Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  Hattie stifled a scowl. It wasn’t Tony that had made the call. It was Smith. But Tom Ed probably had never taken a direct phone call from Tony, nor was likely to tell the difference even if he had.

  “Oh, aye. The Crew is developing its network of distributors.” She worked over the syllables with deliberation, trying to be clear without talking down to the man.

  To his credit, he nodded and continued piloting the truck through impossibly dense brush. “I heard about what happened to them Dryfork boys.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Dryfork Brothers. Couple months back, they tried going ’round the Crew. Made runs straight north to Pittsburgh. They caught hell for that.”

  Hattie sucked in a breath, remembering the story Vincent had told her about the incident. “Well, it’s a new world now. Isn’t it?”

  Tom Ed shot her a quizzical glance. “Where you from, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “You’ve caught the hint of Irish music in my words, have you?” she jibed.

  “Irish, huh? I know some Irish down by Weston.”

  “Moonshiners?”

  “Yup. We keep an eye out for one another. Unless they cross over into our territory, then…” He chuckled. “Then we keep two eyes out.”

  After a full hour easing through low-hanging branches and ferns, the truck finally emerged into a clearing. At the center was a log-walled shack with a stone masonry chimney jutting from an uneven gable. The structure appeared ready to blow over at a small breeze, yet seemed ageless having stood at this spot for a hundred years.

  “Alright, then,” Tom Ed declared as he killed the engine. “I know you’re a lady of manners and all that, but you wore overalls. Too late to plead innocent—we’re puttin’ you to work!”

  Hattie beamed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, friend.”

  Shane leaped from the back of the truck and bustled for the side of the cabin to pull a tarp off a squat copper kettle with a short, conical chimney. A thick stove pipe ran horizontally from the cap of the chimney to a secondary chamber. A tiny spigot sat about a foot off the bottom of the chamber.

  “Is that it?” Hattie asked in a reverent whisper.

  “The still? Yup. For what it’s worth. If I got my hands on some copper, I’d build me a nice coil. Maybe a taller chimney with chambers for my gin and vodka.”

  “You make gin?” she asked. “And vodka?”

  “Depends on the season. Just right today, we’re about to cook up some corn mash. Next week, I oughta get some peaches from a buddy down by Shenandoah. Gonna mash that into a brandy.”

  Hattie sighed. “Peach brandy? Sounds divine.”

  Tom Ed laughed. “Well, don’t get too excited. You ain’t tasted it yet.”

  Hattie regarded the man as he plodded over to help his son stack short hand-hewn lengths of firewood beneath the still. He had a habit of deflecting all compliments to him and his craft. It bordered on false modesty, but the setting reminded Hattie that he was a man not given to false courtesies. Perhaps he felt genuinely uncomfortable receiving any praise, while at the same time waxing effusive over his love for the avocation?

  “Shane? Grab that bucket and get us some water.”

  The boy snatched a tin bucket and trotted into the woods nearby.

  Tom Ed turned to Hattie with a lift of his brow. “The key to a proper moonshine is a good clean source of mountain water. It ain’t just the taste. The minerals help the mash turn a product without bitterness.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yup. That’s why you don’t see no decent ’shine from over your direction. Gotta get the water from the mountains if it’s gonna taste worth a piss.”

  Hattie threw in a hand to stack more wood beneath the still. Tom Ed lit the logs with a dried-hay fire starter, then gestured for her to help roll a barrel from a lean-to beside the cabin. The work wasn’t easy, but more leisurely than what she’d endured with Raymond just the day before.

  Shane returned with the bucket of water, adding it directly into the still. It popped and hissed as it hit the pre-heated tin. As a plume of steam rose from the opening in the still hatch, Shane ran off for more.

  “What’s the water for, then?” Hattie asked.

  “This mash,” Tom Ed explained, “has been bubbling away for about a week, now. If I start pouring this right into the still, it’ll caramelize some of the corn. We don’t want that.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad,” Hattie offered.

  “Yeah, well. Trust me. It’s less sweet, more scorch. Anyways, we’ll get a good boil inside before we decant the mash.”

  Hattie helped Tom Ed pour the slurry of fermented corn and water into a series of buckets as Shane ferried in more mountain water. At last, the time came to begin pouring in the mash. They took it in turns, trying to get as much of the bubbling sludge into the still as quickly as possible. By the time the barrel was half empty, Tom Ed and his son hoisted the barrel over their shoulders and poured the remainder directly into the still, straining off the hunks of grain as they reached the bottom.

  The process took the better part of an hour, and another before Tom Ed seemed to relax.

  The chamber popped and hissed. Hattie kept her distance, remembering stories of exploding stills that circulated the docks in her trade. Tom Ed smiled at her.

  “Don’t you worry none. This old girl’s so full of leaks and holes, nothing’s gonna pop on you.”

  “What’s happening now?” she asked with a nod to the chamber.

  “Well, the mash is about to boil. That steam rolls on up into the chimney.” He ran a finger along the stove pipe angling down into the top of the adjacent chamber. “The steam collects up in here and drops down. The ’shine gathers before the water hits it.”

  “So, you’re boiling and dropping it back out.”

  He nodded, knocking the side of the chamber to listen to the quality of the sound. “The first runnings are poison. We throw them out. Then we take it in stages. I like to gather it in quarts, but Shane here says we’re just borrowing trouble.”

  Shane demurred as Hattie cast a glance in his direction.

  “Why so many pours?” Hattie asked.

  “Each gets a little better,” Tom Ed replied. “Until it don’t. There’s a sweet spot—the reserve.”

  “Aye, I hear all the besuited orangutans in the clubs go on about Reserve this and Reserve that.”

  Tom Ed released a belly laugh that lasted a full minute.

  “Oh huh, yeah,” he finally managed. “They think it’s the cream of the crop. Well, I’ll tell you a secret, lady. We call it ‘reserve’ for a reason. We reserve the best of the runnings for ourselves! The rest get sold to Corbi and those orangutans!”

  “I see. You wouldn’t happen to have any of that reserve handy, would you? For educational purposes, you understand.”

  Tom Ed’s face drew into a knowing smirk. He nodded with a lift of his finger. “After we’re done playin’ with fire. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  The distilling process took up the majority of the afternoon. Tom Ed countermanded his son’s wishes, and took the time to collect the entire runnings in a seemingly endless array of quart-sized mason jars. He dipped a finger into each one to taste-test. Once his face soured, he summoned Shane to collect the remainder in a large bucket, which was tossed into the grass nearby once the still had cooled. Four quarts of moonshine were declared reserve, and capped and stored away inside the cabin. The rest were carted to a wooden bench beneath the lean-to for packaging.

  Hattie helped as each mason jar was waxed and stamped with a tiny iron press bearing the Greely Family sigil. The act seemed oddly medieval.

  “Don’t you sell barrels of this?” Hattie asked as her fingers grew sore.

  “Aw hell,” Tom Ed replied. “We could if we didn’t care about what we did. The Dryforks? They just ran shitloads of this through their rickety old outfit. Barrels on barrels of rotgut. Sold it pennies on the penny, if you take my meaning.
”

  “But the Greely Family moonshine is the sort you serve at a self-respecting establishment?” Hattie asked.

  Both Tom Ed and Shane paused, waves of discomfort and embarrassment washing over their faces. Hattie swallowed hard. She didn’t mean offense. Truly. There was a degree of quality to this particular product that she’d found alluring. Even though she worked on the water most days, she was at heart a city girl. And she’d grown accustomed to certain contexts which these men had no experience with.

  “I didn’t mean…” she added.

  “Naw,” Tom Ed muttered. “You think we’re a cut above, and I do appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Well, you clearly are,” she replied. “Damn the rest of’t. I think the attention you give this is admirable.”

  Shane nodded, and said, “One of these days, that there Volstead Act’s gonna get repealed. Then we’ll wind up in the best restaurants up and down the East Coast.”

  The boy declared it like a manifesto, chin high and hands balled in fists.

  Hattie said, “I hope so, boy-o.”

  Tom Ed scowled and shook his head. “Well, that’s a nice fantasy.”

  “You don’t agree?” Hattie prodded.

  “Listen…here in West Virginia we’ve been dealing with a local prohibition since 1914. And now these biddies from the sewing circles and preservation societies, and whoever else done talked all of Congress into gettin’ righteous in the other states as well. This is the new normal, miss. Everything about this country’s gone all to hell. A man can’t lift a finger without some wrinkle-pussed hag declaring it a sin, and some slick-as-shit senator tryin’ to tax it.”

  Hattie smiled. “Aye, that’s about the long and short of’t.”

  “So, we do what we do, and hell with ’em. We don’t need no fancy white-linen restaurants. No senators. No governors. We do our best, and we go to bed knowing that’s what we done.”

  After the packaging was done, and Hattie’s arms and back were throbbing form the awkward posture, they stepped inside the log cabin. Though there was no fire, the entire building smelled of smoke. Hattie was ushered to a kitchen table inside while Shane took a brown paper-wrapped bundle of smoked jerky from a cabinet, and his father slipped a jar from beneath a floor board.

  Shane pulled a hunk of jerky clear from the hock, strings of meat splaying free and filling the room with a delightful odor of venison.

  “Brought this one down myself,” Shane said as he handed Hattie the jerky. “Just last March. Got him right up the hill yonder. Eight point buck. Pow!” He made a shooting motion with both hands in a thumb-and-index-finger rifle.

  As Hattie tasted the jerky, Tom Ed slid a thimble-sized glass in front of her, brimming with an amber liquid. The venison was earthy, with a little spice and a note of rosemary to compliment the gamey twang.

  Hattie nodded to Shane. “It’s quite good.”

  Tom Ed tapped the table. “You asked, and here it is.”

  She lifted the shot glass to inspect the liquid. “What’s this?”

  “That right there is some applejack we cooked up last fall.”

  “What’s an applejack?” she asked, sniffing the liquor.

  “It’s like an apple brandy, but with some spices thrown in.”

  Notes of cinnamon, allspice and vanilla flowed into her nose along with a fumey head of booze. She crossed herself and took a hit of the applejack.

  She winced as the fluid spilled down her gullet like molten lead.

  “Oy, sweet Jesus!” she grunted.

  Shane snickered.

  Tom Ed asked, “How’s that finish?”

  Hattie tried her best to speak in a concerted tone, but her throat was wrecked. “Burns like Old Scratch!”

  Tom Ed nodded. “I told you, don’t judge a liquor before you taste it. Now…” He reached into his coat to produce a flask, filling the shot glass with a darker liquid. “This here’s the real reserve.”

  Hattie glared at him. “Did you just poison me, then?”

  “Heh…no. That’s what we sell the Crew. This here? This is what I drink Christmas morning after all the kids get their stockings.”

  Hattie eyed Shane. “You’ve got a large family, then? Brothers and sisters?”

  Shane shrugged. “Got two kids of my own.”

  Hattie’s mouth dropped open. “That a fact?”

  Tom Ed nodded. “Working on number three already. And thank God for it.” His face lengthened as he stared up at the ceiling. “Shane’s mother passed on in childbirth. He never knew her.” After a moment of profound silence, he smiled and slapped Shane on the shoulder. “But the boy’s got himself a good girl. A fine wife. She keeps him happy, and that keeps me happy.”

  Hattie sipped the “true” reserve, and closed her eyes as her mouth filled with a swirling bouquet of sweet and sour apple, cinnamon, clove, and a hint of orange peel. The flavor hit her throat along with the fumes, all transporting her to a Thanksgiving dinner some several years past, when Alton and Branna had invited neighbors for dinner. They’d brought a jam with the same flavors and aromas which they spread over the slices of hen. It was home in a glass.

  “That’s…”

  Tom Ed nodded. “That’s why I do what I do.”

  The sun began to set, and with rested bones the trio collected several pallets from behind the cabin to load into the truck.

  “So,” Hattie offered Tom Ed with a gathering of strength. “When it comes to what you sell the Crew, how’s that work?”

  “Oh, they dictate the price. I sell it to them and that’s that.”

  “Are the prices fair?”

  He released one dry chuckle. “They’re what I’m given.”

  “You mentioned the Dryforks—they made arrangements with Pittsburgh?”

  Tom Ed waved his son away to get the truck started. With a conspiratorial huddle, he replied, “Best we don’t discuss that sorta thing in front of the boy.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s young. He don’t see the point in the Crew to begin with.”

  Hattie sucked in a breath—this was it.

  “Well, if you don’t mind me sticking my nose in. What is the point of the Crew?”

  Tom Ed eyed her with disbelief. “You’re on the inside, yeah? What’s this, some kinda test?”

  Hattie lifted a hand, resting it slowly on his arm. “Not a test. Honest to Jesus. And I’m not truly on the inside. I’m just a boat-legger trying to expand her horizons.”

  “Yeah well, this sorta talk gets back to Corbi, and they send guns up into the hills.”

  “I know that’s what happened to the Dryfork Brothers,” she said, “but if they hadn’t been…” She let the words hang.

  Tom Ed bobbed his head for her to continue. He was on the hook.

  “Well, between you and me? The Crew had an insider.”

  “With the Dryforks? That’s crap.”

  “No,” she urged. “It’s the truth. Only reason they ever got caught was because they weren’t as tight as you and your son. You said it yourself. They ran their operation like a factory. Lots of opportunities to miss the obvious.”

  Shane said behind her, “There was only the family. Couldn’t have been an insider. Unless…”

  Hattie turned to inspect the lad. His eyes were wide and expectant. “How far is it from here to the Pennsylvania border?” she asked.

  Tom Ed shook his head, but Shane answered before his father could shut it down. “About half an hour outside of Shepherdstown.”

  “Oh,” Hattie said with a display of surprise. “That’s a short hop. I thought it was dangerous.”

  “It is,” Tom Ed declared, swinging around to the driver’s seat to end the conversation. “No one crosses the Crew without ending up like the Dryforks.”

  Shane lingered beside Hattie. “Pa?”

  “What?”

  “The boys up by Pittsburgh pay two dollars.”

  Tom Ed sighed and hung his head as the door swung open. “That ain’t
the point.”

  “The Crew pays us seventy cents,” Shane added.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Think you’re gonna buy up any decent copper with that sorta change?”

  Tom Ed lifted a finger at his son. “Listen, boy. We don’t sell to the Crew because it makes sense. We do it because we ain’t got no choices.”

  “But, what if we did?” Shane pressed. “Word is the Crew’s got problems on the water.”

  “You’re gonna bet your life on that being enough?” Tom Ed spat.

  “Well, see, the Dryforks were stupid. They got pinched because they went all in. I’m sayin’ we run high-payday runs up to Pittsburgh, but we run the white lightning on over to Baltimore. Looks aboveboard. No one gets the wiser. I’ve thought this through.”

  Tom Ed nodded at Hattie. “And here you are, with your master damned plan, hosing it off in front of one of their own.”

  Hattie shuffled on her feet, projecting an air of guilt. “Actually, boys…”

  They both clamped their jaws shut and stared at her.

  Hattie continued, “Truth of the matter is, I’ve got more than one iron in the coals. You think a waterman can keep her family fed from the Crew’s table scraps?” She shook her head.

  Shane whispered, “You runnin’ on the side?”

  “I’ll trust you with that if you can trust me.”

  Tom Ed stood in misery, eyeing his son. “What, you wanna do a run around to Pittsburgh? To the Philly boys? You ever meet Bill McCoy? This isn’t smart, not if we want to stay above ground.”

  Hattie smiled. “It is smart. What you’ve laid out just now? Selling controlled product across the state line? That’s almost precisely how we make ends meet on the Bay. Maybe more than just meeting ends.”

  “You do okay?” Shane pressed.

  She nodded, then feigned a pretense of self-conscious panic. “But, don’t listen to me prattle on like this. Your business is none of mine.” She lifted her hands. “I’ve a bad habit of inserting my opinion.”

  Shane shushed her, though Tom Ed simply stood motionless, eyes hard.

  The son offered, “Well, look. It’s just talk. Right?”