Moonshine, Coal, and Hope

by Richard Allen Evans

  “Come here to Aunt Vicky,” she said as she took Ginny from John’s arms.

  Cat looked worried when he saw Rachel but he forced a smile on his face as he squatted down in front of her.

  “Looks like somebody’s needin’ some rest,” he said.

  Though her breathing had improved somewhat, Rachel was still exhausted — and it showed.

  “Are you up to an examination?” Cat asked.

  She started to speak but a lingering cough cut off her words. John handed her a white handkerchief that she used to cover her mouth. When the coughing subsided Rachel took the white cloth from her mouth. It was covered in spots of bright red blood.

  John was alarmed but Rachel just smiled softly.

  “Could I rest a bit first?” She asked.

  Cat returned her smile.

  “Yes ma’am, you may. We’ll get you inside and when you’ve had some sleep, we’ll take care of the examination then,” Cat said.

  “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” Rachel said as she struggled to get to her feet. She wobbled and John grabbed up in his arms.

  “Let me carry you. I’m afraid you might fall,” he said.

  She didn’t argue but did appear to be having a hard time breathing again. Cat held the screen door open as John carried Rachel to their bedroom. He looked over to Victoria who held the baby tightly. She knew by Cat’s expression he had already made a preliminary diagnosis and it was serious.

  John returned after about ten minutes. He looked pale with anguish. He sat down in a rocking chair next to Cat and started rolling a cigarette. Victoria noticed his hands shook so badly it was all he could to keep the tobacco in the rolling paper.

  “Vic, why don’t you put on a pot of coffee?” Cat asked.

  “I’ll let you know when it’s ready,” she said as took time to place a hand on John’s shoulder before she walked inside.

  John lit the cigarette as the screen door closed softly off to his right. He blew out a small cloud of smoke.

  “You think the same thing I do,” John said as he looked off in the distance.

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” Cat said.

  John shook his head.

  “You’ve seen enough to have a real good idea,” he said.

  “An idea is just that. We’ll run some tests to find out for sure,” Cat said.

  John took another deep draw on the cigarette.

  “I’m just tryin’ to figure out how to tell her she’s got TB,” he said as his voice broke.

  ***

  Bob sat in the office of the new managing editor, Evan Richards. Richards moved up from city editor after Al took a job as the news editor of the Miami Chronicle. The Central Kentucky winters were mild compared to points north but South Florida had virtually no winter. When September turned to October, Al decided to make the move.

  Evan was short, heavy, and clean shaven. He had a wavy mix of dark brown and silver hair. His eyebrows were thick and dark. A native of nearby Richmond, he spoke with the accent of the mountains.

  “I understand you’re tight with Ed Elkins,” Evan said.

  “We’re friends. My brother John is pretty close to him,” Bob said.

  The editor rubbed his chin and reached for a half smoked cigar and re—lit it. He blew out a puff of smoke.

  “I guess you know he’s getting to be pretty well known around the state. He’s one of the richest men in Kentucky and after he helped put a corrupt federal prosecutor in prison, it made him a hero to a lot of people,” Evan said.

  Bob nodded.

  “There’s something else. I just got the word a few minutes ago. Sheriff’s department down in Whitley County is investigating a humdinger of a murder. Long story short, someone found four cars riddled with bullets in the Cumberland River and 10 dead bodies inside each car — also riddled with bullets,” Evan said.

  “What’s that got to do with Ed?” Bob asked.

  “The 10 men were strike breakers. A group from Pennsylvania,” Evan said.

  “The Keystone Crew?” Bob asked.

  “You heard of them then,” Evan said.

  “If you’ve ever covered a mining strike in Southeastern Kentucky you’ve seen that bunch of gun thugs,” Bob said.

  Evan leaned back in chair and blew out a blue cloud of smoke.

  “Well, they ain’t thugs no more,” he said. “Cops believe they were heading to a strike in Tennessee when they were ambushed,” he said.

  “Again, what’s this got to do with Ed?” Bob asked.

  “Cops believe these thugs are the ones who shot up of his dairy convoys last year. At least that’s what Joe Milner told them,” Evan said.

  “Joe talked to the cops?” Bob asked in surprise.

  “Why not? It allows him to get some measure of revenge against Elkins. Who knows? The cops might have even offered him something in return as well,” Evan said as he knocked some ashes off of the cigar into the glass tray on his desk.

  Bob thought over his words.

  “I guess you’re right. It would give him some revenge on Ed. But at the same time that puts his claims in doubt,” he said.

  Evan nodded as bit down on the cigar.

  “I had the same thought — especially since the cops have no other evidence,” he said as he studied Bob. “Of course, that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it — or order it done. He certainly has the money to take care of something like that. “

  Bob looked his editor straight in the eye.

  “He does but I’ll tell you this: If Ed wanted something like that done he would take care of it himself,” Bob said.

  “So you think he’s capable or something like that?” Evan asked as he leaned back with his hands behind his head, the stub of a cigar clinched between his teeth.

  Bob twisted his head and clicked his tongue.

  “He’s not above violence but cold blooded murder? I don’t know if that dog will hunt,” he said.

  Evan leaned forward and dabbed the cigar out in the ashtray.

  “I heard a story about Elkins and Lee Milner having a meeting in the mountains a few years back,” he said.

  “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been able to find out it’s a true story. Ed ain’t the man to cross. Like I said, he’s not above violence,” Bob said.

  “Think he’d be willing to talk to you?” Evan asked. “He might,” Bob said.

  “Why don’t you get down to Whitley County and talk to the sheriff, see if there’s any more details they’ve uncovered and then head on over to Evans County and see if Elkins will talk to you,” the editor said.

  “I’ll need a photographer,” Bob said.

  “Take Cotton. This is right up his alley and you two work well together,” Evan said. “Just come back with a story.”

  ***

  Even though it was October, the temperature in Laredo, Texas was still hotter than most of the country at the height of summer.

  The bearded man in the snap brim fedora mopped the sweat on his forehead with a dark blue handkerchief. Even though he stood in the shade sipping a cold bottle of cola, the heat was almost unbearable.

  Lee hated Texas almost as much as Mexico. At least Texas had a few more people who spoke English — not many, but a few. He came back across the border two weeks beforehand. He grew the beard, dyed his hair jet black, and put on some glasses to alter his appearance. Although a wanted man on federal charges, Lee was still a long way from Kentucky where he was actually known.

  In the border town no one seemed to have any questions or suspicions as long as he had money — and that was one thing he would soon have in ample amounts.

  From his vantage point across the street on the porch of Walker’s General Store, he watched as the train from Houston pulled into the station. Lee drained the last of the cola and belched loudly. He would have preferred a cold beer but that might have drawn more attention than he wanted.

  The dusty streets only added to the misery of the heat. Lee fought the urge to ta
ke off the hat and fan himself with it. He watched passengers carefully as they got off the train until he saw one in particular who brought a smile to his face. A man in his mid—twenties carried a suitcase in each hand looked around curiously. Lee walked over to station to meet him. The man recognized Lee and started walking toward him.

  “Mr. Smith! Good to see you again!” The man said as Lee approached.

  “Keep your voice down Jack,” he said as he took a suitcase, “And come with me.”

  Jack merely grinned and nodded.

  “I got a truck over by the general store,” Lee said as he led the way out off of the platform and across the street.

  He put the suitcase in the open truck bed and Jack did the same before opening the door of the black Chevrolet and sliding inside. Lee hit the ignition switch and pumped the clutch and changed gears. As the truck made its way toward the far edge of town where Lee rented a small house, he looked over to Jack.

  “I’m guessing my money is in one of them suitcases,” he said.

  “Yes sir. Twenty—five thousand in cash, just like you said. I don’t mind telling you, it scared the shit out of me carrying that suitcase with me all the way down here from Louisville,” Jack said.

  “How are things in Kentucky?” Lee asked.

  “Outside of the Keystone Crew getting wiped out?” Jack asked.

  “I heard. Damn feds ain’t gonna go after Elkins,” Lee said.

  “The way I hear it they ain’t got nothing on him — not even enough to make him a suspect,” Jack said. “And my old teammate Bob Fulton ain’t helping matters either. He wrote a story that shows evidence points to rival mine owners who did it to cover their own past actions. The feds have mine owners laying low. The union is getting stronger every day in Kentucky,” Jack said.

  Lee gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers turned white.

  “I should have killed him years ago. He’s been as big a thorn in my family’s side as Elkins,” Lee said. “What’s my brother—in—law doing about it?”

  “Not much he can do. The feds are watching your family closer than any other mine owners. He sent this,” Jack said as he pulled a folded envelope from his shirt pocket.

  Lee took it and placed it in the seat beside him.

  “Has the heat died down on the search for me?” He asked.

  “Yeah, I’d say it has. It’s not talked about in the papers or on the radio anymore. Even that bastard Dewey went back to New York,” Jack said.

  Lee shook his head.

  “I hate Texas. I hate this whole place,” he said.

  Jack looked worried.

  “Look boss, I know it’s not as hot as it was but I ain’t sure this is the time to come back to Kentucky,” he said.

  “I don’t how much longer I can stand it here,” Lee said.

  “Yeah, I can understand that,” Jack said as he scanned the surrounding area through the truck windows. “But at least you have money to keep you comfortable. I hear the brown meat down here is pretty good.”

  Lee grunted.

  “It’s not bad but it ain’t worth living here,” he said.

  A few minutes later, the Chevy wheeled into a gravel driveway beside a small whitish— gray clapboard sided shotgun shack. It was a long way from the lavish family mansion in Kentucky — literally and figuratively. Jack took notice of the humble residence but remained silent.

  “I’ll get the bags boss,” he said as Lee picked up the wrinkled envelope.

  Lee got out, unlocked his front door, and walked inside; leaving Jack to carry both suitcases inside.

  “Set’em down anywhere,” Lee said as he left the door open to just the screen door. He tore open the letter and read its contents:

  “I hope this letter finds you well. Your family is doing well. Our common acquaintance in Atlanta is doing about like you would expect — not well at all.”

  Lee considered the words. Joe was in federal prison in Atlanta. “Figures,” he thought before continuing to read the letter.

  “We are working with a few grand old people here and in other places to get him back here as soon as possible. Of course, many such friends are joining his plight so it’s not going to be fast or easy.”

  “The family is working with contacts in the Republican Party in Kentucky and in Washington, D.C. but many were implicated in the scandal,” Lee thought as he shook his head. Elkins and Fulton did a number on the family political contacts.

  Lee returned his focus to the paper in his hand.

  “I realize you are eager to come home and your family wants that to happen just as badly. You are needed here. Certain business affairs need to be set straight as only you can do. Bootleggers and newspapermen control everything and their union is a dangerous one for us and Kentucky.”

  “No doubt who that is,” Lee muttered and went back to the letter.

  “I have contacted a friend of mine in New Orleans. He has agreed to help you. The courier who delivered this message also has the information about who you need to see and where you need to as well as a few details. Hopefully, you’ll be home soon.”

  No one signed the letter.

  Lee walked over to the sink. He pulled a match from his pocket and struck it on the counter. Lee lit the paper and dropped it into the basin to finish burning.

  “So what information did Russell give you to share with me?” Lee asked as he turned around.

  Jack shifted uncomfortably.

  “He said there’s a doctor he knows in New Orleans. Mr. Biddle thinks he can help you...come back to Kentucky,” he said.

  “Help me how?” Lee asked. “I’m not sick.”

  “This doctor...he uh, he does something called plastic surgery. He can change your face to look like somebody else — at least that’s the way Mr. Biddle explained it,” Jack said.

  Lee scoffed.

  “Sounds like something out one of them pulp novels you like to read,” he said.

  “It’s 1929. All kinds of things are possible today. Ten years ago, would you have imagined anybody could fly across the Atlantic? Would you have dreamed people would have radios in their homes? Science is advancing. If doctors say they can do it, I think they can,” Jack said.

  “College boy,” Lee muttered.

  “Mr. Biddle said if you’re willing to give it a try, he can make the financial arrangements,” Jack said.

  Lee shook his head and walked over to the ice box and pulled out two bottles of Mexican beer. Living near the border did have its advantages.

  “Did Russell mention when I’d need to do this?” Lee asked.

  “Whenever you want. He said it’s up to you — if you even want to,” Jack said as he took the beer and took a seat on a threadbare burgundy chair in the front room.

  Lee rubbed his bearded chin. He hated the facial hair. He looked at the brown beer bottle and caught his distorted reflection.

  “I’ll think on it,” Lee said.

  ***

  It was a rainy October Tuesday in Southeastern Kentucky. The cool, damp weather was not good for Rachel but she wouldn’t even consider leaving for a warmer and more arid climate, no matter how much John begged her. Ed even offered to buy them a house in Arizona but she refused.

  “If my days are short I want to be happy and I won’t be happy anywhere but here,” Rachel said and John acquiesced.

  She had good days and bad days. On good days, she could sit in the rocking chair near the fireplace and hold Ginny. On a really good day, she had enough strength to ride to her parents’ farm.

  Bad days were another story. On bad days she didn’t have strength to get out of bed and the cough; well, the cough felt even worse than it sounded. And the blood, the blood coming out of her mouth and nose...she didn’t believe anything could make her feel worse.

  Though she felt weak, it was not a bad day — not yet anyway. With the rain falling outside, she rocked gently by the warmth of the fire, a gray shawl around her shoulders. Ginny took a nap while Trish Murphy,
the woman John hired to help out around the house, put on a pot of coffee in the kitchen.

  Rachel sleepily watched the flames dance as Trish walked back into the living room.

  “Need to go to bed Mrs. Fulton?” She asked.

  Rachel smiled weakly and shook her head.

  “No, I just need to sit here by the fire. And I’ve told you Trish, call me Rachel.”

  She looked at the 29-year old Trish. Her hair was a shade or two darker than Rachel’s blonde locks. Her eyes were deep brown and lovely. Trish was short and a little on the heavy side but a very good looking young woman.

  “Coffee will be ready in a minute. You want me to pour you a cup?” Trish asked.

  “That sounds good,” Rachel said.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Trish asked.

  Again Rachel smiled.

  “Pour yourself a cup of coffee too and sit down in here. Rest a bit. Let’s listen to the radio until Ginny wakes up and keeps us both busy.”

  Trish smiled and nodded. She went to the kitchen and came back with two cups and saucers. Handing one cup and saucer to Rachel, she sat her own on the end table next to the brown fabric—covered couch. Trish then stepped over to the radio on the mantle over the fireplace.

  “Any particular station you want to listen to?” She asked.

  “The Corbin station. They should have some news on in a couple of minutes,” Rachel said.

  The radio hummed as the tubes in the radio warmed up. After some static, they started listening in the middle of a commercial that promised a laundry detergent whiter shirts. That was followed by a commercial touting the virtue of breakfast flakes — “loaded with daily essential vitamins and great flavor.” Both ladies sipped their coffee. Rachel smiled as she listened to the perky cereal jingle.

  Without preamble and the usual sound of a wire ticker going off, the news came on. The announcer sounded out of breath.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Hobe Stanley with the Tri—County Afternoon News,” he huffed. “We have breaking news out of New York. United Press International is reporting a crash in the Stock Market. At this hour there are multiple reports of fortunes being wiped out and businessmen committing suicide in the streets of New York City. Millions of dollars — perhaps even billions — have been lost as the Dow dropped 508 points. President Hoover is urging people to remain calm. He told UPI he does not believe the crash is the beginning of an economic panic, but rather only a depression, reiterating the statement he made last Friday that the economy will soon correct itself,” the announcer said.