Blood & Whiskey Part 2- In For A Penny In For A Pound

By DB Bray

5 star Review
"This is out of my norm, I read Street Literature. BUT damn, this is FIRE!!! Let the bodies hit the floor!

Donegan O'Kelly has moved to Chicago with his girlfriend Gwen. The cards are still stacked against them. And after the bloodbath in Stones Gate, he must move on and keep making money. The one lesson he's learned is, you can't trust anyone, not even yourself.

In Chicago, he has founded a new gang known as, The Grover Boys. They will attempt to align with legendary underworld figure Hymie Weiss, the newly appointed Irish mob boss of the Northside Gang. If Donegan can get into the fold and on their radar, he will make his mark on the worst underworld ever known in the city. The only thing he needs is courage and fearlessness. He has the courage, but for a person who won't trust another living soul, fearlessness will be hard to find.

He knows the code; In for a penny, in for a pound. He is willing and ready to kill, but his first priority is the safety of Gwen. The only person he has ever loved.

Gangsters will die, the question is which ones will make it to the mountain top.

Excerpt:
Donegan stared through a haze of cigarette smoke at the man sitting in front of him. He loosened his tie, and then took a drag from his cigarette, the filter wet from his spit.
“What you’re proposing Nigel is the stupidest and most cock-brained plan I’ve ever heard. You want to break into jail to get Freddie out?” Donegan asked.
Nigel blew smoke in his face. “Watch it, Donegan. The plan may be crazy, but it ain't stupid." He pointed at him. "Save that shit for your friends, not me, I ain't your buddy. I’m a boss."
Nigel snapped his fingers, and his bodyguard handed him a stack of money in a rubber band. He flipped it to Donegan. “I’ll give you two hundred to break him out.”
Donegan licked his finger and thumbed through them.
I need the money, but I can’t spend it if I’m dead.
“Alright, Nigel, I’ll play along. What’s the plan?” he asked.
A smile flashed across Nigel’s lips, and he took a sip of coffee. He lit a cigarette and exhaled, his index finger tapping the table.
“Freddie already knows the plan. Tomorrow, I want you to dress like a guard.” One of Nigel’s men dropped a crumpled uniform onto the table. “You will wear this, and when you get there, Freddie will be on the grounds crew near the entrance. Take the guards out however you need to, and get him back to the car,” Nigel said.
Donegan raised an eyebrow. "You mean kill 'em?"
Nigel shrugged. "Won't be your first or last body, will it?"
Donegan gave a curt nod and rested his cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. The plan seemed simple enough, and the guards wouldn’t be prepared for an assault. He had no choice but to carry it out.
God, how did I ever get myself into this shit again?
He glanced around the room. Everyone in the gang was there, but it didn’t feel complete without his pal, Freddie "No Nose," McCall. Donegan formed The Grover Boys in nineteen twenty-five. They were a gang of young kids who would do anything for cash and took their name from the street they grew up on in Logan Square, on the north side of Chicago.
A place known for its fall down alcoholics and addicts, who abused either pain pills or shot it up. The gang was small compared to others in the area with only fifteen members, most no older than twenty. The Black Bill's and Frisky Rodents were their main rivals, located three streets over respectively in each direction.
Donegan despised them both, one, The Black Bills were a Polish gang. And the other was The Frisky Rodents, a mix of adolescent Italians and Greeks. They both made his life hell in equal measure.
The Polish hated him because his sweetheart Gwen was on his arm. And they hated when the Irish mixed with Poles. And the Rodents hated him because he was a solid earner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DB Bray
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005831813

DB Bray

DB Bray is a writer, based out of Hampton, VA, known as The 757. Born in the small community of Auburn, New York, he excelled in school and sports. But he dreamed of larger cities and diversity.He took his pen name in honor of his wife’s family.D-DoloresB- Bartlett, the first freed man in her family after 1865.Bray-His father in law’s nickname who recently passed away at 93.After failed attempts as a flight attendant, waiter, and empty printer cartridge salesman, he found his skill set as a tradesman.At night, he writes by lamplight, listening to the characters screaming in his head. He is the author of Blood & Whiskey, Blood & Whiskey 2, a series about a young man named Donegan O’Kelly who inadvertently starts a gang war when he kills a rival Italian gang member.The Last Tribe is his debut YA novel about two brothers, descendents of James Madison tasked to repatriate the destroyed pieces of The Constitution in a post-apocalyptic world.Co-writer of Loners, a bad ass mixed dnd mercenary company set on retirement by any and all means possible. Some will die for that goal! Come hell or high water, the mission will be accomplished.When not writing, he loves spending time with his wife Dolores and their three dogs, Chin, Juno, and Sushi (Japanese Chins).

Book preview

Blood & Whiskey 2

IN FOR A PENNY

IN FOR A POUND

Written by: D.B. Bray

Instagram- @dbbraythewriter

In memory of Eugene Govenuer Mack. Your life lessons will never be forgotten.

The Gov

1948-2020

An anthology will be released with all character backstories.

IN FOR A PENNY, IN FOR A POUND:

used to express someone's intention to complete an enterprise once it has been undertaken, however much time, effort, killing, or money this entails.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the love of my life, Dolores. I couldn’t write without your laughter and support. The outstanding reviewers and readers who pick this book up, thank you. A special moment for K’wan Foye (the Biggie of Literature), JM Benjamin, Kai Storm, BrwnSugarReads, Myluvof books, Termena Carruth, Kareem Williams, and Bea Cartwright for all your support during the second half of this novella.

Stanley E. James II, thank you so much for the support and connecting me to some of the best in the world. See you at the top!

Barry Benham, Matthew Neal, Paulie B, and the others who keep me on the straight and narrow.

Lastly, I would like to thank my higher power for the journey that makes all this possible.

DB Bray The Writer

Chapter 1

Donegan stared through a haze of cigarette smoke at the man sitting in front of him. He loosened his tie, and then took a drag from his cigarette, the filter wet from his spit.

"What you’re proposing Nigel is the stupidest and most cock-brained plan I’ve ever heard. You want to break into jail to get Freddie out?" Donegan asked.

Nigel blew smoke in his face. Watch it, Donegan. The plan may be crazy, but it ain't stupid. He pointed at him. Save that shit for your friends, not me, I ain't your buddy. I’m a boss.  

Nigel snapped his fingers, and his bodyguard handed him a stack of money in a rubber band. He flipped it to Donegan. I’ll give you two hundred to break him out.

Donegan licked his finger and thumbed through them. 

I need the money, but I can’t spend it if I’m dead.

Alright, Nigel, I’ll play along. What’s the plan? he asked.

A smile flashed across Nigel’s lips, and he took a sip of coffee. He lit a cigarette and exhaled, his index finger tapping the table.

Freddie already knows the plan. Tomorrow, I want you to dress like a guard. One of Nigel’s men dropped a crumpled uniform onto the table. You will wear this, and when you get there, Freddie will be on the grounds crew near the entrance. Take the guards out however you need to, and get him back to the car, Nigel said.

Donegan raised an eyebrow. You mean kill 'em?

Nigel shrugged. Won't be your first or last body, will it?

Donegan gave a curt nod and rested his cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. The plan seemed simple enough, and the guards wouldn’t be prepared for an assault. He had no choice but to carry it out.

God, how did I ever get myself into this shit again?

He glanced around the room. Everyone in the gang was there, but it didn’t feel complete without his pal, Freddie No Nose, McCall. Donegan formed The Grover Boys in nineteen twenty-five. They were a gang of young kids who would do anything for cash and took their name from the street they grew up on in Logan Square, on the north side of Chicago.

A place known for its fall down alcoholics and addicts, who abused either pain pills or shot it up. The gang was small compared to others in the area with only fifteen members, most no older than twenty. The Black Bill's and Frisky Rodents were their main rivals, located three streets over respectively in each direction.

Donegan despised them both, one, The Black Bills were a Polish gang. And the other was The Frisky Rodents, a mix of adolescent Italians and Greeks. They both made his life hell in equal measure.

The Polish hated him because his sweetheart Gwen was on his arm. And they hated when the Irish mixed with Poles. And the Rodents hated him because he was a solid earner. 

Donegan lit another cigarette, spat, and then sipped his whiskey. He itched his stubbled cheeks absentmindedly as he stared at the money.

I would do anything to get Freddy out. It's my fault he's in there anyway.

Nigel snapped his fingers. Kid, you listening to me?

What? Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I'll break him out.

Nigel smiled wide, extenuating his gold-capped tooth. He raised his fist to his mouth and blew on his diamond-encrusted pinky ring, then stood up and took the cane offered by one of his men. Break him out or die trying.

Nigel stood a few feet away, smelling of cigarettes, cheap whiskey, and prostitutes.

Donegan smiled and stuck his hand out. I’ll bring him back.

Nigel glanced at his hand and cackled. "I'll never shake a man's hand who fucks Polish broads. I'll pay you, but if you want to shake my hand, kill that worthless pollack you call an old lady." He tilted his head, fit his white fedora on his head, and walked out.

Motherf--- Donegan slid his palm to the butt of his revolver. Nigel glanced over his shoulder. Save your bullets, kid. I shit bigger than you.

Donegan leaned back in the chair and stretched after Nigel left.

I fuckin hate that guy.

Whaddya think, boss? Otis asked him from behind.

That I'm dead, he mumbled under his breath.

Donegan could feel him smiling. Otis wasn't what you would call sharp. His clothes were frumpy, and he smelled like mothballs, probably from his mother's closet. He sported an ugly cowlick with greased back blond hair. His lazy eye gave him a crazed look when he got animated.

Donegan glanced over his shoulder. Ya got a face only a mother could love.

Otis gave a gap-toothed grin you could drive through. Me mum was blind; God rest her. ‘Course she thinks me handsome.

Otis was a fob (fresh off the boat) from England. Not one of the nice places, like have a cup of tea, my dear, but a dirty place, a gangster’s paradise, Birmingham.

Donegan pushed the chair back from the table and stretched, then walked to the door. 

Where ya headin’ mate? Otis called out.

To get laid.

***

Donegan gave one final groan and collapsed onto Gwen's back. He kissed the nape of her neck with a sigh. Now, that feels better.

Gwen turned around and pulled the covers over her naked body, her long blonde curls catching his shoulder. I'll say. You storm in and fuck me silly. What's gotten into you?

Shouldn't I be asking that?

She pushed him.

Donegan lit two cigarettes and handed her one. Nothing beats a smoke after sex, eh? he said.

Got that right. So, how'd it go at the club.

Ah, nothing out of the usual. Nigel wants me to break Freddy out tomorrow.

Gwen sat up, the covers falling free. Tell me you didn't agree, Donegan.

He gave her a sheepish look and shrugged. It’s like th---

She slapped him viciously, and his head snapped back. You're an asshole. She leaped from the bed and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Gwen knew Donegan well enough to know his gestures, and that he wouldn't lie to her, not that he couldn't. She understood the life, the mistresses, the risks for loving an uneducated Irish kid from the slums, but she stayed, she always stayed.

Donegan rubbed his jaw with a smile. God, I love that dame.

Gwen, I'm sorry, but we need the money. And you need new clothes, a fur coat with a hat to match.

Fuck you.

Oi, I'm tryin' to be nice over ‘ere. He shouted while rousing himself out of bed. The tips of his fingers pressed on his eyelids, eliciting a groan. He grabbed a clean pair of underwear.

Some days are better than others. You wanna be happy, shut it.

Gwen, can we talk, please. C'mon baby. You know I know what I'm doing.

Gwen cracked the door. Odpieprz się.

Oh, fuck off, huh. Now you're gonna curse in Polish. He would have said it, but he knew what came next. The bathroom door flung open, and a red bar of Lifebuoy soap soared end over end. It hit him in the forehead as he yanked his undershirt over his head. 

Goddammit, woman, that hurt. 

The soap dish flew over his head and crashed against the wall. Shit, here we go again.

The toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small bottle of mouth wash hit him simultaneously. Shit. Gwen, stop throwing shit. That Polack tempers gonna get tamed pretty soon.

"Oh, Polack, is it? She hurtled her pocket mirror at his face, blacking his eye. Get out, you son of a bitch. Go back to the pub and get a whore." 

She slammed the door.

Donegan sighed, then picked up the scattered items and heaved them back at the door, denting the center. Fine, have it your way. You crazy-ass dame.

Silence met him.

He hauled his trousers up, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, and buttoned his shirt. With a growl, he snatched his fedora, cigarettes, and pistol off the dresser and walked to the door, slamming it behind him for good measure.

Once outside, Timmy, the neighborhood shoe shiner, sat on a milk crate with his worn box. Hey, Donegan, fancy a shoeshine?

Donegan lit a cigarette. Ain't you got somewhere to be, kid?

Got to make a living, right? he said in a voice too young for the struggle.

Donegan blew smoke from his nostrils. Go to school, kid. This hooligan shit ain't gonna pay off. You'll be in a home sooner than later.

Why? I wanna be a gangster, just like you.

Donegan smirked and stomped on the milk crate. You'll regret that decision someday, kid.

Timmy smirked, showing the hole where one his front teeth should be. Yeah? I'll worry about that then. If you put me on, I wouldn't have to hustle dawn to dusk.

Donegan glared at him. You gotta grow up first, kid. I'm not gonna get you killed before your fifteenth birthday.

Timmy tapped his shoe. Give me the other.

Donegan switched feet.

How much you make doin' this?

Timmy shrugged. Meh, enough to make some bread for me, Ma. Gotta do what I gotta do.

Donegan stared at him. Your Ma, huh?

Timmy nodded with a sigh. She's got that cough that rattles her chest. It begins with a T.

Tuberculosis.

Aye, that be the one.

Donegan groaned. Alright, kid. I'll put you on for your mother's sake. But you fuck this up, and I'll kill ya. You understand?

Timmy stopped shining his shoes.

Really?

Yea, kid. Get off your knee. He helped him up and took the shoeshine box from his little hands. He bent down and pressed the brim of his fedora to Timmy's brow. You walk into this life, and you don't leave, tuigim?

Timmy gave a slow nod. Yeah, I understand.

This is life and death, kid. Now, all you do is run numbers for us. Can you fight?

Aye.

Donegan backhanded him, sending him reeling. That's the last smack you take. Tuigim?

Timmy wiped the blood from his lower lip. Understood.

"Understood, boss," Donegan said, leaning forward.

Timmy spat. Understood, boss.

Good. See Otis at Beavers right now and tell him I want the numbers run to Chinatown. Got it? He took out his wallet and handed him a five-dollar bill. Go put food on the table. You come back to the pub every day at noon until I tell you differently.

Donegan opened the trash can on the side of the road and dumped the box's contents in. He handed it back to him. Keep this as a souvenir. Now, scram.

Timmy sprinted down the street and rounded the corner before Donegan could get in the driver's seat.

I hope I didn't sign the kid's death warrant.

Donegan moved to the front of the car and spun the crank, starting the engine. It sputtered and spat. After a few more cranks, the car turned over with a loud screech. He patted the hood and climbed in, the doors vibrating with a loud hum. The model T known as a tin izzy was a cheap car for most middle-class workers. It got him from starting point to the finish line, most of the time, but at least once a week, Donegan would have to walk to Beavers.

The car edged out of the driveway. Slamming the throttle forward, he accelerated and rolled down the street, past the old man with a vegetable cart, the quirky florist, and the milkman who stopped at his next-door neighbor's while her husband was at work. He gave them hurried nods after he lit another cigarette. The drive from his house was only five minutes, but with The Black Bills and Frisky Rodents searching to add a name to their trophy list, Donegan didn’t want to be ill-prepared when walking.

He touched his holster as he rolled to the stop sign. The streets were a little busy early in the morning. Newsies could be heard from a block away, peddling their wares. The boys always had black market goods with them, and selling papers didn’t provide for very much. He waved a young man over.

Whaddya say, Bert? he asked.

Ah, can’t complain. The weather has been kind. How ‘bout you, Mr. O’Kelly. Business good?

Bert, I’m still a million dollars short of a million. He leaned out the window as he offered him a cigarette. Got any Hoochinoo in that pouch. I plan on getting fucked up tonight. And I want the strong stuff.

Bert grinned. You know I have what you need, Mr. O’Kelly. He glanced over his shoulder. But the damn cops have been out here harassing us.

Who?

New cop, smells like he’s from downtown.

Bert shrugged. Seen him billy a kid the other day when he offered to sell him unmarked cigarettes. Beat the shit out of him, too. He’s been in the hospital since the night before last. Worked him over real good. Bert slid the whiskey into a newspaper and handed it over.

Donegan ground his teeth. Appreciate doing business with you, Bert.

Alright, Mr. O'Kelly, I’ll be seeing ya. By the way, nice shiner. He tipped his boater and sprinted back to the corner.

Donegan smirked. Fucking smartass.

The car groaned in protest as he drove off, the shocks sounding like a pair of rusted iron gates. As he rolled through the stop sign, the whiskey slid out of the newspaper as he made a sharp right turn. He picked it up, tipped it skyward, and then took a long pull. The car swerved, barely missing a fire hydrant.

Shit, that was close.

He took another sip and yanked the wheel hard left to pull into Beavers parking lot. The car jostled as he rode over the gravel. He checked his gun, the rearview mirror, then stepped out. One of the new bouncers whose name he couldn't recall opened the door and tipped his hat. Mr. O'Kelly.

Donegan tipped his fedora and entered. The room was dim. Otis stood behind the gnarled mahogany bar top and grinned when he walked in. 

Whaddya say, boss? Feeling better? Donegan ignored him and sat on the barstool. Nice shiner, Otis said, pouring him a whiskey.

Piss off, you cockeyed fuck.

Otis kept his smile. What's the word on the job tomorrow?

It's you, me, and Buttercup, if he shows up today.

Otis raised a brow. You sure he's up for it?

Donegan glanced up from his cup of sorrows. Pour the drinks, Otis. Leave the thinking to me. He slammed the shot, snatched the bottle off the counter, and stood up. I'll be in the back. Timmy will be here shortly. Give him the numbers to run to Chinatown.

Otis eyed him again. The shoeshine, kid?

The same. Make it happen.

Otis nodded. Tuigim, boss.

Good.

Chapter 2

Donegan strode to the back of the pub, and through the black velvet