The Smokies are down to the Tigers by six runs in the ninth inning when manager Hobbs goes out to lift his pitcher from the game. The hook is expected. The rookie right-hander had just given up a walk, a homer and a double. Pulling him from the game is an act of mercy and certainly no surprise.
But the pitcher that Hobbs now waves in from the bullpen is.
Otto Marx, wearing a brand-new uniform, cleats and hat, trots across the outfield like he is an old hand at it. He has a plug of tobacco in his cheek (although he doesn’t care for the taste) and a new Rawlings glove. As he runs, he tips his hat grandly to the scant crowd, as if responding to cheers that aren’t actually there.
Manager Hobbs meets him on the mound and hands over the ball. Manager Hobbs isn’t bringing Otto out of the bullpen as a result of some shrewd tactical thinking. He is bringing Otto in to pitch because Otto now owns the team and fancies himself a bona fide player. Manager Hobbs knows he will be looking for a new job if he opposes the notion. Jobs in the world of minor-league baseball are just as scarce as everywhere else.
The third baseman Piotrowski is up for the Tigers. The first pitch Otto throws flies over the catcher’s head and into the screen behind. The second goes behind Piotrowski and the third hits the ground fifteen feet in front of home plate. The fourth pitch is finally a soft looping strike and Piotrowski hits it over the fence in center field for a two-run homer. Otto glares at the hitter all the way around the bases.
The players in the Tiger’s dugout are having a lot of fun at Otto’s expense, catcalling him, referring to him as an old woman and asking him if he can throw any better with his other arm. Like most bullies, Otto is insecure about any number of things. His pitching abilities just might top the list. The players in the Tigers dugout don’t know that. The players in the Tigers dugout don’t know who they are dealing with.
Hours after the game, Slim and Elmer find third baseman Piotrowski drinking beer in an underground bar downtown. They take him into the alley and beat him up beneath the faint light from the street lamp out front. They break his collar bone and advise him that, when he is healed, he shouldn’t hit any more home runs off Otto Marx. Wincing through the pain while lying in the urine-soaked dirt outside the speakeasy, Piotrowski is agreeable to such an arrangement, even if he has no idea who Otto Marx is.
After their negotiation with the now remorseful Piotrowski, Elmer and Slim go back to the Empire Hotel, where they find Otto in his storeroom office. Using a garbage can lid for home plate, he is standing sixty feet away, throwing baseballs against the brick wall. Otto is still in his Smokies uniform, right down to his cleats, although he now has a lit cigar in his mouth. When the men come in, he glances at them but doesn’t say anything, just keeps flinging balls at the wall.
“We talked to that Piotrowski fellow,” Elmer says.
Otto pauses for a moment.
“Who is that?” Otto says.
“Him what hit the home run offa you.”
“Oh, that hump,” Oto says. “Was that his name? Did you explain things to him?”
Elmer, lighting a cigarette, nods. Otto reaches into the bushel basket at his feet for another ball and begins to throw again, one after another.
“Why the hell can’t I make my curve ball curve?” he demands.
Elmer and Slim look at one another, pretty sure that the question doesn’t beg an answer. Even if it did, neither of them could come up with one. They are thugs, not baseball analysts. Otto retrieves another ball. He places two fingers along the seams and shows the grip to Slim.
“You see that?” he asks. “That’s the grip. And when I release it, I put spin on it—like this. And the ball goes sideways and down.” Otto fires the ball. It goes dead straight, smacking into the brick wall with a dull thud. “Goddamn it! Why don’t that thing curve?”
“I might have an idea,” Slim says carefully.
“What idea?”
“That old guy with the team,” Slim says. “With the side whiskers. They call him Spit Fletcher and he’s some kind of coach, I believe. They say he was with the White Sox way back when. They say he even pitched against Ruth and Gehrig.”
“He pitched against the Bambino?” Otto asks. Babe Ruth is Otto’s hero. They are about the same size and enjoy many of the same pursuits. That Otto wasn’t a patch on the great slugger when it came to the game of baseball was of little consequence.
“So they say.”
Otto considers it. “What’s that got to do with me?”
Slim shrugs. “I just figure a mug who pitched against them guys would know how to make the ball curve. And maybe he could teach you, boss.”
Otto has picked up another ball and now he turns it over in his hand, searching for the grip. “That’s a good idea. Especially since this Spit character is now working for me. He can’t tell me no.”
Slim glances over at Elmer. Saying no to Otto didn’t seem to be an option for anybody, whether they were working for him or not.
“Tomorrow you’re going to point this mug out to me,” Otto says. “I can’t wait to get back on that mound. I have no doubt that I’ll be the star pitcher once I get my curve ball working.”
“Sure you will,” Elmer said. He’s sitting in a chair now, tilted against the wall. “All it takes is practice.”
Otto throws one more ball against the wall, and then quits it. He’ll wait until he gets his lesson from Spit Fletcher. He crosses the room and retrieves a Mason jar of moonshine from the ice box. He opens it and takes a couple small sips, savoring it, before glancing over at the other two.
“What did we find out about this stuff?” he asks.
Elmer and Slim exchange looks again. This time it seems as if a response will be required.
“What do you mean, boss?” Elmer asks.
“This here liquor is head and shoulders over that piss Boone Saunders has been bringing of late,” Otto says. “You boys were supposed to find out where it came from. And who made it.” He pauses while he has another sip. “And how I go about getting them to work for old Otto.”
This is the first that Elmer and Slim have heard the request, but they won’t tell Otto that. There’s no upside to telling Otto he’s wrong.
“We’re looking into that,” Slim says vaguely. “Trying to track these characters down. I don’t believe they hail from Knoxville.”
“The hail from someplace called Wilkes County,” Otto says. “That’s where they hail from.” He has one more sip then kneels to put the jar back in the icebox. Elmer looks at Slim and shrugs his shoulders.
“Where did you hear that?” he asks. “About Wilkes County.”
“That boy Petey,” Otto says. “He heard it from them that was making it. When they come courting that pretender from Florida.” “Where is Petey?” Slim asks. “Looks like we need to talk to him.”
Otto shakes his head. “We were out on my boat a couple of nights ago. He got on my nerves and I threw him in the river.”
“Drowned, did he?” Elmer asks.
“Dunno,” Otto says. “He was still bobbing around out there last I seen him.” He straightens and flicks the ash from his cigar. “Where is this Wilkes County anyway? Can’t be too far. Those hillbillies drove here in the rattletrap truck of theirs.”
“Only Wilkes County I ever heard of was in North Carolina, a far piece from here,” Slim says. “Little town there called Wilkesboro. But shit, there’s more stills in North Carolina than there’s stars in the sky.”
“I’m only interested in the one what made that particular run,” Otto says.
“You know that Boone Saunders is from down there someplace,” Elmer said. “Why not ask him? He’s a man keeps his ear to the ground.”
Otto shakes his head. “Boone gets wind of this and he’ll sniff these pikers out on his own. They’ll sell to him and he’ll sell to me at his profit. I want to eliminate the middleman. We find out who made that good shine, I can foresee the day when we don’t need Boone nor that bozo kid of his neither.”
“What else did Petey say before you threw him in the drink?” Elmer asks.
Otto laughs. “He said ‘I can’t swim’.”
They all three get a chuckle out of that.
“Maybe we ought to try and find him,” Slim says. “You know, in the event he wasn’t drowned. He might have more information.”
Otto shakes his head. “All he knew was Wilkes County. Which is where you boys are heading, I suspect.”
At first Bobby isn’t thrilled about going to work for the Flagg family. They haven’t left him much choice though. It was either work for them or get thrown back in jail, where Truscott Parr was doing his level best to get him convicted on the gas station job and maybe even the bank robbery in Lenoir, even though Bobby hadn’t been within fifty miles of the place at the time. Of course, Bobby still had the option of signing over his coupe to the Wilkes County police. To Bobby, that wasn’t an option at all. He will work for the Flaggs.
Surprisingly, once the feeling that he is being coerced against his will settles some, Bobby takes another view of the situation. In short, the Flaggs are asking him to build them a race car, albeit one that would be used for transporting liquor, not racing. An argument could be made that they were pretty much offering Bobby his dream job. Find a car and make it fast. And get paid for doing it.
It is soon apparent that the getting paid part was going to be tricky, at least in the short term. After the initial meeting at Flagg’s Hollow, Bobby is gone for a couple days, looking for what he would need for the job. Returning on the Wednesday, he finds Ava in the plant with the men, cooking even more mash. There’s over a hundred jugs lining the shelves of the place, the same shelves that had once held dozens of gallons of molasses.
Ava is inside an empty vat, scrubbing it clean, when Bobby walks in. Morgan is shelling corn, while Luther and the youngster Cal strain mash through a screen. When Bobby calls hello, Ava climbs out of the vat and walks over. She wears coveralls and has her hair tied in a kerchief.
“You’re hands on, Miss Ava,” Bobby says.
“What did you find?” she asks.
“So much for small talk,” Bobby says.
“You want small talk, go to a church social. What did you find?”
Bobby smiles at the attitude. “Mechanic I know, George Jansen over to Yadkin County, has a Ford sedan in the yard there. Got hit by a dump truck last year, smashed the rear end all to hell. George pulled the engine and transmission and used them elsewhere. We can have the car for twenty bucks. The frame needs straightening. I can pound out the dents and replace the broken glass, good enough to run her anyway. We ain’t looking to win a beauty contest here, I suspect. Matter of fact, the uglier the better, if it’s discretion you’re after.”
“What about a motor?”
“It ain’t a motor, it’s an engine.”
“Potato, potahto,” Ava says. “What about it?”
“My pal Tiger down in Charlotte has a line on a V8,” Bobby says. “She’s got some miles on her and will need a rebuild. Not to mention the work we’ll have to do to get the horsepower we’re going to need.”
“How much?”
“Ten dollars for the engine, only because it’s tired,” Bobby says. “But it’s going to take at least a hundred more than that to get it up to snuff. And we’ll need a transmission too, something tough. Those stock Ford gears won’t hold up to a race engine. And we’ll need to beef the springs, if it’s your intention to transport in quantity. And I assume it is.”
Ava falls silent, considering the expense. While Bobby waits for a response, he has a long look around the building. The odor of mash cooking hangs in the air, not unpleasantly. The two colored men straining the liquid into barrels have paid Bobby no mind since he arrived. He recognizes Luther from seeing him around town over the years but can’t recall his name.
“I assume these men you’re talking to—they need to be paid up front?” Ava asks.
“All due respect, Miss Ava, these men don’t know you from a bale of cotton,” Bobby tells her. “Would you take a stranger’s note?”
“I expect not,” she admits. “But wouldn’t they take yours? You being pals and all?”
“They might,” Bobby replies. “But I ain’t asking them. This is your merry-go-round, not mine.”
Ava exhales, thinking. “Thing is, money is tight right now. Well, money is tight in general and then we put everything we had into getting this up and running.”
“You’re broke?” Bobby asks.
“As close as damn is to swearing,” Ava says. “Spent my last fifty dollars bailing an over-aged juvenile delinquent out of jail.”
“That’s pretty funny,” Bobby says. “Nearly as funny as you asking me to build you a moonshine runner, and then telling me you got no money to pay for it.”
“We will have the money,” Ava says. “Once we get our product to market. At this moment though, I am not particularly flush with cash. I was hoping there might be some sort of contingency plan we could work out. You’re saying there’s no chance these friends of yours would extend me a little credit?”
Bobby shakes his head but only because he already has a better idea. “You say you’re not flush with cash, but you ain’t exactly lacking in currency.”
“What do you mean?”
Bobby indicates the jugs of moonshine on the shelves. “There’s your bankroll right there, lady. Surprised you haven’t come to that conclusion yourself, smart city girl like you.”
Ava decides to let the city girl remark slide. “You’re talking barter?”
“That I am.”
“And these men would be open to that?”
“I haven’t asked them,” Bobby says. “I have been operating under the assumption that you would deal in cash. Apparently, that is not the case.”
“Do I need to mention the bail money again?”
Bobby laughs. “You only got the one arrow but you do like to let it fly, don’t you?” He pauses. “So tell me—what’s a gallon of shine going for these days?”
“It varies,” Ava says. “Anywhere from five to ten dollars, depending on the quality and the size of the order.”
“Then I need to ask—how’s the quality?”
“Top shelf,” Ava tells him.
“Says you.”
Ava turns and walks across the room to take down a gallon jug from the shelf. Returning, she hands it to Bobby. He takes a swig, rinses it briefly in his mouth and then swallows. He has another drink before putting the stopper back in the jug.
“Hell, yeah,” is all he says.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ava says. “Would these friends of yours be open to barter?”
Bobby
Barlow smiles. “Does a possum have a pouch?”