1929
IT WAS NEAR two in the morning and Jack sat in his father’s Model A, watching Howard’s bulky form trudging up the pass with the wheelbarrow into the darkness. They were on a hidden feeder road deep in the base of Turkeycock Mountain. Jack was dressed in his father’s dark serge suit that he had taken that night, along with his father’s car. On the seat next to him he had a few maps of Franklin, Bedford, and Roanoke counties and an old cardboard suitcase with a few changes of clothes. The trunk of the car was packed full with forty gallons of Howard’s doubled and twisted crazy apple in five-gallon cans and another four cans under a blanket in the backseat. Jack eased the choke out of the Model A and the engine settled from a shuddering chug to a smooth purr. Behind him Cricket Pate ground his ramshackle Pierce-Arrow into gear, loaded with another thirty gallons of mostly popskull, sugar-liquor he made with the remnants of a chopped still he reconstructed in a moldy ditch. A blackened .38 hung in Jack’s coat pocket, borrowed from his oldest brother.
Howard disappeared into the dark woods. He didn’t say a word and Jack knew it was because the arrangement didn’t suit him; making and selling was fine but he didn’t like Jack doing the driving. Jack didn’t care as Howard blew his wages in a card game at the Blackwater station and Jack was owed. He just took it back in booze and a bit of labor. Cricket Pate knew a guy across the line in Burning Bag, an associate of John Carter’s, the man who ran the Roanoke liquor trade, who would pay five dollars a gallon for the quality crazy apple and three for the sugar-liquor. The suit, briefcase, and sample bag were intended as a last-ditch option, the faint hope he might pass himself off as a salesman on a deadline. Cricket said he’d dress likewise but his moth-eaten suit and car weren’t going to fool anyone and Jack knew it. As they hit Route 33 and headed north Jack began to feel like a damn fool and wished they hadn’t bothered with the disguises and just did it straight like other blockaders. They would move fast but they wouldn’t look much like runners, and they would be through and back before daylight and if they were lucky they may not be noticed at all.
The Model A smelled like his old man: whiskers and pipe tobacco, linty socks and licorice candy. Jack rolled the car down the drive soon after Granville went to sleep and started it on the fly. If he timed it right he would be back in Snow Creek before six with the fuel topped off and his father wouldn’t be the wiser. Howard would take a quarter share, Cricket would take fifty dollars, and the rest was Jack’s. He’d make near $250, more money than he’d ever had in his life. He wrestled the Model A around a corner, the tires whining with effort as he hammered along the hard road. A new suit of his own, the soft calfskin boots, brass buttons halfway to the knee, an ivory Dunlap felt cap, a new car: He’d have plenty to put down on his own car and after a half-dozen more runs he’d have it paid off. A roadster, something with some flash and muscle.
They looped around Cook’s Knob on State Road 219, hard-packed clay and gravel, low mist coming off the fallow tobacco fields that lay humped in the dark like dry whales, stretches of pine and gum deepening as they wound westward toward Floyd County. They crossed the county line just after three, making good time, and they hadn’t yet seen a soul on the road other than lolling raccoons in the ditch, the scent of skunk wafting out of the dark. No real moon out and the watery headlight lamps probed the blackness. Jack found himself almost disappointed; an uneventful trip and his shirt began to dry from the cool air.
A few miles over the county line Cricket flashed his lights and Jack pulled in at a filling station. Burning Bag, or alternately Running Bag, no one knew which for sure, was well known, like Shootin’ Creek or Blackwater Creek, as a sort of frontier outpost, a linking point between the worlds of those who walked out of the trees on the mountain and those with cars and money. Burning Bag did a cracking business in the whiskey trade and had its share of knifings and indifferent shootings, bonfire beatings, station-yard thrashings by men without names who existed on no register. The station that Jack and Cricket pulled into had no name, the fuel pumps rusted heaps that glowered in the dark, a one-story shamble with evident fire damage along one wall. There were already three cars in the lot, flickering gaslights burning in the station window where shadows moved with purpose and Jack felt the fear in the pit of his stomach again. This was John Carter’s territory, run mostly by his son, Floyd, the man who married and divorced Willie Carter Sharpe. They lined up behind the other cars and killed the engines.
Cricket said he knew a man here named M. O. Walsh, an itinerant railroad hack who negotiated booze trades and sales when he was sober. Three men stood smoking and leaning against the station wall, hats pulled low. Drivers. One man’s jacket gapped open to reveal a pistol stabbed in his belt with a barrel at least a foot long. They did not acknowledge Jack and Cricket. Another man sat on the cement stoop, spitting.
Cricket, the sitting man called out, and stood, smacking his thighs. He had a four-day-bender beard and eyes that burned under his watchman’s cap.
The two men exchanged greetings and Cricket introduced M. O. Walsh to Jack.
I know of ye, M.O. said, a slight Irish lilt to his voice. I’ve heard of you boys from Blackwater. Your brother’s the one who got his head cut clear off, yeah? Heard he walked it off and drank white mule through ta’ hole in his neck.
Let’s get on, Jack said, we ain’t got much time.
What you got?
We’ve got sixty, Jack said, of quality crazy apple, the best in Franklin County. And then we got another thirty of rotgut.
It ain’t so bad, Cricket said.
Hang on, then, M.O. said, lemme go talk to Floyd.
M.O. went inside the station, disappearing into the murk behind the greasy windows half plastered with newspaper. Cricket and Jack lit cigarettes and stationed themselves by their cars. The other three drivers stood locked against the wall like dark totems, their faces momentarily lit by a drawn cigarette, a set of pursed lips. After a few minutes the station door banged open and a man in a three-piece suit and tight derby hat came striding out. Floyd Carter was as tall as Jack and hooked like a sickle. His suit was clearly quite new, tailored and pinstriped, though worn through at the seams and stained around the cuffs. His long horse face was clean shaven and fleshy. He stopped before Jack and Cricket and thrust his hands in his pockets with conviction, M.O. close behind.
You boys got something to unload, he said.
Yep, Jack said.
M.O. says you got sixty of crazy apple and thirty of rotgut.
Yep.
I hear the commonwealth’s attorney got you boys’ nuts in a vise over in Franklin.
Shadows flickered in the station and men shuffled in the mud behind him. Jack was sweating through his shirt again, and the hanging weight of the pistol in his jacket pocket was like a lead yoke.
Damn shame, Floyd Carter said. Sheriffs escorting loads out every week, driving the price down for everyone else. I give you four for the apple. Two for that other.
Jack looked at Cricket, who was idly picking at loose threads on his coat.
Thought we agreed, Jack said, on five for the apple and three for the other.
We agreed? Carter said. Who is we?
Jack gestured at M.O., lurking at Carter’s elbow. M.O. licked his lips.
Mr. Carter, he said, I figured we could do them a sight better.
Now why in the hell, Carter said, would I want to do that?
Well . . .
Sorry boys, Carter said, that’s the going rate. If you don’t like it you can turn yourselves around and head on back to Franklin. I’m sure the sheriffs will give you the same price, without all the fuss.
My name is Jack Bondurant, Jack said. We come from the Blackwater station.
Without taking his eyes off Jack, Carter popped a backhand across M.O.’s chest that raised a cloud of dust. Carter’s fleshy lips rippled into a grin, revealing a mixed array of yellowed teeth.
Shit, boy, why didn’t you say so? C’mon inside, Jack.
Carter turned and led Jack into the station. Inside a gaslight wavered on one wall, a few candles puddled on a table. A few men sat around the table at the edge of the light, only their hands distinct in the gloom. An open jar sat on the table, a shaker of salt, and a plate of dried beef and hard eggs. Carter led Jack into a back room with another gaslight that revealed a rusty sink and a tall china cabinet with punched-tin panels. A fat man stood in a corner with a shotgun cradled in his arms.
Look, Carter said, drawing his arm around Jack, I figure we can work out something.
His breath stunk of eggs and the lank hair under his hat was peppered with hunks of dandruff. Jack didn’t know what to make of it, other than he was worried to be separated from his booze and to have Cricket out there alone to watch it. This man had been married to Willie Sharpe, the mountain beauty and blockading queen? The pistol in Jack’s pocket clunked against something similarly hard and metallic in Carter’s coat but Carter didn’t seem to notice. M. O. Walsh came in the room with a can in each hand, one of the crazy apple and the other rotgut. After setting both on the sink he opened the cans and slopped a bit of the liquor into jelly jars, then poured a bit of each onto a saucer.
Now git, Carter said.
Walsh bowed slightly to Jack and lumbered out the door. The man with the shotgun shifted slightly, stretching his neck.
Always got to check, Carter said. You unnerstan’.
Carter struck a match and tossed it into one of the saucers. A blue flame rippled, wavered, sparkling. The sugar in that rotgut, Jack thought. Carter popped another match into the second saucer. The crazy apple burned with a more orange flame, weaker, because the alcohol was lower, but a more pure burn. Carter then shook each jar and raised it to the oil lamp and appraised the bead with a practiced eye. He winked at Jack.
Just ’tween us, Carter whispered, square?
He bent to Jack’s ear.
Them other boys, he said, ain’t getting but four.
Carter opened the china cabinet, taking out a strongbox. He lit a tallow candle on the table and proceeded to count out some bills from a wad that could choke a mule. The man with the shotgun hung in the shadows like an old coat, the shotgun a frozen halberd across his form.
Here you go, Carter said, sixty gallons at five is three hundred, and thirty at three is ninety. He handed Jack the two stacks of bills.
Carter clapped his arm around Jack again.
Welcome to the Midnight Coal Company! Carter said. Let’s get it unloaded, what say?
When they finished transferring the cans Carter stuck his head in Jack’s window.
Say, you tell ol’ Forrest that Floyd Carter says hello. They say the goddamn sheriff’s running things in Franklin but I figured ol’ Forrest and that big ox Howard wouldn’t bend over for no fat cat! You tell ’em I said so!
JACK COASTED the Model A up the drive and drew it up to where his father had parked it the night before. It was still before five, and Emmy wouldn’t be up, so he leaned on the hood for a moment and watched the stars wink out over the hills. The tobacco fields began to take shape, the withered stubs casting star-shadow and the night was so quiet that Jack could hear Snow Creek gurgling at the bottom of the hill. He had a cigarette and counted out the money again. Two hundred thirty dollars and change. One week’s work. The future rose up like the coming dawn before him and he grinned and kicked his heels in the grass before turning to the house and shrugging off his father’s suit.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Jack was in Slone’s Haberdashery, working his blistered feet into those burgundy calfskin boots. The creamy inside was as soft as he dreamed it would be and the two dollars seemed like a mere pittance. He also picked up a long camel-hair coat, a sharp Dunlap cap to match, leather driving gloves with pearl snaps, two shirts with collars, a paisley bow tie, and a wool three-piece suit made in England with pinstripes. He tried them on in back and came out with his old clothes in a bundle and handed it to Slone.
I’ll wear it out, he says to Slone. You can burn those other things.
At the counter he picked up a handful of nickel cigars and slapped down the cash for his purchases. Slone never looked at him straight, not once, but Jack didn’t care, admiring himself in the shop mirror as Slone rang out his change. A cluster of men in the back murmured around a newspaper, shaking their heads.
What’s that about? Jack said, jerking his chin.
Slone reached over and tossed a copy of the Roanoke paper on the counter. The headline was in four-inch bold type: NEW WALL STREET PANIC!
Give me one of them Brownie cameras as well, Jack said. May want to get a picture of myself with my new car.
Slone got the camera and rang it up.
I’ll be back soon, Jack said.
I hope so, sir, Slone said, bowing his oiled head.
JACK HEADED straight to the car lot and ended up plunking down two hundred dollars on a 1928 Model A Sport Business Coupe, midnight blue and with a cargo trunk rather than a rumble seat. The two-hundred-cubic-inch engine would do forty horsepower, with three-speed transmission and four-wheel brakes. The speedometer, a wheel rolling back and forth through a small window, topped out at eighty miles an hour. The trunk would hold sixty gallons easy; he would tighten the springs up to take the extra weight and Cricket claimed he could put on a downdraft carburetor to up the horsepower; maybe they could even bore out the cylinders to increase displacement if they could get the right tools. Either way, to Jack it was the first step in his new business, the start of an empire. He had every expectation that in a few months he would head to Martinsville for the V8 Lincoln, maybe the Packard 8 Phaeton or Club Sedan. He drove the Model A off the lot, puffing a cigarillo, cap pulled rakishly to one side, the top down even though the day was cool with the onset of autumn. Twenty bucks in his pocket making a nice knot against his thigh. Now Forrest would have to support his plan; it was too easy and he had practically a guarantee from Floyd Carter in Burning Bag.
He thought of the look on Bertha Minnix’s face when he’d step off the running boards in his new pinstripes, camel-hair coat, boots gleaming. He would make a present of the Brownie camera; he realized now that he was planning that all along. She seemed like the type who would like to take pictures. He saw the light in her face, her thin lips smirking at the corners in embarrassment, fingering the downy hair around her neck. Jack pushed the four cylinder till the valves pinged, shifting into high gear and drifting through turns, the fresh tires biting gravel and spinning hunks of clay and dirt into the wayside. There weren’t many roads in Franklin County that you could get up past thirty except the hard road 33 and a few other stretches, but Jack figured he’d get his chance soon enough.
Have to make a serious impression, he thought, after that mess at the Dunkard church. A completely different man. An upstanding man of promise, an entrepreneur, a man who made things happen and did it with his own wiles. The world was changing, evolving, and the man who didn’t jump would be left behind in the muddy hole. Yes, Jack thought to himself, it’s time I did some courting. It’s high time I begin to separate myself from the rabble.