by D M Barrett
The small bell over the front door rang and the preacher turned toward the door. It was the Smith Brothers Band.
“Preacher, can you handle a tune this morning?” Cecil Smith asked.
“You mean that we’re having music on Friday morning and again on Friday evening for the broadcast?” the preacher queried.
“It a short practice session for the lunch bunch,” Cecil explained with a big smile.
“How about your instrumental version of Jerusalem’s Ridge?” the preacher asked.
“Let us tighten our strings and you’ll have it,” Mr. Smith promised.
Doris Smith returned with a platter of food that included a mound of chicken atop the dumplings. The preacher looked at the plate with astonishment.
“Doris, that’s a whole chicken,” the preacher exclaimed.
“Eat what you can. I’ll box up the rest for you to take with you,” Doris said with a chuckle.
While the preacher turned his belly into a chicken graveyard, the Smith Brothers entertained him with the tune 'Jerusalem’s Ridge'.
As the preacher came close to finishing his lunch, Doris Smith appeared at his table with a very somber look. Her melancholy demeanor was not something the preacher had seen from her in his previous dealings with the Smiths.
“Joe Scott called. He said that he’s been calling around town looking for you,” Doris reported.
“I picked up the Apothecary’s monthly check for extract sales from Henry Wooden this morning. That old skinflint just can’t wait to find out the numbers,” the preacher replied.
“I think it’s more than that. He said that Dr. Whitman asked him to find you. He said tell you that it was serious,” Doris said.
“I’ll take my leave. By the way, the meal was delicious,” the preacher complimented.
“Looks like you are a member of the Clean Plate Club,” Ms. Smith teased.
* * *
As he entered Smith’s Apothecary, the preacher announced, “Remain calm, you old skinflint. I’ve got your check from Henry Wooden.”
“Thanks!” the pharmacist said and then continued, “Dr. Marcus says that we have an epidemic on our hands.”
At that point Dr. Marcus Whitman passed through the doorway of his medical office into the apothecary. He had a very serious and determined look on his face.
“Come back here. I need you to see this,” the physician said with seriousness in his voice.
When he entered the waiting room of Dr. Marcus’ office, the preacher saw that it now contained six cots occupied by six middle-aged men in various amounts of distress.
One of the men begged, “Preacher, pray for us. The devil has done got a hold on us!”
Pharmacist Scott had followed the preacher and Dr. Whitman into his makeshift clinic. The men decided to adjourn to one of the exam rooms to discuss the situation.
“These men appeared at different times this morning. They suffer from varying severity of muscle weakness, loss of sensation, atrophy, and dysfunction in their lower extremities,” the doctor explained.
“That seems symptomatic of poliomyelitis. Is that what it is?” the preacher asked.
“Polio’s most common victims are children and younger adults. These victims are all middle-aged sharecroppers and laborers. It’s unlikely that polio would attack six middle- aged men scattered in and around Ferguson,” the doctor said.
“What is it? What caused this?” the preacher queried.
Before the doctor could speak, Joe Scott said, “It’s jake leg – pure and simple.”
“What is jake leg?” the preacher inquired.
The pharmacist began to explain, “Jake is short for a patent medicine called Jamaican Ginger. It contained about 95% alcohol and was ginger flavored. It had been sold for years and was especially popular during prohibition.”
“Do you sell it in your pharmacy?” the preacher asked.
“No. The manufacturer began to include triorthocresyl phosphate, or TSOP, into the formula to mostly mask the high alcohol content and make the ingredients somewhat more palatable to consumers,” Joe Scott said.
“Let's cut to the important part. What does that have to do with the men in the other room?” the preacher asked impatiently.
“They all reveal a history of buying ginger flavored moonshine. It was likely tainted by the formula that included TSOP,” Dr. Whitman added.
“How bad is it? Is this a permanent condition?” the preacher asked in rapid succession.
“The poison causes neurological damage to the body particularly the spinal cord. It can range from mild to permanent atrophy, and paralysis to the feet and lower legs, to permanent paralysis in both legs, and, in some cases, death. I can tell you that two or three of these men will never walk again and some may die or later commit suicide,” the doctor said sadly.
“What is our best course of action?” the preacher asked.
“Prevention! You need to call your revenuer buddies and put them on this to locate and destroy the source before we have several dozen victims in this office,” Dr. Whitman explained.
The preacher walked to the phone behind the pharmacy counter, cranked the phone, picked up the receiver, and said, “Miss Sarah, I need to speak to Mr. Gary Simpkins at the Alcohol Tax Unit at the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Tell them it is an urgent call from Raven.”
After a few moments, the preacher confirmed that he was Raven and the Revenue Office operator connected him to Gary ‘Whitehorse’ Simpkins. It had been several years since the men had spoken directly.
“Raven, have you decided to give up your preaching job and prosecute the bad guys?” Whitehorse asked.
“Not yet, there are plenty of bad guys that need preaching and redeeming. I’ll leave the catching and prosecuting to you,” the preacher replied.
“The operator said your call was urgent. What is the problem?” Mr. Simpkins asked.
“I need your guys, Agents Rogers and Jenkins, in Ferguson as quickly as they can get here. We have a jake leg epidemic on our hands,” the preacher explained.
“How bad is it?” Chief Simpkins inquired.
“Six victims this morning with more likely on the way,” the preacher said.
“I’ll dispatch them and likely come myself, too,” Whitehorse stated.
“I don’t have any further information, but we’ll run the traps once you get here,” the preacher vowed.
“We’ll be there later this afternoon,” Chief Simpkins promised.
“We need to get Sheriff Hankins here and update him,” the preacher said to Joe Scott.
“I’ll drop that check off at the bank, stop by his office, and send him this way,” Joe Scott said.
As Joe Scott made his way to the door, the preacher turned toward Dr. Whitman and remarked, “I wouldn’t want that old skinflint to miss a single day’s interest on his money despite this impending catastrophe,” the preacher said sarcastically.
It wasn't long before Sheriff Hankins arrived at the apothecary. His demeanor was one of concern and disbelief.
“How in the hell did this happen?” the sheriff asked of Dr. Whitman.
“Moonshine whiskey tainted with TSOP-laced Jamaican Ginger,” the doctor replied.
“I’ve got the feds on their way to investigate the situation,” the preacher interjected.
“What can we do in the meantime?” Sheriff Hankins asked.
“Round up our extract boys and bring them to town. Tell them that the preacher has called a business meeting at Scott’s Apothecary,” the preacher instructed.
“Do you think they are involved in this?” the Sheriff asked.
“No, but they may be able to point us in the direction of the culprits,” the preacher replied.
The apothecary door opened, and a woman and her teenaged son helped the father into the pharmacy. He could not walk unassisted.
“We need to see, Dr. Whitman,” the woman exclaimed.
“This way,” Mr. Scott directed.
She
riff Hankins and his deputy exited the pharmacy for their patrol car. The somewhat shaken preacher decided to step outside for some fresh air.
After a few deep breaths, the preacher sat on a slatted bench just to the left of the front door. He sadly recalled a song entitled ‘Jake Leg Dog Blues’ which memorializes the plight of a man, named John Russell Brown, who laments suffering from jake leg:
“I turned to jake for to get my fill
I was tight like the day before
Come to find my legs didn’t work no more
It’s Jake. These days I can’t feel my knees
That jake done poisoned me
Tonight I sit alone on some hollowed-out log
My woman said there ain’t no plans for no poor jake leg dog.”
* * *
In a few hours Chief Simpkins arrived in Ferguson with Agents Rogers and Jenkins. Pharmacist Scott and Dr. Whitman updated them on the situation.
Chief Simpkins turned to the preacher and began explaining the ATU’s prior investigations and prosecutions in the first jake leg epidemic.
“During prohibition days we were referred to as the Bureau of Prohibition. Once prohibition was repealed, we became a part of the Bureau of Internal Revenue and renamed the Alcohol Tax Unit and called ‘revenuers’ by the ‘shiners.
We investigated thousands of jake leg cases in the Midwest and South. Mostly disadvantaged middle-aged men were the victims. Our numbers indicated that there were at least 35,000 cases nationwide with as many as 50,000 possible.
We followed the trail from Johnson City, Tennessee to Chicago and caught the two men who were producing the tainted Jamaican Ginger patent medicine.”
“What was the Johnson City connection?” the preacher inquired.
“During the Revenue Bureau’s investigation of Al Capone, the mobster, we learned that his organization cut deals in the area. We referred to Johnson City as ‘Little Chicago’ and noted a lot of large volume illegal alcohol sales from there into Chicago. It has significant railroad cross roads tucked neatly into the Appalachian Mountains” the Chief explained.
“How do we get from the jake leg epidemic of several years ago to the current problem?” Joe Scott queried.
“Our working hypothesis is that some of the old tainted jake powder has found its way from some of Capone’s ex-henchmen in the Chicago area back to Johnson City and into Ferguson. As a footnote, Johnson City was one of the worst hit cities in America by the original jake leg scourge,” Chief Simpkins responded.
Just as Chief Simpkins finished his discussion, Sheriff Hankins and his deputy entered the apothecary with the two extract ‘shiners in tow. The men seemed surprised and nervous as they approached the group.
“Gentlemen, these two men are Revenue Agents Rogers and Jenkins. The person standing next to me is Alcohol Tax Unit Chief Simpkins from the Nashville field office. Incidentally, he was instrumental in helping Mr. Scott obtain an exemption for your extract component,” the preacher said.
The two men looked directly at Chief Simpkins. He nodded affirmatively to the preacher’s remarks.
“Why are we here? Have we done anything wrong?” John Lee Pettimore asked nervously.
“We don’t think so, but you may have information that will be helpful in solving a heinous crime,” the preacher replied.
“What is the heinous crime?” the other ‘shiner, Tim Huddleston, asked.
“In my waiting room are seven men lying on cots. They are unable to walk. Some of them may die and some may never walk again. We believe that it is from drinking moonshine that has been tainted by poisoned Jamaican Ginger powder,” Dr. Whitman said.
“We ain’t made no moonshine other than what goes in that extract. We make too much money on those flavorings to take a chance,” John Lee Pettimore responded while Tim nodded approvingly.
“Are there any local ‘shiners in this area?” Agent Rogers inquired.
The men were stoic and silent. The preacher frowned at Agent Rogers.
“Do you have any idea where this poisoned liquor came from?” Chief Simpkins asked.
“Not a clue, but this fellow out of Johnson City offered us some ginger flavoring powder to go in cheap shine to tone it down,” Tim Huddleston said.
“What does ‘tone it down’ mean?” the doctor asked.
“It keeps it from being so mean. Cheap shine will burn all the way down. We never made no rot gut shine – ever. We told him we didn’t need it; but, if we changed our minds we’d get in touch,” the John Lee Pettimore remarked with a smile.
“Can I use your phone, Mr. Scott? The government will reimburse you for any costs that we incur,” the Chief said.
“The government’s credit is good with me especially after your help with that exemption,” he replied.”
“Get in touch with that ginger fellow. Tell him you got two gangsters from Nashville looking for rot gut shine and ginger powder,” the preacher instructed.
“Gangsters from Nashville? What in the hell are you doing cavorting with gangsters? Running with slippery Henry Wooden is bad enough, Raven,” Whitehorse remarked.
“You brought the gangsters from Nashville,” the preacher responded, pointing to Agents Rogers and Jenkins.
“Oh yes, my undercover gangsters,” the Chief said.
“Tell your guy to be here tomorrow to meet the gangsters for lunch at the Bluebird Café,” the preacher instructed.
“What are they serving?” Mr. Huddleston inquired.
“Hmmm. Tomorrow is Saturday. It is country fried steak day,” the doctor said.
“What about the patients?” the pharmacist asked.
“We’ll use some of the church’s extract money to feed them until we can figure out something better. They’ll have to stay in your makeshift clinic for a while,” the preacher said.
“I’ll front the bills. We can settle up later,” the pharmacist offered.
Chief Simpkins returned with a report on the ginger situation, “There have been a few cases reported in upper east Tennessee through Crossville and into Ferguson. The total number is a couple dozen, but nothing out of Johnson City.”
“Maybe they learned their lesson from the last ginger epidemic,” the preacher remarked.
“Let’s go to Miss Rosie’s and get you settled in for the night,” the preacher said.
“What’s she serving tonight?” Whitehorse asked.
“Whatever it is, you’re paying,” the preacher responded.
“Indeed,” the Chief muttered under his breath as the group headed for the door.
* * *
Sheriff Hankins and John Lee Pettimore entered Miss Rosie’s Bed & Breakfast looking for the preacher. The two revenue agents were getting comfortable in their rooms but the two old friends, Raven and Whitehorse, were sitting in the parlor reminiscing about days past.
When the preacher noticed the sheriff, he motioned for the two men to come and report on their efforts. Both Chief Simpkins and the preacher stood up.
“Preacher, you are one very lucky fellow,” Sheriff Hankins remarked.
“How is that?” the preacher inquired.
“When we tracked down the ginger man and his Chicago wholesaler, they were in Harriman talking to a few moonshiners about the powder. I told them that there were gangsters from Nashville in Ferguson looking to buy cheap whiskey and ginger powder,” Mr. Pettimore reported.
“Damn! You are lucky, Tom,” exclaimed Chief Simpkins.
“They are meeting the gangsters for dinner at Miss Rosie’s tonight. They will be here in about an hour and a half by car,” Sheriff Hankins said.
“What is the plan, Brother Simpkins?” the preacher asked.
“We’ll meet them here and get as much information as possible before we arrest them. I will have the agents positioned to take them down. Sheriff Hankins and his deputy can remain hidden outside until the fun starts. We’ll use his jail for a lock up tonight,” the Chief explained.
“I’m only counting one gangst
er left,” the preacher said with a quizzical look.
“There are two fine gangsters: Raven and Whitehorse,” Chief Simpkins replied.
“I always knew you were a bad influence on me,” the preacher said.
Like clockwork, the ginger men showed up at precisely 7:30 pm. The moonshiner directed them to the table where Raven and Whitehorse were sitting.
Both men stood and smiled as the ginger men approached. The real gangsters smiled and nodded in response.
“I’m Whitehorse and this is Raven,” the Chief announced as he and the preacher extended their hands.
“This is Jay Hanson and I’m Delbert Denton. He’s from Harriman and I’m from Chicago,” the well-dressed gentleman explained.
“My real name is Gary Simpkins. This is Tom Mann. I’m from Nashville and he’s from – everywhere,” the Chief said.
The preacher invited everyone to be seated. He insisted that they had important business to discuss.
Miss Rosie’s waitress approached the table. But before she could speak the preacher uttered, “Four steak specials early.”
The waitress nodded and walked away. The gentleman from Chicago was quite surprised.
“She didn’t ask us how we wanted it cooked and she didn’t get our drink order,” Mr. Denton protested.
“In Ferguson, steak is always country fried and well done. The drinks are ice water and sweet tea. You’ll get both,” the preacher explained.
“Well, this ain’t Chicago,” Mr. Denton lamented.
“Indeed,” said Whitehorse and Raven simultaneously.
“What are you looking for exactly?” Jay Hanson asked.
“Cheap whiskey and ginger powder – both in volume,” Gary Simpkins said bluntly.
“What do you consider volume?” Mr. Denton asked.
“Five hundred gallons of rot gut shine a week and enough ginger powder to give it a smooth finish,” the preacher replied.
“I’m not sure there’s enough ginger powder in Chicago to make rot gut Tennessee moonshine have a smooth finish,” Jay Hanson said with a chuckle.
“How much powder do you have available?” Gary Simpkins inquired.
“Actually, we are liquidating the powder we have. It’s about a semi-trailer load. After that, we’ll be out of the powder business,” Mr. Denton explained.
