wish to fornicate, I see no pressing reason to stop them, Miss Figgis.”

“And if they wish to lie down with animals?”

“Do they?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do people wish to lie down with animals?”

“Some do. And their sickness will spread if you have your way.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see a correlation between drinking and fornication with animals.”

“But that isn’t to say there isn’t a correlation.”

Now she sat, hands still clasped in her lap.

“Sure it is,” Joe said. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“But that’s just your opinion.”

“As some would call your belief in God.”

“So you do not believe in God?”

“No, Loretta, I just don’t believe in your God.”