Moonshine

by Tess Oliver

  I laughed. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking, brother, otherwise we might as well turn this damn jalopy around right now because today I need Gideon the Crusher not Grandpa, ready for a porch rocker, Gideon.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I’m joking. I guess it would be sort of refreshing to crush a few Denton heads. Always hated those thick necked bastards.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Now there is the brother I know and love. Griggs agreed to hear my pitch. It’s probably a long shot, and I might earn a bullet hole through my head instead of a business deal. But you’ve got to take chances if you want to make some real money in this business.”

  “They say he smells like sarsaparilla,” Bodhi piped up from the back.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Griggs. He smells like sarsaparilla.”

  I looked at Gideon for confirmation. He was the one who spent a lot of long nights at the speakeasy Griggs owned. He nodded. “Yep, some expensive European hair grease he uses. Smells like a damn soda fountain. Only got close enough to him once to smell it over the tobacco smoke, but it did make me want to pull up a stool and break out a straw.”

  I shook my head. “Somehow I don’t put Griggs together with sipping soda.”

  “I heard rumor it had something to with some weird sentimentality toward his ma,” Gideon said. “But those are just rumors. Could be he just likes to smell spicy sweet.”

  “Look at that.” Bodhi pointed ahead. “They’ve almost got the traveling show ready. Noah and I’ve been saving up for it. There’s the Death Sphere. A stuntman rides a motorcycle around in that thing. Even goes upside down.”

  A maze of red and yellow striped tents topped with flags and signs advertising the performances and sideshows stood up out of the abandoned Muskee corn fields like an array of giant party hats. The flurry of activity had kicked up a thin cloud of dust. A flock of pigeons circled overhead, waiting patiently for the soon to be feast of dropped popcorn kernels and ice cream cones.

  “I saw the carnival trucks as they were parading down Thatcher Road. Marilyn and I had taken a little rest stop, and the owner of the show stopped to ask me if they were heading the right way.”

  Gideon eyed me without turning his face from the road. “A rest stop, is that what they’re calling it?”

  I shrugged. “What can I say? We were just driving along. One minute she’s going on about the new dress she bought for the church social, and the next, she’s shoving her hand down my pants.”

  “Shit, Jacks,” Bodhi puffed from the backseat, “you’ve got more women than you know what to do with these days. One day they’re all going to meet up in the same location and start talking and realize that you’ve been fucking all of them, whispering in their ears that they’re the only one. Then they’re going to storm the house, tie you up and hang you from the big oak.”

  I turned to look at Bodhi. “And what about you? That Maggie Stevens just about melts into a pile of butter whenever you walk into the grocers. When are you going ask her out? About time someone popped that cherry of yours, little brother.”

  Gideon laughed.

  Bodhi kicked the back of the seat. “Fuck you both. I’m looking for the right girl.” My little brother had plenty of admirers, but no one had caught his eye yet. For me, after losing Ella, I’d found my attention span was short when it came to girls. I guess no one had caught my eye yet either. I just couldn’t see any way to give away a heart that Ella had already taken with her to the grave.

  Gideon slowed as we passed the carnival. “Starfield’s Traveling Show,” he read off the giant sign out front. “Come watch The Enchantress ride The Death Sphere.” He looked at me. “Enchantress? Sounds like the stunt rider is a woman.”

  “Maybe. I met a couple of the exotic dancers when the truck stopped for directions.”

  Gideon’s mouth dropped open. “And you didn’t fucking mention that detail to me? They’ve got hoochie-coochie girls, and you didn’t feel the need to bring it up in conversation?”

  “Looks like they’re setting up some game booths,” Bodhi said enthusiastically.

  Gideon grunted in disappointment. “There is something seriously wrong with our little brother.”

  I laughed. “We sheltered him too much.” I pulled out my pocket watch. Ole Roy had given it to me before I left for France. I never went anywhere without it. It was like having a piece of him with me all the time. “Let’s get moving. If we’re late, Griggs won’t even invite us in.”

  Gideon pressed forward the lever and lifted his pedal foot. We lurched into high gear and rumbled past the carnival. I glanced out the window one last time and caught a glimpse of a girl walking a large gray horse across the lot. It was her, the girl who’d sat back in the shadows of the truck as if she didn’t want to be seen. But once I saw her, once I’d gotten a good look at her, I couldn’t pull my gaze away. She had hair the color of copper and glittering brown eyes and golden skin to match, almost as if some artist had taken a brush and painted a girl made of copper and gold, an incredibly beautiful girl.

  ***

  Gideon pulled the car up in front of the building. Before the war, it had been used as a library, but the inside had been gutted by fire. Books, it seemed, made great kindling. One misplaced cigarette, and there wasn’t much the volunteer fire fighters could do except watch Dickens and Twain go up in smoke.

  The brick building was just far enough off the main road and just plain looking enough to make the perfect location for a speakeasy. Breakers was a popular juice joint and people traveled from miles to get drunk and lose money at the tables. Breakers offered every form of entertainment, even music. Occasionally, a ragtime or jazz band would drive their instruments across the 14th Street bridge to give a show. On those nights there was hardly room to stand in the place, let alone dance.

  I’d gone there one night to listen to the music. The air was thick with the mist of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and bodies were pressed together like the books on library shelves. With only one exit door and four small, high windows, all I could think about was how those books had just burned and there was nothing anyone could do. The same would be true on a crowded night at Breakers. Like the shelves of books, the people would just burn, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing anyone could do. I hadn’t gone back much after that.

  One of Griggs’s men was out front. He moved back the panel of his coat to flash his shoulder holster as if we needed reminding that he was armed. Griggs and his men were the type who went to bed with one hand on their cock and one on their Colt.

  I spoke to Bodhi without turning to look back at him. “Hand forward that jar of whiskey on the floor.” I reached back, and he put it in my hand.

  Gideon glanced down at the jar. “Corn whiskey?”

  “Yep, a hundred and sixty proof white lightning. We’re putting on our Sunday best today. All good deeds are repaid. Remember how Ma used to tell us that? Growing up, you and I always kept an eye on Mabel Hart’s son, Walter, right? Whenever he got bullied for being too small, or for his thick glasses, or for always reading books, we defended him. Well, that was our good deed, and now it’s being repaid.” I opened the door. “Bodhi, you climb up to the driver’s seat, and if anything seems wrong or if Gideon and I don’t come back out in fifteen minutes, you drive off.”

  “But, Jackson, you need me. I’ve got my gun. I’m ready to go in with you.”

  “Bodhi, no arguing. They aren’t going to let us in with our weapons anyhow, and you’ll just be one more thing to worry about. If something happens to us, then you go to live with Mabel Hart, you understand?”

  “Fuck, Jackson, now you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  “It’ll be fine, Bodhi. Just do as I say.”

  Gideon and I climbed out. Griggs’s bodyguard extinguished his cigarette with his boot and stood at attention in front of the door. We walked up to him. “Jackson Jarrett?” he asked.

  “That’s me, and this is my brother,
Gideon.”

  The man had an ugly scar that ran from one brow straight across his pointy nose to the opposite cheek as if someone had tried to slice his face in half and had nearly succeeded. “I was told to only let Jackson inside.”

  “We left our weapons in the car. You can search us,” I said.

  “Just one of you,” he repeated.

  “Jackson, I don’t know about—”

  I handed Gideon my hat. “It’ll be fine. Go back to the car. I’ll be out in fifteen.”

  The man spent a good three minutes searching me. I’d been expecting it and had left everything behind but my clothes and watch. “All right, let’s go,” he said.

  The place looked different, plainer and even less inviting, without the crush of customers and smell of liquor. The long wood bar counter had been cleaned and polished for another night of business. Two more armed men in black pinstripes and matching fedoras met us in the hallway. They led me to a room in the back and pushed open the door. For all his big reputation as a cutthroat gangster, in person, Clinton Griggs had a slight build, beady black eyes and a sharp nose making him look like a cross between a weasel and a crow. And like the weasel and crow, he was smart, ruthless and predatory. For as unimposing as he was physically, his gangster reputation kept him well-supplied with pretty women. One was just getting up from kneeling down under his desk when the door swung open. She wiped her mouth with her thumb and kept her eyes down as she sidled past in her stylish bob haircut and shimmery red dress.

  “Swanson, what the fuck did I tell you about knocking first?” Griggs growled as he zipped up his pants behind his desk.

  “Sorry, Mr. Griggs, should I take him back out?”

  “No, you fucking fool. It’s too late.” Griggs pointed to the chair across from his desk. Two of his men leaned against the wall behind him to keep an eye on the conversation.

  I sat down, cradling my bottle of whiskey. Bodhi was right. Sarsaparilla. Suddenly I had a craving for a soda float.

  Just as Griggs had pointed to the chair, he now pointed to the bottle. “What do you have there?”

  I put the mason jar on the desk. The liquid sloshed from side to side. “This is a hundred sixty proof corn whiskey. I can get you a crate for twelve dollars. For another two dollars a crate I can deliver it to any destination in the District.”

  His beady eyes were like black marbles as he stared at me, possibly trying to decide if he should just shoot me dead and end the meeting before it even started. “You Jarrett boys have built up a reputation over there in Harper’s Cross.” He said the town’s name mockingly as if it was just a meaningless, Podunk town. His minion had a good laugh. “When you wanted to see me, I asked around. People say you boys are good to your word and tough as nails. I’ve been doing business with the Denton boys for six months. They haven’t given me any reason to cut them out yet.”

  I pushed the bottle toward him. “Go ahead and taste it.”

  He picked up the jar and shook it. Large bubbles floated to the top and dissolved quickly. Beads, as they were called, were proof that it had a high percent of alcohol. He handed the jar to one of his men. “Take this out and burn it on a spoon to make sure there’s no lead.” He looked pointedly at me. “If the flame is blue bring me a glass. If it’s red or yellow, then come back and shoot Mr. Jarrett, here, in the head.”

  I shrugged. “Fair enough.” I was confident about the liquor in the bottle, but I wasn’t completely sure Griggs’s boys wouldn’t just lie and shoot me anyhow.

  Griggs leaned back and stared at me. “Give me your pitch before I get bored.”

  “Denton and his boys are charging you twelve dollars a crate for moonshine that is bathtub piss, and he doesn’t give a shit who supplies him. Last month, two deaths in Arlington were blamed on tainted gin, his tainted gin. He does nothing to protect his customers from guzzling down lead or denatured alcohol. Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but with your new, highly important set of customers on The Hill, I don’t think you want a senator’s poisoning to be traced back to you.”

  Griggs looked decidedly less bored. I had his attention.

  “Denton delivers for three dollars a crate. We’re going to charge two and we Jarretts stand behind the brew we’re peddling.”

  His man came back into the room. He was holding a glass instead of his revolver. “Clean blue flame. Me and the boys took a drink. It’s good stuff.”

  Griggs’s beady eyes glinted angrily up at him. The man, who was a good head taller and a foot broader than Griggs, fidgeted nervously.

  “Did I tell you boys you could taste it before me?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Griggs.”

  Griggs sighed in disgust as he grabbed the glass. He spun the liquid around, smelled it and took a sip. He sat back with a blank expression. It seemed in the next seconds he could easily give the order to shoot me. But he didn’t. “Where does a Blue Ridge boy like you get white lightning like this?”

  “A boy I grew up with was one of those brainy, science types. He got a big job in New York as an engineer and hated it. He came back here, figuring he could make more money putting his skills to use brewing quality liquor. Growing up, my brother and me always kept an eye on him. He’ll sell me whatever I need.”

  Griggs took another drink and sloshed it around in his mouth before straining it through his teeth and swallowing it. He put the glass down hard and his weasel eyes flickered in their deep sockets. “I’ll give you an address in Georgetown. Forty crates. Friday night. Nine o’clock. If you get there too early or too late the client will get suspicious. They won’t accept the delivery. We’ll see what you can do.”

  I sat forward. “We won’t let you down.”

  An evil grin tilted his thin lips. “Here’s the thing, Jarrett. I’m a man who likes to keep things interesting.”

  I sat back, disappointed and unsure where he was going with this.

  “I’m going to let Denton and his boys know that our partnership is on the line and that you Jarretts are trying to horn in on his business. He’ll know where and when this is happening. If you boys can get the crates safely past them and to the given location, then we have a deal. If you don’t—” He lifted his hand. “Well, I’m sure you can fill that in with your imagination.” He reached for a cigar. “What do you say?”

  “I say yes.”

  He nodded as he looked at me through a puff of cigar smoke. “Guess we’ll see if you Jarretts really have the iron balls people say you do.” He grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the desk drawer and wrote down an address.

  I nodded to Griggs and his men. They grinned back at me as if they were sure this was the last time they’d see me. Gideon and Bodhi were waiting with the car.

  “I was just about to come busting in there to find you,” Gideon said as I crawled into the backseat.”

  “Head over to the Aqueduct Bridge. I’ve got an address I want to check out.”

  Gideon swung the car around. “Did Griggs take up your offer?”

  “We’ll find out Friday night.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bodhi asked.

  “We’ve just become players in one of Griggs’s games. and I have no intention of losing. Gideon, you know those two old trucks that have been sitting out behind the shed that you’ve been meaning to fix and sell? Can you get them up and running by Friday?”

  “They won’t be running smoothly, but I can get the motors cranked up.”

  “Perfect. We won’t need them any farther than the bridge.”

  “So, we’re delivering the whiskey on Friday night?” Gideon asked.

  I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Something like that.”

  Chapter 3

  Charli

  While the land we’d parked on to set up the carnival had been rendered barren from overuse, the years of rain, wind and natural erosion had not smoothed it as flat as necessary for the tents. Long parallel ruts, ghostly reminders of the furrows and rows of corn that had once covered
the ground, made the task of setting up that much harder. The workers had to use shovels and their backs to smooth out the surface before the tents could be raised. That, of course, led to the problem that the ground was no longer packed hard beneath our feet, which meant continual dust clouds from foot traffic and the occasional breeze rolling off the majestic slopes of the Appalachians.

  I glanced out the flaps of our tent. For most people, a carnival was a wondrous site, with a storm of color and flapping canvas and dramatic signage that drew the gaze in from every angle. For me, it was my neighborhood, my home. A place where the sounds, smells and sights were as familiar and commonplace as the reflection staring back at me in the mirror.

  A bottle fell behind me. “Damn it,” Rose complained. “This trunk is still not sitting level. I don’t know what Buck was thinking.” We’d learned to make tables and vanities from our traveling trunks and crates. We slept on foldout cots and brewed coffee over an open fire. But, still, on a warm summer night, after the crowds had left and only the faint smell of hot dogs and cotton candy remained, and after the generator was shut down and the lights had faded, the night sky provided the most amazing ceiling anyone could ever ask for. I’d lived under a solid roof for the first seven years of my life. My real father died of a heart attack when I was five. Two years later, my mother married Buck Starfield. I’d been on the road ever since, with only my mother and all the unique characters who traveled with us as my teachers and companions. I was sure I’d learned far more from them than I ever would have learned in a stuffy classroom. Occasionally, I dreamed of ending the nomad life to live in a comfy, stationary house, and other times, the thought of it made me gasp for breath, as if living within walls would be suffocating.

  Emma leaned down into the mirror propped on her trunk to check her lipstick. “I’m just tired of feeling grit between my teeth. Feels like I’m chewing on salt.”

  I sat on my cot and picked up the shimmering gold top half of my costume. It was really just a slightly elongated brassier to go with the matching bottoms, which were scandalously small. All of our costumes, mine included, had evolved from flouncy, loose fitting, modest apparel, where there had always been more fabric than skin, to skimpy, revealing patches of shiny, sequined fabric. Buck was willing to sacrifice anything, even our modesty, to make money. ‘Either you’re show girls or you’re not’ he’d bark if we complained. For Emma and Rose it was not a big problem considering that by the end of their performance they were down to naught but their pasties and a sequined string and patch of cloth. But my performance was on a motorcycle and hardly required the exposure of skin. In fact, for safety reasons, it would have been far better to have the protection of fabric. Like the clothing and helmet I wore during practice. But safety wasn’t something that ever crossed Buck’s mind. Especially when it cut into profit. ‘What’s the use of having a beautiful stunt rider if you can’t show her off to the crowds?’ Another favorite chant of Buck’s.