The Case of the Hurricane Hounds, page 18
part #8 of Thousand Islands Doggy Inn Series
**
“Two of my favorite aspects of Snow’s writing, great characters driven by razor-sharp dialogue, are on full display, and the use of an episodic-structure, while different, works perfectly. This is going to be one hell of a great series!”
The Whiskey Run Chronicles
B.R. Snow
Episode 1
The Dry Season Approaches
Three Shots to the Wind
Milo nodded to the well-dressed man in black he passed on his way to the bar. He wasn’t a huge fan of fedoras as a rule, but they had their time and place. Just like the one on Milo’s head here and now. And Milo had to give the man credit for the way he wore his. Like he was confident about how good he looked; proud of the hat, and not apologizing at all for looking like a bit of a dandy.
Hats were tricky to pull off as far as Milo was concerned. A lot of folks pulled them down way too far, then made it worse by keeping their heads down when they walked past you. Like they were hiding something or weren’t quite as confident as they were trying to appear. When that happened, Milo always got the impression that the hat was wearing the person, not the other way around.
Yeah, hats were tricky.
But if you got the angle of the hat cocked just right, held your head high, and looked people in the eye when you passed them on the street, you’d always get a nod out of Milo.
Even if you did look like a bit of a dandy.
Milo tipped his hat to a group of three women standing in the hotel lobby near the entrance to the bar. Working girls, he decided when he caught their taunting smiles and eyes that lingered just a touch too long.
“Ladies, I hope you’re all doing well this beautiful evening,” Milo said, continuing past them toward the bar.
“We could all be doing a lot better,” one of the women said.
The other two women laughed, and the one who’d spoken to Milo met his eyes when he stopped and turned around. She cocked her head and stared at him, oozing confidence. No hat needed on this pretty young thing, Milo decided.
“I guess everyone could always be doing better, right?” Milo said.
“Indeed. I like your hat,” the woman said, studying his fedora. “I never wear them myself.”
“Because it would be redundant, right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Merely a passing thought on my part. I’m Milo.”
“Daisy,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at her two companions before locking eyes with him again. “That’s Maxine. This is Betsy.”
“It’s very nice to meet you ladies,” Milo said, bowing slightly. “I hope you all have a wonderful evening.”
“If you’re looking for some company, feel free to stop by Fannie’s later,” Daisy said. “I’m sure I could make your stay here much more pleasant. Or, if your tastes run in that direction, all three of us.”
Milo smiled and continued to match her stare.
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Unfortunately, I have some business to attend to at the moment. But I must say, if I were ever honored to be in your company, Miss Daisy, including anyone else would be a pointless gesture. An exercise in futility if you will. For I would hate to ruin my reputation as a gentleman since I would undoubtedly be completely ignoring everyone else who happened to be present at the time.”
Her two colleagues tittered and Daisy flushed bright red, but before she had a chance to recover and respond, Milo tipped his hat again, then turned and entered the bar. He glanced around and decided to sit at the bar. The bartender, a tall man who barely looked old enough to drink, approached and nodded his head at the three women who were still hovering near the entrance.
“Not many men can say no to Daisy,” the bartender said, wiping down the mahogany in front of Milo.
“I didn’t say no,” Milo said. “I just said not now.”
“Well, Daisy is a right now kind of girl and not used to men having to think about it,” he said, laughing. “But judging by the way she’s hanging in the doorway, I think you got her attention. What can I get you?”
“I think I’ll have a beer with a back.”
“Whiskey?”
“Actually, I heard a rumor that if I ask you real nice, you’ll bring me a taste of some local refreshment.”
“Who told you that?” the bartender said, now on alert.
“Just a guy who likes to spread rumors.”
“I hate guys like that.”
“Me too. But sometimes the rumormongers can be useful.”
“Useful as in finding out where to get the best local shine?”
“Yes, among other things,” Milo said, smiling. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
“The hotel doesn’t know I bring it in. It’s only for special customers,” the bartender said, wiping his hands with a fresh towel. “But when you’re working for tips, you do what you can, right?”
“Yeah, I get that. By the way, I’m Milo Razner.”
“Nice to meet you, Milo. My name’s Tom. Tom Collins.”
“Tom Collins. After the cocktail? That’s a good name for a bartender I would imagine,” Milo said, nodding.
“Actually, my name is Jerry Collins. But a buddy gave me the nickname when I was working in a joint that only sold moonshine. Most women can’t stand the taste of it, so I started messing around with different juices and fruits you could use to make the shine go down easier. I got kind of a reputation for my concoctions.”
“And the nickname stuck?”
“Yeah. And the name’s a real conversation starter,” Tom said.
“And good for tips, right?”
“You’re a quick study, Milo.”
“You have no idea, Tom Collins.”
Tom reached below the bar and poured clear liquid into a shot glass.
“You want to join me?” Milo said. “I’m buying.”
“Thanks, but I’m working,” Tom said, shaking his head. “This stuff will set your brain on fire. Two of those and I wouldn’t be able to make change.”
“What is it?” Milo said, holding up the shot glass and staring at it up against the light.
“Billy calls it his Midnight Miracle,” Tom said. “A hundred and fifty proof but smoother than Daisy’s skin right after she gets out of the bath.”
“Should I ask how you know that?” Milo said, still staring into the shot glass.
“It’s no secret how Daisy makes her living,” Tom said, shrugging. “I learned about her soft skin a long time ago. But that was back in the days when I could still afford her.”
“I see,” Milo said, holding the shot glass to his nose. “I’m getting the scent of something sweet.”
“Billy won’t tell me what that is,” Tom said. “But I think he uses a touch of maple syrup.”
“Interesting,” Milo said. “Well, here goes nothing.”
Milo tossed the shot back and felt the warmth surge through him, then it subsided and left him at a loss for words.
“Good, huh?” Tom said, nodding.
“Remarkable. Who’s Billy?”
“Billy Crankovitch. He’s a local. We go way back. And when it comes to making shine, I think he’s a genius.”
“And he makes moonshine for a living?”
“Nah. It’s only a way for him to make a few extra bucks on the side. I do my best to help him out by selling some of it here.”
“What does he do for a living?” Milo said, gesturing for another shot.
“Well, he’s a dairy farmer. But as his wife keeps reminding him, he’s just not a very good one.”
“Ah, farmers. Salt of the earth. I’d like to meet this Mr. Crankovitch,” Milo said, holding up the fresh shot to the light again. “It’s crystal clear.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Tom said. “He’ll start cooking this year’s batch as soon as he gets his corn harvested. But if he’s got any of last year’s batch left, you can buy a quart for three bucks.”
“Twelve dollars a gallon?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just doing some math in my head.”
Milo and Tom both looked toward the lobby when they heard the swelling noise that was punctuated with shouts and protests.
“Somebody’s not happy,” Milo said, glancing around at the crowd.
“Beulah must be here,” Tom said. “She’s speaking tonight in the ballroom.”
Milo looked at Tom and waited for more.
“Beulah Peppin. She’s the head of the local temperance movement.”
“Ah, yes,” Milo said. “The Women’s Christian Temperance Union. The WCTU seems to be everywhere these days. Which one is Mrs. Peppin?”
“Miss Peppin,” Tom said. “And she’s the one in the white dress.”
Milo studied the young woman who continued to casually give instructions to several people who were surrounding her even as the shouts of protests continued to swell.
“I take it she has her detractors,” Milo said.
“Yeah, and I’m one of them. What is it with some people? They’re always on a mission to ruin everybody else’s fun. The way the winters are around here, if you take away people’s right to drink, they’ll be nothing to do six months out of the year.”
“Yes, I’m afraid the Dries have gotten a lot of traction,” Milo said, downing the second shot and again having the same reaction. “This is truly a remarkable concoction.”
“Lucky for us, the President vetoed that stupid law, huh?” Tom said.
“Congress is getting ready to override his veto,” Milo said, taking a sip of beer.
“But they won’t be able to pass it, right?”
“Oh, I’m certain the veto is going to be overridden.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been told that by some people I know in Washington,” Milo said.
“You have friends in Washington?”
“Oh, my, no,” Milo said, laughing. “I would never call the people I know in Washington friends. They’re just lawyers who managed to convince enough voters they’re worthy of making decisions on their behalf.”
“I take it you’re not much of a fan of politicians,” Tom said.
“I dislike politicians,” Milo said. “But I detest lawyers. Combine the two, and you get a very nasty product.”
“Like bad moonshine,” Tom said.
“Yes. If it doesn’t kill you, the odds are it will leave you blind,” Milo said, gesturing for a third shot.
“You want another?”
“One more.”
“Be careful. This stuff sneaks up on you in a hurry.”
“Let’s call the third one additional field study. Sort of a personal research project.”
“It’s your funeral,” Tom said, pouring the shot. “By the way, what are you doing in town?”
“Actually, I have just relocated to your wonderful town. This is my first day here.”
“Really? What do you do for work?”
“I’m currently in transition, and I’m looking for a change. Something in my head is telling me that it’s time to do something different.”
“Like what?”
“I thought I might give dairy farming a shot,” Milo said, tossing back his third shot. “Whew. I see what you mean about it sneaking up on you.”
“Uh, no offense, Milo,” Tom said. “You could have given me a hundred guesses, and I wouldn’t have come up with dairy farmer. You know much about cows?”
“Other than they have four legs and produce milk, not a single thing.”
“Okay. I guess you gotta start somewhere, right? Look, Milo, dairy farming is no picnic. And there aren’t any days off. You do know that cows have to be milked twice a day every day, don’t you?”
“I did not know that,” Milo said, shaking his head. “I’m glad I stopped by, Tom Collins. Not only have you provided me with some of the best alcohol I have ever tasted, but you’ve also taught me something.”
“Why on earth would you want to be a dairy farmer?”
“Well, there’s just something calling me to it. When booze is outlawed, I have a gut feeling that my milk is going to be in very high demand. And I always try to go with my gut instincts.”
Milo shook his head to clear it and glanced back at Beulah Peppin who was still chatting with several people milling around her.
“She is a very striking woman,” Milo said.
“She is. Too bad she never seems to put her looks on better display. It’s like she does everything she can to hide them,” Tom said. “But I do like her hat.”
“Yes, I agree. And she wears it very well.”
B R Snow, The Case of the Hurricane Hounds
