Ava and Morgan sit in the lunchroom of the plant. It is early morning and just the two of them there. Morgan had roused Ava when they’d returned from Knoxville the night before, taking care not to awaken Jedediah. She had waited until morning to have a look at the damaged truck. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the other Ford; at least this one they’d been able to drive home. Now she and Morgan sit at the rough pine table, drinking coffee.
“I’d hate like hell to think that Ezra was right,” Morgan says.
“Right about what?” Ava demands.
“This whole damn venture.”
“The way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with the venture,” Ava says. “What we have is a marketing problem. And obviously a transport problem. And that all boils down to the fact that we don’t know what we’re doing. We sent a boy into Boone Saunders’s territory with a shipment of bootleg hooch. That wasn’t smart. And then we ran afoul of this Otto character. Hell, we’d even been warned about him.”
“We don’t know it was this Otto.”
“You said the hoodlums called him by name.”
“Who it was doesn’t matter,” Morgan says. “Where do we go from here? We’re floundering, sister.”
“There’s a learning curve to every endeavor, Morgan.”
“Most learning curves don’t result in calling Doc Haskell in to set broken bones and stitch up wounds,” Morgan reminds her. “That boy Jodie looks like he fought at Chickamauga. And I suspect that Daytona Dave doesn’t look a whole lot better today.”
“Ah, my potential swain,” Ava smiles. “How did I ever let him slip away?”
“This isn’t the time for jokes.” Morgan glances out the window to see Luther approaching along the dusty road. “Well now, Luther is going to want to cook some mash. What’s the point of making moonshine if we’re just going to hand it over to these evil bastards?”
“We’re not giving up this easy,” Ava tells him. “You and Luther get to cooking. I need to think on the rest.”
Bobby reaches above his head and grabs onto the iron headboard with both hands. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, smiling. Straddling him, Myrna Lee has the palm of one hand flat on Bobby’s chest and the other on her forehead. Her mouth is open and she’s making little rhythmic chugging sounds in her throat, like a steam locomotive making a steep grade.
Bobby arches his hips as he ejaculates and this spurs her on. When she orgasms, she releases a sound like a screech owl and then collapses on his chest, her breath coming in great gulps. It takes a few moments for her to settle and then she rolls off him, hooks one leg over his and throws her arm across his waist.
“You sonofabitch,” she says.
“I do something wrong?” Bobby asks.
Myrna Lee moans. “No, you do everything just right.”
“Then why you cursing me?”
“I don’t rightly know,” she says. “Makes me mad.”
Bobby smiles as he reaches for his cigarettes on the nightstand, lights one up. “Doing everything right makes you mad?”
“I can’t explain it,” she says. “Just leave it alone, okay. Gimme a drag on that.”
Bobby hands the smoke over, taking a quick look at his watch as he does. Racing at the Hollow starts in about an hour. The engine in the coupe is broken in and Bobby is anxious to give it a try. He can make the race on time but he’s low on gas. He’s flat broke again having spent his wages getting the coupe ready to run. And Boss Harvey isn’t about to extend Bobby any credit.
Myrna Lee blows smoke above her head and hands him back the cigarette before reaching past him to turn on the radio. The tubes buzz and warm and then the Carter Family emerges, singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” Myrna Lee joins in.
By now Bobby is too familiar with what Myrna Lee considers to be her great talents as a singer. He’s getting antsy to go, and her caterwauling makes him more so. He turns the volume down as he gets out of bed and reaches for his pants.
“I gotta run, baby.”
“Noo.”
“Told you, I’m due at the Hollow.”
“Hang the Hollow,” she says. “Stay with me a while. Daddy’s up at cousin Cyril’s cooking. They’ll open a jar and get into some jacks or better, and he won’t be back around here for days.”
Bobby buttons his shirt and glances out the window. His coupe is parked between the house and barn. Boone Saunders has a gas tank by the machine shed, gravity-fed, up on stilts. Of course he’d have his own tank. A man running as much shine as Boone, couldn’t be depending on the local gas stations, especially when the transporting was mainly at night.
Myrna Lee reaches her left foot out and runs it up Bobby’s thigh. “You gonna tell me you like that dirty old track better than you do this?”
“Why can’t I like ’em both?” Bobby asks. “Hey baby, you got a couple bucks you can lend me? I need gas money.”
“You’re a bastard, Bobby Barlow,” Myrna Lee pouts. “Leave me for that damn track and then ask me for money to get you there.”
“Pay you back come next week,” Bobby says. “Or maybe tonight, if I win.”
She sulks a little longer before reaching into the nightstand. “You know, I been saving my money to go to Raleigh. Give me a minute to put something on. I’ll walk you down.”
“No,” Bobby says quickly, shoving the two bucks in his pants. “You stay right there. No need to get up. I like seeing you in bed like that, naked beneath them sheets. All sexy and cool, laying back, your hair spread out. You look like a movie star, I swear.”
“Stop it,” she tells him. “You already got your money, so never mind the blarney.”
Bobby sits on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. She watches him a moment.
“Which movie star?” she asks.
“Oh, I have to say Jean Harlow,” Bobby says. “Maybe a little Clara Bow. But the fact is, you’re prettier than both of them put together.”
“Silver-tongued devil, that’s what you are.”
Bobby leans over and kisses her on the mouth while his hand slides beneath the sheet. “Ooh, I am coming back for more of that. That is sweeter than honey.”
He goes down the stairs quickly, hoping she doesn’t follow. Crossing the yard to the coupe, he stops to look at the bedroom window upstairs, then glances at the fuel tank, his mind working. He doesn’t want to start the car and draw attention to what he’s doing. He reaches inside, puts the shifter in neutral, and pushes the coupe the short distance to the tank. Keeping watch on the house, he quickly cranks a few gallons into the tank.
He jumps in and fires up the V8. The headers roar as he floors it, fishtailing out of the yard. Out on the dirt road, he lights a cigarette and reaches under the seat for a pint. Easing the coupe into third gear, he has a drink and heads for the races at the Hollow.