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Fit the two halves of the mold. Dust it with powder. Scoop in sand. Press down. Pack in a few reinforcing steel bars. More sand. Repeat until overflowing the edge, and apply pressure to pack the sand in. Scrape the extra off. Poke a hole for release of gases during the metal-pouring.
By now, every movement was efficient and practiced, which certainly didn’t mirror the state of her thoughts. Her crucifix, heavy under her blouse after all this time, was a constant reminder of Patrick’s strange interaction with Mr. Maloney. Her instincts all shouted that something was wrong.
By the time she sat in the cafeteria beside Ginny, picking at the supper she’d brought from home, she’d given up trying to silence the worries. She closed her eyes, trying to remember conversations Patrick had had with friends in Boston. None of them were the sort she’d invite over for dinner, but had any of them hinted at crime or mob connections? She didn’t think so.
“Marti?” She opened her eyes to see Ginny squinting at herin concern. “That’s the third time you’ve nodded off. You all right?”
“I wasn’t sleeping. Just ... worried.”
Her nose wrinkled in curiosity. “About what?”
There it was, the invitation. No one here knew that her story about a noble husband toiling in the navy was as much fiction as the books they read for book club. She’d come close to telling Mr. Maloney the truth but hadn’t needed to.
In the North End, neighbors were calledpaesani, roughly “our people.” That created a kind of bond, especially between the women, one you could rely on in hard times for favors or loans, and in ordinary times, for sound advice, last-minute child-minding, or a listening ear.
Ever since coming back from her beau’s funeral, Ginny hadn’t been so ready to joke and laugh. But she was still trustworthy, a true friend.
“My husband might be in trouble,” she blurted before she could change her mind. “Or may be causing trouble.”
Instead of looking surprised, Ginny just took a thoughtful bite of her sandwich. “Really? Your husband? I’d have banked on ex by now.”
“You ... already knew?”
“’Course not. But it’s easy to tell there’s no love lost between you and the fellow.” Before Martina could protest, she held up a hand. “I know, I know, don’t tell the kids. I get it. So you got news from him?”
“More than news.” And with that, Martina told her everything: his appearance in town, the request for money, the suspicious way he’d talked when pawning off his coat.
“What’d he need the money for?” was Ginny’s first question when she’d stopped.
“He claimed he needed it for a fuel tank”—Ginny leaned forward at that—“but I don’t know what he really spent it on.”
Ginny snapped her fingers, a glint in her eyes that Martinahadn’t seen since before the funeral. “Smuggling. That’s got to be it. That’s why he needs a second fuel tank.”
“Shh!” Martina looked around at the other workers, but all of them seemed absorbed in their own troubles and thoughts. The last thing she needed was for someone to inform Mr. Devons that the Italian woman had been talking about smugglers.
In fact, all Martina knew about smuggling was from Daphne du Maurier’sJamaica Inn, none of which seemed to apply here. “But what could he possibly smuggle in the fuel tank of a fishing trawler?”
Ginny stared at her as if she was dense as the metal the workers in the next room poured into their molds. “Fuel, of course.”
Now Ginny shared what she knew about the black market from her brother. One part stood out to Martina: “I heard they can get two or three times the price of the fuel.”
Thatwouldexplain how Patrick planned to quickly get his money back.
The shrill whistle calling them back to their stations from supper interrupted the conversation, but Ginny tugged on her arm as she stood, clearing uneaten scraps into her paper sack to be disposed of. “You’ve got to report this, Martina. Now.”
“I ... I can’t. Not until after our shift, at least.”
The other workers were already streaming into the core room like tin soldiers, trained on principles of productivity. Any delay would hurt the war effort.
“Listen, Martina, this is serious.” Ginny lowered her voice to a whisper, tugging Martina closer. “Some of these profiteers, they’re selling to German subs.”
That couldn’t be. “How could they possibly...?”
Ginny shrugged. “Beats me. Guess that’s why the coast guard says you can’t have a radio on boats these days, except one set to their approved channel. Must be a way to contact U-boats. Bet they pay even steeper prices to make up for it being treason and all.”
Treason. Martina had tried not to pay attention to the headlines about the eight German spies who had landed on American soil, but once she knew what to look for, it was difficult to miss. Two, the ones who informed the FBI, were thrown in prison. The other six were executed. Electric chair.
She shuddered, as if the current had reached her through Ginny’s words. Though she didn’t like Patrick and certainly didn’t trust him, if she turned him in, he might face the same penalty. Did he really deserve that? And of course, with their father featured as the headline in all the newspapers, the children would know.
