The Rumrunner's Boy

By E. R. Yatscoff

CRIME WRITERS OF CANADA FINALIST. YA and all ages. Historical crime fiction.
Canadians are only too happy to supply liquor to thirsty Americans during U.S. Prohibition. Running rum and whisky over to Pelee Island on Lake Erie has been a piece of cake - so far. Jarrod Hooker, seventeen-years-old, steps in for his injured, taking his spot on the boat. It's a lucrative job they cannot afford to lose. Jarrod is thrown in with rough men, many of them WW1 Vets who resent the boy. Jarrod must swallow his fears and try to carve some self-respect for himself amid deadly efforts to undermine him. But ill winds begin to blow across Lake Erie: missing liquor money, the U.S.Coast Guard stepping up patrols, and an American gangster, a rogue from the notorious Purple Gang attempts to seize control of the smuggling operation. Jarrod unable to back out reluctantly goes on his second run which begins to sound like a suicide run. Crossing the watery international border tempers flare, scores are being settled, and bullets begin to fly. Jarrod is caught in a nightmare of epic proportions. Whatever Jarrod decides, it could change his life.
Although the Canadian border is only a scant four miles away, to Jarrod it may as well be a thousand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. R. Yatscoff
• Release date: Nov 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781989101056

E. R. Yatscoff

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award finalist, John Bilsland non-fiction award, Canada Book Award Winner and Author Shout 2023 honorable mention. Most mysteries and suspense novels have to do with cops, lawyers, and PIs. My protagonist is a firefighter and is the first firefighter pulp fiction in Canada. True grit and reality are my writing tenets.My juvenile/middle grade/chapter books have no magic wands, wise talking creatures, vampires, or parallel worlds. I write stories about children, not so much specifically for children. Many adults enjoy my writing because of this. My stories are about unassuming boys who get in trouble and must prove themselves and show the world they have hearts of lions. There's fighting, conflict, loyalty, bullies, integrity, and courage. I've read samples to Grade 4 and 5 students and garnered excellent reviews.I was born in Welland, Ontario and now live in Alberta. Backpacked the world on the Hippie Trail and lived in Australia. I've worked as a paperboy, grocery clerk, sales rep, all types of construction work, painter, mink ranch hand, assembly line rubber factory, cherry picker, freelance astronaut (no offers), boilermaker apprentice, delivery driver, father, coach, and career firefighter and officer for 32 years. I've also played drums in the Black Gold Big Band for 8 years.I retired as fire captain with Edmonton Fire Rescue, a large Canadian metro fire service. I live in Beaumont, Alberta with Gloria, whom I met on a freighter/passenger ship from Jakarta to Singapore. I've climbed the Great Wall of China, been down and out living in Australia, honeymooned with Gloria during the Grenada Revolution and saw Maurice Bishop, snorkeled with a marlin, almost smuggled a Playboy into Communist Russia, tossed eggs at an Aussie PM, was in Havana when Fidel shocked Cubans and stepped down. My wife made a pot of tea for the Queen of England in N.Z.I travel widely, do a bit of fishing and boating, drink demon rum, manage a writers group, do occasional renos, and sit on my butt outside in the good weather reading a decent book. My writing work consists of travel articles, YA, juvenile, how-tos, and has garnered several awards. Check out my website for some excellent short stories.

Book preview

The Rumrunner’s Boy

by E.R. Yatscoff

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Finalist

2nd printing TGR Books

ISBN: 978-1-989101-05-6

Copyright 2018 E. R. Yatscoff

Cover Art by Steven Johnson

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

Acknowledgments

To my writer’s group of Em Poppel, Edna Gerrie, and Kim Kroening for their editing, ideas, hard work, and humor. Also Sherry Tracey for the Beta read and editing.

To Captain Harvey Ryersee of the Pelee Island ferry MV Jiimaan and a tip of the hat to his cousin Captain Roger. Much appreciate the ride to Pelee Island, your stories, and names you provided.

To Ryan Jershy for the impromptu Windsor rumrunning tour around the historical Walkerville area. In your next life, you’ll be a tour guide.

To the staff at the Port Dover Harbor Museum who allowed me to search their engaging collection of rumrunner facts, newspapers, accounts, personal anecdotes, names, and pictures of the rum-running era in their area.

Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award finalist Canada Book Award

Top Ten: Best YA Book Critters Annual Reader’s POLL 2019 Poll

John Bilsland 2017 non-fiction short story award winner

Canadian Library YA Anthology of the Year 1997 Author Shout Honorable Mention 2023

Prizes won and accolades for other articles and travel stories.

See them all at his website YatscoffBooks.com

DEDICATION

To my grandfather George Yatzkoff, a real rumrunner. Almost 100 years ago, my grandfather George Yatzkoff ran rum and whiskey over the Detroit River and Lake Erie during Prohibition. Whenever he returned to Welland, Ontario, and his family, he drove a fancy car and smoked a fat cigar--the big shot showing off. After his smuggling days ended, he returned to Welland and found work as a welder.

Chapter 1

Once, during Prohibition, I was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water.

— W.C. Fields (1879-1946) American actor & humorist

Jarrod George Hooker knelt on the deck of a wooden boat and swatted the air with a rag, all his attention on replacing a spark plug in an outboard motor. Tiny gnats circled Jarrod’s shirtless torso, eager for a taste of sweat that dripped from his brow as he twisted a wrench. The small boat belonged to Ray Halperin, a part-time fisherman who sold his catch in Windsor and nearby Leamington.

Tied up to the four wooden docks were three rentals from the bait shop up on the bank. A school of minnows, chased by a large fish, tail-splashed around dock posts coated with green seaweed. Dragonflies zipped over the water.

His boat, the Gloria, was further down the shore tied up at a marina in a small cove with several other smuggler vessels. This assortment of boats would soon be jam-packed with bottles and five-gallon wooden kegs of whiskey and rum, then transported to Pelee Island. These boats were smaller than the Gloria, which was the only one in the convoy bigger than eighteen feet. Just before sundown, Jarrod would load it too, with liquor bound for the U.S.

Hey, Jarrod! Lucy Tippens made her way down the dock steps, her heavy work boots clunking across the planks. She wore a pair of dungarees and a man’s checkered shirt. Her smile revealed clean white teeth accentuated by her tanned face. She kept her light brown hair tied back in a pert ponytail.

Jarrod looked up from his work and sat on the boat’s bench seat. He smiled at her as she stepped onto the wooden dock. Hi Lucy, you didn’t have to dress up to come see me.

She lifted a corner of her mouth and curtsied as if she wore a fancy gown. It’s harvest time and we gals have to do our share. I was going over to the auction house and checking on tobacco prices and got to wonderin’ where you been lately.

When he stood to reply, he noticed her checking out his tall, slim build. Last year he had been shorter and almost doughy; this year he was truly beginning to fill out, look like a man. She tossed a thermos of water at him and he deftly caught it.

Thanks, mine’s empty. Sure is warm for late September. He uncapped the top and drank deeply.

Everyone at school’s asking what’s going on with you. Thought you liked school.

Well, it’s kind of complicated. He studied the boat motor for a moment before looking back at her, squinting against the sun. I do like school, but I do have a knack for fixin’ these finicky motors. School learning’s okay, but school don’t pay, so… Lucy nodded and sat on the edge of the dock. She took her boots off and dangled her feet in the water, swishing them back and forth.

Jarrod nodded. I got to cover for my dad tonight. Anyhow, I got my grade eleven. Most boys around here don’t even have an eighth grade.

They don’t give diplomas for that. Said you wanted to be a college boy. You are smarter than you look, she said, in a playful manner.

He wiped his brow with a rag, pushing aside his brown wavy hair that hung over his forehead. He tossed the sweaty rag at her and missed but was rewarded with a grin before turning back to his work. He leaned down and replaced the cover on the motor. Ray Halperin doesn’t know much about motors. This one just had water in the fuel. Won’t be telling him that though, or I won’t be making any money. I’ll replace his dirty spark plug too, and he’ll be happy.

Sounds like you’d do fine as a Flim-Flam man, or maybe you could hire on with Gypsies when they turn up around here. She tossed the rag back at him.

He caught it and rubbed grease from his hands. Aw, Lucy, I can’t be doing this for free. Anyhow, a spark plug don’t cost much. He stepped up onto the dock. Don’t know why Ray wouldn’t just buy a new motor; this one’s near death, must have been used in the war crossing the Atlantic. He sells plenty of fish and should be able to buy a better one.

They sat in silence and enjoyed the warmth for a long moment. I was sorry to hear about your dad getting hurt, she said.

A door slammed at the bait shop atop the bank as someone stepped out and disappeared around to the gravel parking lot. Beside the boat rental and bait shop was an expansive lean-to shed, a former horse stable. Its lofty, sloped roof consisted of long sheets of corrugated tin. It was partitioned into stalls, where rum and whiskey were stored until transport. Already, a few of the stalls were piled chest high from an early morning distillery drop-off.

Since Ray owes me a couple hundred dollars for that spark plug, I do believe I can afford to buy you a soda, Lucy, he said, jokingly.

Her eyes widened in mock horror for a moment. She chuckled and lifted her feet from the water. Make it a cream soda, please.

She picked up her boots as Jarrod took her free hand and led her barefoot along the dock and up the wooden stairs to the bait and boat rental shop. Jarrod held open the wooden screen door for her, causing the bell above to announce their entry with a dingle. The shop smelled like seaweed and wet dirt from trays of worms and pools of minnows at the back. He walked over to the cooler while she eyed the dry goods merchandise on the shelves.

Good afternoon, Miss Lucy, said Mr. Lester Monihan, the old proprietor. He’d owned the bait shop for as long as anyone could remember. When you bought a dozen nightcrawlers or a pail of minnows, you also got some fishing advice and depending on how busy he was, a fish tale to boot. He had four rental boats available. He turned to Jarrod. Looks like your girlfriend’s a might thirsty.

Uh, yes, sir. Jarrod turned away from him and hunched over the soda pop cooler trying to hide his red face. He knew he shouldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed about being with Lucy; however, their fathers did not see eye to eye on any number of issues. His father had advised him to stay away from the three Tippens sisters, said they were ‘flirtatious’ and would ‘break a boy’s heart’. The Tippens family lived on the farm next to Jarrod’s family’s property. The Hookers only grew some corn and the remaining land was leased to tobacco growers. The Tippens were bigger farmers, with one of the largest spreads in the county.

Lucy was the middle sister, a clever girl, and known to be argumentative.

Adele, the oldest at 21, attracted men twice her age with her tall and curvy figure and alluring manner. It didn’t seem to matter that her green eyes were somewhat far apart; she made men weak at the knees, like the Sirens in Greek mythology. She had a reputation as a real heartbreaker, treating men like boy toys.

Patricia, heavily freckled and the youngest at fifteen, didn’t attract men; she pursued them like fish after bait.

The sisters were not quite beauties, though probably the prettiest girls in Essex County. They all had the same mousy blond hair and sharp features with high cheekbones. They tended to apply makeup a bit thick to accentuate their attractive features. They took after their mother. Needless to say, with these three daughters, their parents had their hands full beating off men who came sniffing around, many of them undesirable, no-accounts.

How’s your daddy? asked Mr. Monihan, his thumbs hooked behind red suspenders that held up gray wool trousers.

Lucy strolled around the shop as she spoke. My daddy is fretting, as usual, this time of year. You know, over prices. We are readying to harvest the burley tobacco. I see you already got some whiskey out there ready to take across.

Monihan nodded, his shaggy mop of white hair bouncing as he stepped over to the window to look out at his large lean-to. Yup, but things are changin’. Getting a bit rough with the Americans. The G-men are putting on more pressure over there confiscating our boats in our own waters and locking up the men. Some say Prohibition will end soon, and they’re gonna want to make hay while the sun still shines. Plenty of people getting shot at now. Heard the Coast Guard is arming up.

Jarrod opened two bottles; the snaps and fizzy sounds filled the room on his way over to Lucy.

She thanked him, running a finger down the sweating glass bottle and licking it. She took a swallow and then said, I find it difficult to believe how one day you’re driving a beer truck, going about your business, and the next day you’re a criminal.

Strange but true, Monihan said. Used to be that way here, too, with our own prohibition not so long ago.

Not so long ago, women couldn’t run for office either, she said. Like back in April.

Times are certainly changin’. A bit too fast for me, Monihan said, as Jarrod dropped some coins on the counter.

If you see Ray, tell him his boat’s ready to go, said Jarrod.

I certainly will, said Mr. Monihan. He slid the coins off the counter into his palm and rang in the sale on the shiny chrome cash register. And good luck tonight.

Lucy and Jarrod exchanged looks. She turned her attention back to the wall and a poster there for the Fall Harvest Fair.

HARVEST FAIR & DANCE

Saturday Sept 20 in the Year of Our Lord 1928

COME ONE COME ALL

5th Annual Essex County Harvest Fair

Music Crafts Games Ag Produce

DANCE 7 pm

to the Tobacco Roadsters

Jarrod took a long swallow of his Royal Crown Cola.

Doesn’t seem that the last fair was so long ago, she remarked.

I guess, yeah, time flies when you’re not paying attention. I mean, I only went to the first one.

Are you paying attention? she asked coyly, rocking on her heels, touching the word ‘dance’ with the top of the bottle.

He nodded. Well, my mom taught me to dance and we went to the first fair. I remember the band and that my shoes were too big. He sighed. She’s been gone now three years, just after Christmas.

Oh Jarrod, so sad, she said, the corners of her mouth drooping.

Too much iron in her blood and filled up her liver.

He beckoned her to the door with his bottle. They walked over to Jarrod’s beat-up old 1921 International farm truck. Mud and straw stuck to the wheel wells and the underside of the narrow running board. Bale wire held up a fender. He reached in his truck for his shirt and raised each arm as he put it on.

Lucy admired his flat stomach and the farm boy cowlick he couldn’t control, no matter how much slick he put in his dark hair. They walked over to her farm truck and leaned against the tailgate, drinking. Her top two shirt buttons were undone, revealing the tanned V above and milky white below. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She held the cold glass bottle against it for a long moment.

What did he mean by saying ‘good luck’ tonight? She frowned and set the bottle down on the tailgate. Her one green eye was a bit larger than the other, but only noticeable when she frowned.

Jarrod swatted at a fly. He couldn’t think about anything else other than Mr. Monihan calling Lucy his girlfriend. He wasn’t sure why had he reacted like that. Plenty of guys had girlfriends. When they dated they usually went to see the moving pictures at the cinema in Leamington. Could it be his dad’s disapproval of the Tippens family weighing on his mind? Jarrod looked at Lucy and decided having her as a girlfriend would be a-okay. She was nothing like an alabaster-skinned city girl; she was a hard-working, hard-nosed farm girl who would soon be a woman looking for a man. With any luck, he’d be that man.

She looked at him with a reserved smile, her face aglow and vibrant. Well?

Uh…what? he asked, drawn in by her emerald eyes.

She laughed. Jarrod, you do sometimes go off into the clouds. I asked you about tonight.

I have to cover for my dad tonight because of his broken leg. If I don’t, he’ll lose his spot. Lots of guys want the job. Heck, they’d do it for half the pay.

Her body stiffened, and her mood faded. Mr. Monihan said rumrunning is getting dangerous.

Jarrod shrugged. Haven’t heard anything bad so far here. Should be easy—take that Mex boat across to Pelee Island and unload. It’s all on the Canadian side. My dad said the Yanks meet us on the island, load up, and hand over the cash. They take the risk with the G-men, Coast Guard, and all the Lakers crossing Erie at night.

You been to Pelee Island?

Jarrod glanced across the water to the low, green length of Pelee Island in the south. "No reason to. Me and my dad