That night Bobby finds the Packard parked beside the Wilkesboro Hotel. He takes a walk through the empty dining room, looking for the two men, then goes to the front desk, where Gus Harrigan is doing a crossword puzzle and nipping from a bottle of Coke that Bobby knows contains more whiskey than soda pop.
“Hey Bobby,” Gus says. “Gimme a five-letter word for courage. Starts with V.”
Bobby ignores the request. “That Packard parked outside,” he says.
“What about it?”
“Where are they?”
“They got a room upstairs.” Gus sips from the bottle. “They just checked in an hour ago but they been hanging around town for a week or more. Can’t hardly miss that car. Couple of mugs in fancy suits and toting guns, both of them. I suspect they might be revenuers.”
“They are a far cry from that,” Bobby says.
Bobby leaves and walks over to Yadkin’s Diner across the street, where he takes a seat by the front window and orders corned beef and hash. From there he can see the rear end of the Packard, parked in the hotel lot. Supper hour has come and gone and there is nobody else in the diner. Floyd, who works the counter after the owners go home for the day, sits at a stool, reading a paperback novel and chain-smoking Camels.
Bobby gives the situation some thought while he eats. They may not know it yet but the Flaggs are in a bind, what with Otto Marx on one side and Boone Saunders on the other. They might make an arrangement to sell to Otto but in the end, it would go sour, especially if Boone comes to the conclusion that he’s being cut out of the action. Even without Boone in the mix, from what Bobby has heard of Otto Marx, he’s not a man to trifle with. When it comes to criminal activity, he’s way out of the Flaggs’ league.
As for Boone, Bobby can’t imagine any scenario between him and the Flagg family that won’t result in violence. Boone is a thief, and a sadistic whiner who always finds someone to blame for his own lot in life. Not only that but revenge is an art that Boone has long cultivated, one that is fed by his insecurities and paranoia.
By the time Bobby has finished his dinner and is drinking a second cup of coffee, he has arrived at the conclusion that the smart thing for him to do now is to extricate himself from the entire situation. Get in his coupe and drive. He has been hearing that there’s money to be won racing in Georgia and Florida, with the added incentive that down there he wouldn’t be risking his life butting heads with the likes of Boone Saunders and Otto Marx. There’s nothing keeping him in Wilkes County. In Georgia he could make a name for himself. He could even drive the coupe all the way to Florida and race at Daytona, something he’d always dreamed of doing. Hell, he could start his own business, building cars for other drivers.
If what to do is the question, then cut and run is the answer. The Flaggs went into the bootlegging game with their eyes open. Well, maybe not completely open, given that they’ve made every rookie mistake imaginable so far. But they knew they were getting into a business rife with violence and double-crossing. It was dangerous in the days before Prohibition, it was dangerous during Prohibition and it’s still dangerous now. It isn’t Bobby’s job to protect the family. He’d agreed to build them a bona fide moonshine-runner and he’d come through on that.
He looks at the clock on the wall. Shortly past eight. He could leave now, drive down to Charlotte and spend the night at Tiger’s place before continuing on to Georgia in the morning. Dawsonville was the place to go in Georgia, he’d heard. They might even be racing there tomorrow night.
So that’s the plan. Get the hell out of Wilkes County while he’s still able. He has a good car and nothing to hold him here. Georgia is full of promise, as is Florida. This here is a mess, and not one of his making. Leaving Wilkesboro seems the better part of valor.
“Valor,” he says out loud. Five-letter word for courage. He wonders if Gus, in his half-drunken state, has stumbled upon it yet.
The more Bobby thinks about it, the more the notion of pulling stakes appeals to him. He hates to leave the Flagg family in the lurch but what can he do at this point? There’s trouble on all sides and Bobby’s first concern is keeping himself clear of it. And after all, the Flaggs came looking for him, not the other way around.
Bobby looks across the street, to the fancy yellow Packard parked there in the shadows. He thinks about the two men up in their room, with their guns and their cloudy motives. And he thinks of the Flaggs—of the naïve Morgan, the sulking Ezra, the stiff-backed preacher Jedediah who isn’t above telling a white lie when he deems it right. Well, maybe not right—but necessary. And he thinks of Ava, of her sharp tongue and her beauty, her inherent integrity even when earnestly breaking the law. And then he thinks of her disdain for Bobby, how she never seems to take him seriously, even though he’d done all she had asked and more.
After a moment, he sighs heavily and turns to the counter. “Floyd, another cup of joe, bud.”
“I thought you was finished here,” Floyd says as he brings the pot.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Bobby says. “But not quite.”
The next morning Bobby gets up early and makes a couple of stops before driving into town, where he again parks across from the hotel. He sits in the car there, watching and waiting. Shortly past eight o’clock Slim and Elmer emerge from the hotel and cross the street to Yadkin’s Diner. They go inside and sit at the same table Bobby had taken the night before. Bobby remains in the coupe and smokes a cigarette, watching them as they order coffee and breakfast. After their food arrives, he gets out, tosses the butt in the gutter and goes inside.
“Well, well, look at the revenuers,” he says approaching the table. “How’s business, boys?”
Both men give Bobby the eye. Of course they recognize him from the other day, when he’d gotten smart with them about the existence of moonshine in Wilkes County and Elmer had volunteered to rearrange his face.
“There’s no revenuers here,” Slim says.
“I know it,” Bobby says. He pulls a chair over, turns it around backwards then sits. “There’s some in Wilkes County have got you pegged for that but I kinda doubt the Feds would be driving around in a Packard the color of a canary. That would be considered conspicuous.”
“What do you want, hayseed?” Elmer asks.
Bobby shrugs. “If memory serves, you mugs are looking for moonshine. That is why you’re hanging around, right?”
The two mugs in question exchange glances. Elmer smiles. Might be they finally have a fish on the line.
“And you have decided to help us out?” Slim asks.
“You could use some help,” Bobby says. “After that numbskull move last night.”
Slim takes a moment. “What numbskull move was that?”
Bobby shakes his head, smiling. “Come on. Parking that big yellow boat out to Flagg’s Hollow. You followed that boy home with the truckload of sugar. Then you parked in plain sight. By the time you figured out just what you’d stumbled on, they’d already spotted you. And so naturally they spent all night cleaning that warehouse out.”
Elmer stares at Bobby, his lips tight, before turning a bad eye on Slim. Elmer had wanted to hit the molasses factory last night but Slim had argued against it. Well, look where that had got them.
Slim puts his fork down, wipes his mouth and has a drink of coffee. “And where have they gone to?”
“Where do you think?” Bobby asks. “Into the hills. You should be able to find them, no problem. Might take you twenty or thirty years.”
“Funny man,” Elmer says.
“Why have you decided to share this with us?” Slim asks.
“Because I got a proposition for you,” Bobby says. “I haul moonshine for the Flaggs. Not only that but I built them a runner that nothing in the goddamn state can keep up to. I’m supposed to deliver a hundred gallons to Johnson City come Sunday night. Given the proper incentive, I could be persuaded to alter that plan.”
Slim smiles. “Looks like this country boy is right ambitious.”
“What kind of incentive?” Elmer asks.
“The busthead alone runs ten dollars a jug,” Bobby says. “That’s a thousand there. And I expect the car is worth nigh onto that much again. She’s a sure enough moonshine-running machine. I’ll hand over lock, stock and barrel for a thousand. That’s half price. Question is—can you two mugs handle that?”
“We can handle whatever you got,” Elmer snaps. “But that’s a lot of cash.”
“It’s a lot of moonshine,” Bobby tells him.
“What’s a dummy like you going to do with a thousand dollars?”
“How about none of your fucking business?” Bobby replies.
“You’d better try that again,” Slim tells him. He opens his coat slightly, enough to show Bobby the .45.
Bobby shows his palms. “Hold on now. Fact of the matter is, I’m looking to get out of the bootlegging game. I got me a first-class race car and it’s my intention to take it down to Georgia to run it. I could use a stake.”
Slim shovels the last forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and then leans back in his chair with his coffee. “We might be able to work something out. This is the same shine like we got last time?”
“Precise same recipe,” Bobby says. “Best in the county.”
Elmer leans towards Bobby. “You’d better not be jerking our chains here, hayseed.”
“You guys are the ones packing iron,” Bobby says. “I ain’t about to get sideways of you.”
Slim lights a cigarette and tosses the spent match onto his dirty plate. “Then you got a deal, son. Providing you can hold up your end. Where are these hundred gallons at the moment?”
“Nice try,” Bobby says smiling. “I can tell you it’s where you won’t find it. Which means you need me and I need you.”
Slim nods. “How do you want to do this?”
“I’ll have the Ford loaded and ready to roll, come Sunday dusk,” Bobby says. “I’ll meet you behind the hotel across the street there.”
Slim looks at Elmer for a moment, then back to Bobby. “We’ll be there.”