Ava goes into town first thing the next morning, driving Morgan’s coupe. First off, she stops at Doc Haskell’s and asks that he go out to Flagg’s Hollow to administer to Jodie. Luther and Morgan had brought the boy home late the night before. They’d gone looking for him when Jodie was several hours late returning. They’d found him in the damaged truck. He hadn’t known what to do but decided he should stay with the vehicle. He’d lost the liquor; he didn’t want to lose the truck as well.
Leaving Doc Haskell’s, Ava heads over to Charley Walker’s Texaco garage. She parks in front and as she’s getting out of the car, Bobby Barlow walks out of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag. He wears work clothes and a dirty fedora, brim up.
“How many?” he asks, indicating the glass pumps.
“What?” she asks and then realizes. “Oh, I’m not here for gasoline.”
“You’re Ava Flagg,” Bobby says.
“I am.”
“Bobby Barlow.”
“I know who you are. Is Mister Walker around?”
“Not just now,” Bobby says. “Went over to Stanton to collect a grain truck.”
As he speaks, a phone begins to ring inside. Bobby goes to answer it, and Ava follows. The phone is by the counter in the front of the shop, beside the cash register. There are batteries on display along the wall, as well as fan belts and wiper blades and cans of motor oil.
“Walker’s Texaco,” Bobby says into the receiver.
Ava wanders through the front shop and into the double bay behind. There’s a Chevy sedan on the hoist, with the front wheels off. Bobby’s coupe sits to the side, stripped down, the fresh engine now back in the car. Ava goes over for a look at the vehicle as he talks on the phone.
“Just the oil and lube then? How are the brakes?”
Ava walks around the coupe, has a look inside. There’s a large gauge of some kind mounted on the steering column, with RPM on it.
“We can pull the wheels and have a look,” Bobby says. “No charge for that. All right then, see you first thing in the morning.”
He hangs up the phone and walks back into the bay where Ava stands waiting.
“I need Mister Walker to tow a truck home from Hickory Creek for me.”
“Break down, did it?” Bobby asks.
“Something like that,” Ava says. “When will he be back?”
“Any time,” Bobby says. “You want to wait?”
Ava looks around the dirty garage. “I guess I can wait.”
“There’s chairs out front,” Bobby suggests.
Ava looks at the coupe again. “Why are there no fenders?” “That’s extra weight,” Bobby says. “I’m building this car to race. The lighter the better. That engine is the fastest V8 this county has ever seen. Want to have a look?”
“Not particularly,” Ava said. “I’ll wait out front.”
Doc Haskell sets Jodie’s broken left arm and then uses more than fifty stitches to close up the wounds inflicted by the truck windshield and Boone Saunders, and his shillelagh of white oak. Morgan pays the doctor when he’s finished. He doesn’t ask any questions about the origin of Jodie’s injuries. Doc Haskell has lived in Wilkes County his entire life and he knows when to ask, and when to keep quiet.
When Charley Walker tows the wrecked truck in later that day, Ava and Morgan are there waiting. Luther walks over from Darkytown when he sees the wrecker pull into the yard. The three inspect the truck as Charley unhooks the chains. The headlights and door glass are smashed and every square inch of the fenders and hood are bashed in. The moonshine is gone, of course. The seats and dash are streaked with dried blood from Jodie’s wounds.
Ava pays Charley three dollars for the tow and he fires up the big Mac wrecker and heads for town, just as Jedediah walks down from the big house. He stands looking at the double-T Ford for a time, his hands behind his back.
“And we suspect Boone Saunders is behind this?” Jedediah asks.
“More than suspect,” Morgan replies. “He bragged on who he was to Jodie.”
“That’s bold,” Jedediah says. “Speaking his name like that. Proud of his sinful ways. What kind of man boasts of his evil doings?”
“Maybe telling his name is bold,” Ava says, “but beating that boy is pure cowardice in my books.” She pauses. “Good thing we painted over that lettering, else Boone and his ilk would no doubt be on our doorstep by now.”
“Are we sure the youngster didn’t tell him?” Jedediah asks.
“He says no,” Luther says. “And I believe him. He ain’t but a sapling but the boy has backbone.” He glances at Ava “My only question is—are we still in business?”
“We are definitely still in business,” Ava tells him. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Just making certain,” Luther says and he turns and goes into the plant.
Moments later, Ezra walks over from his house to view the damage. His contributions to the cooking of moonshine have been minimal at best, confining himself to whatever odd jobs need doing around the plant, while maintaining a superior yet petulant attitude in the process.
“Well, well,” he says now. “It looks like the chickens have come home to roost.”
“You know what you can do with your chickens,” Ava snaps.
“Daughter,” Jedediah warns.
Ava glances briefly at her father before turning back to Ezra. “When you’re done gloating, you can fire up that pump. This ain’t a holiday.”
Ezra gestures to the wrecked truck. “So your intention is to just ignore this? Pretend it never happened. Or are we treating it as an act of God?”
“It’s an act of Boone Saunders,” Morgan tells him. “A damn far piece from God.”
“But God was watching,” Ezra pushes. “And did nothing to intervene. What does that tell you about His view on these activities?”
“Brother, I don’t have the inclination right now to argue with you on God’s views on what we’re doing,” Ava says. “Seems to me that God has long had a habit of watching atrocities and doing nothing. So what is your point?”
“That will suffice,” Jedediah interjects sternly. “God answers all prayers in time. We do not know his thinking. It is not our task to try to know it.”
“What precisely is our task these days, father?” Ezra asks.
Jedediah looks at Ava a moment before making his reply.
“To carry on,” he says.
“Try it again,” Bobby says.
He’s leaning over the engine in the coupe, screwdriver in his right hand, the gas pedal linkage in his left. He has just adjusted the mixture on the middle carburetor. Edgar is behind the wheel. He hits the starter button with his left foot and then pumps the gas.
“Whoa!” Bobby yells, looking up through the windshield. “I told you to stay off the goddamn gas pedal. I got the linkage here.”
“Sorry!”
“Again,” Bobby says.
Edgar hits the starter switch and the engine roars to life, coughs and misses, then stalls. Bobby gives the mixture screws on the carb a quarter turn.
“I still say it’s the timing,” Edgar tells him.
“You don’t know jack shit,” Bobby says. “She’s running rich.”
“I’d check the timing,” Edgar replies.
“I’m sure you would,” Bobby tells him. “That’s why you’re in there and I’m out here. Hit it again.”
Edgar bumps the starter and the V8 immediately coughs to life. This time it keeps running, albeit roughly. Bobby turns the mixture screw and the engine levels out. He moves to adjust the other two carbs and the engine smooths, falling into a low idle with a thump-thump-thump. Bobby glances at Edgar, nods his head, satisfied.
“She’s still a little rough,” Edgar points out.
“That’s the cam does that,” Bobby says. “It’s your giddy-up and go, Edgar. It all starts with the camshaft. You ought to be taking notes, boy.”
“I work at my father’s funeral parlor,” Edgar replies. “Not sure that I need to know about camshafts and carburetors and all like that.”
“You never know, you might take a notion to juice up that old hearse,” Bobby says. “Hell, you could even advertise. We’ll get you to the graveyard in no time flat.”
“Very funny, Bobby.”
Bobby walks over to open the bay door, then returns and tells Edgar to push over so he can get behind the wheel. He slips the shifter into first gear and eases out the clutch. They roll out onto Main Street, heading north. Bobby idles along for a hundred feet and then shifts into second, barely touching the gas pedal. He finds third gear as they go through the intersection at State, still poking along. Edgar, in the passenger seat, gets antsy.
“Well?” he finally asks.
Bobby lights a cigarette. “Well what?”
“You gonna punch this thing or not?”
“Edgar, Edgar,” Bobby says, exhaling. “You ever been with a girl?”
“I’ve been with lots of girls.”
“Sure you have,” Bobby says. “Except they’ve all been named your right hand.”
“You can go straight to hell.”
“Why are people always telling me to go straight to hell?” Bobby asks. “Maybe I’d like to take a few detours along the way.”
“I’m certain that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
Bobby laughs as he slows down, turning left on Cherry Street. “Thing is, Edgar—when you’re with a girl for the first time, you don’t go from standing still to ninety in five seconds. Same with a new engine. You got to take it slow. It’s a matter of lubrication, of breaking things in. The rings have got to seat. And when we get back to the garage, I’ll torque those heads again. You can ruin a fresh-built engine by pounding hell out of it.”
“How long do you intend to baby her?”
Bobby gives it some thought. “I’ll put a good two hundred miles on this mill before I even think of jumping on it.” He pulls on the smoke. “But when I do—it’s gonna be Katie-bar-the-door, Edgar my boy.”
They’re out of the town now, driving the gravel road that crosses the wooden bridge over Cub Creek. A few miles along, Bobby takes a left on a dirt road running west.
“Where we going?” Edgar asks.
“Thought we might stop and see what Myrna Lee is up to,” Bobby says. “Maybe she’ll fix us some lunch.”
Bobby downshifts into second gear as they climb a steep hill. When they get to the crest, he has a look ahead and then rolls to a stop. The Saunders farm sits in the valley below, fifty rocky acres surrounded by scrub and brush. There’s a ramshackle frame house, with a bank barn and chicken coop behind. The blades of a windmill turn lazily and uselessly, as the drive rod to the pump is missing. There’s a Cadillac sedan parked by the house. Bobby snorts as he tosses the cigarette butt out the window.
“What?” Edgar asks.
“That’s Boone’s car,” Bobby says.
“The old man?”
“Yeah,” Bobby says. “He don’t have much use for me and I don’t have any for him. I guarantee he won’t like me coming around to see Myrna Lee. I didn’t figure him to be here.”
“Well, it’s his farm, ain’t it?” Edgar asks.
Bobby nods. “But he’s usually up in the hills somewheres, cooking shine and staying one step ahead of the feds. Or trying to; he’s done a few stretches in jail for running it. Although not as much as he should have. Story is he’s killed upward of six men.”
As they watch, the door to the house opens and Val Saunders walks out. He goes to the trunk of the Cadillac and retrieves a satchel before going back inside.
“That’s Val,” Bobby says. “He’s the oldest and a right sonofabitch too. About as dumb as a fence post but just as mean as the old man. I wouldn’t trust him if he told me that birds could fly.”
“There’s another brother, right?” Edgar asks.
“Two,” Bobby says. “The middle one, Leon, got killed in a quarry accident, must be fifteen years ago now. Jake is the youngest. He’s a square shooter, him and I go back a ways.”
“I thought he was doing time.”
“He is.”
“And you call him a square shooter,” Edgar says.
“He’s always been square with me,” Bobby says. “If he wants to hang a little paper in these tough times, I say more power to him. Only problem is, he keeps getting caught. But Jake isn’t a patch on Val and Boone. They’d kill you as soon as they look at you.”
“Doesn’t that make you nervous then—courting Myrna Lee?” Edgar asked.
Bobby laughs as he puts the coupe in reverse and turns around. “I wouldn’t call it courting, what we’re doing. We’re just having a little fun.”
“You for certain, she sees it that way?
“Why wouldn’t she?” Bobby asks.
“You know,” Edgar says. “Women.”
“What do you know about women?”
Edgar, who doesn’t know a hell of a lot about the distaff side, is silent for a time. “What about Boone—you figure he’d see it that way?”
“I’m sure he would not,” Bobby says. “Which is why we’re currently heading back to town, Edgar.”