Blind Tiger, page 17
“They could trust me.”
“The system doesn’t work that way, Laurel. Their trust in me doesn’t rub off on you. You’ll have to earn it yourself.”
“All right. But what’s the risk to me?”
“Competition for goods is fierce. Men have had knock-down-drag-outs over bags of Dixie Crystals. That might’ve been what got Wally Johnson killed.”
“The man who was murdered?”
“Gossip is that he hijacked a hay wagon loaded with contraband sugar that was meant for somebody else. I don’t know if it’s true, but it stands to reason. His family have recently upped their production to meet the demand in Ranger and Breckenridge.”
“Oil boom towns.”
“Yep. Populated by hundreds of thirsty men that the Johnsons intend to keep quenched.”
“Not you, though.”
“Hell no,” he said. “Those are lucrative markets, all right, but they come with risks Ernie and me aren’t willing to take. The men working on those drilling rigs are a tough crowd. They’ll shoot each other over a roll of dice, a perceived insult, or a whore. Pardon the mention.”
“I can hardly take offense, Irv. I’m a moonshiner, in no position to judge how another woman makes her living.”
“Well, around here they don’t walk the streets like in the boom towns. Mostly they ply their trade at Lefty’s.”
“The roadhouse.”
“That’s why I told you not to go near it. If a man is so inclined, he can take his pleasure in the rooms upstairs. Or get skunk drunk in the back room. Lefty’s is a regular den of iniquity. A blind tiger.”
“A what?”
He’d explained the term, and she was astonished.
“A speakeasy? Here? Where there’s a church on every corner?”
He snuffled. “Me and Ernie, and every moonshiner around, love nothing better than a tent revival that goes on for days. We raise more spirits selling corn liquor on the parking lot than the preachers raise under the tent. Make more money than what’s dropped in the offering plate, too.”
They laughed together before he turned solemn again. “When this new still is up and running, I’d like to expand the business. But those boom towns…naw,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m too old for all that rowdiness. And, if I was to poach on the Johnsons’ territory, they’d cut out my heart and feed it to a mad dog.
“Just as scary,” he went on, “are the government agents on the hunt for bootleggers and moonshiners. And it’s open season. They patrol every road going in and out of those oil towns, armed to the teeth. More and more of them are getting those new submachine guns. And even if it weren’t for the guns, Ernie and me don’t have a vehicle fast enough to outrun theirs.”
They fell into a ponderous silence, each lost in thought. Laurel picked up a piece of pie crust left on her plate and crumbled it between her finger and thumb. Her mother had taught her the technique of making it flaky. She remembered standing on a footstool in the kitchen, watching as her mother combined the ingredients and added cold water, one drop at a time, until the dough was the perfect consistency to roll out on the floured surface.
She often felt a wave of nostalgia for her mother. But never for her father. The condemnation he would heap on his daughter, the moonshiner, perversely deepened her determination to succeed at it.
“Tell me more about Lefty’s,” she said.
“It does a brisk business. Folks come from all round.”
“Who keeps him stocked?”
“A bootlegger out of Dallas. Or so I’m told. He’s talked about, but not by name. Lefty also supports the local economy, though.”
Laurel raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
All Irv said was, “Lefty and me have an understanding and do just fine by each other.”
“Who else does he have an understanding with?”
“That’s his business.”
“It’s our business, Irv. Our bills are caught up, but I don’t want to be just caught up. I want to make money, and my stock-in-trade is moonshine whiskey.” She leaned forward across the table. “Maybe Lefty—what’s his last name?”
Irv scratched his cheek. “You know, I don’t recall ever hearin’. It’s always just been him and his wife, Gert.
“Could Lefty be enticed to buy more from you if you discounted the price per jar?”
“Jug.”
“He buys by the jug?”
“He does, and I’m leaving well enough alone, missy. We’ll make enough profit without taking a baseball bat to a hornets’ nest.” He ended on that note, pushing back his chair and announcing that he was beat. “Thanks for the pie. I don’t think I’ve ever had better.”
She wished him a good night. He retreated to his bedroom and shut the door, but Laurel was too keyed up to go to bed. Over the course of their lengthy conversation, several things had become crystal clear to her.
One. The new still would double their production, but it was unlikely that Irv’s regulars would correspondingly double their consumption—especially under the watchful eyes of their wives. In order for the new still to pay for itself, they must increase their customer base.
Two. Ernie’s talent was distillation and controlling the quality of their product. Thus far Irv had proved to be a crafty and capable distributor of it. However, neither thought like an entrepreneur. Growing the business would be her contribution, and she was eager to start.
It galled her to think that the Johnsons had a foothold in the boom towns. But any attempt to compete with cutthroat big-timers like them would be foolish and potentially hazardous.
And, realistically, neither Irv, nor Ernie, nor she could make the long and dangerous trips up and back to the oil patch towns, hauling hooch. In newspapers, they were portrayed as fertile fields for every form of wickedness. One was either a purveyor of it, or a victim, but no one was immune to peril.
If the immoral climate and fearsome competition weren’t enough cause for trepidation, there were the heavily armed lawmen who couldn’t be outrun.
Surely there was a safer, saner way to conduct business. But how, when the manufacturing and selling of their product were illegal? These inherent dangers wouldn’t abound if they were making and selling hat pins, or sachets, or…
She drew focus on the coconut meringue confection in the center of the table.
Eight hours later, she was still seated at the table, but the pie had been replaced with the scattered contents of the recipe box her mother had given her when she married. She’d filled sheets of paper with scribbled notes, jotting down ideas as they occurred to her. Various lists had grown longer as the night had stretched into morning.
“What the hell’s all this?”
Not having even noticed that Irv had emerged from his bedroom, dressed and expecting breakfast, Laurel looked at him and declared, “I’m going to need more than twenty or thirty pounds of sugar. A lot more.”
Twenty-Four
For days after his discussion with Bill Amos at the creek, Thatcher couldn’t shake everything they’d talked about. He accepted that suspicion would shadow him until it was confirmed that someone else had abducted Mrs. Driscoll. His bet was on the doctor. Sheriff Amos was leaning that way, too.
But Thatcher was no crime-solver, and he rejected having to pin on a badge in order to convince skeptics of his innocence.
Nevertheless, the specter of suspicion continued to weigh on him.
At least on this night, he had something to take his mind off of it for a while. He was going out to dinner. It would be a distraction, but not one he particularly looked forward to.
After work, he washed up and changed into a fresh white shirt, dark tie, and his black suit. He’d had it dry-cleaned, the tears in his pants and shoulder seam sewn up, and his shoes shined. He put on his fedora.
The cracked mirror above the dresser in his room reflected a man who looked like he had a lot on his mind, but one presentable enough to go to supper with Mr. Chester Landry.
The shoe salesman’s invitation had taken Thatcher off guard. Except for renting rooms in the same boardinghouse, he and the city slicker from Dallas had nothing in common that Thatcher could see.
But when Landry had approached him the night before and invited him to join him for a dinner out, he’d felt obliged to accept.
Landry was waiting for him out on the porch. He too was wearing a dark suit, but his bow tie was the color of bile and his satiny vest was striped. Thatcher caught a glimpse of a gold jaw tooth when the salesman smiled in greeting and informed Thatcher that he would drive them to the café.
As they motored through the streets of Foley, Landry kept the conversation flowing, commenting on aspects of the town and how it compared to others on his sales route.
Thatcher wasn’t the least bit interested in either women’s footwear or the salesman’s travels, but he listened attentively and made polite inquiries that encouraged Landry to keep the chitchat on himself and off Thatcher, which was precisely Thatcher’s intention.
Most of the locals stuck to the more agrarian schedule with which they’d been reared and tended to eat their larger meal at noon. Consequently, Martin’s Café wasn’t all that crowded at the dinner hour.
But parked in front of it was a long, black Ford, the most expensive of this year’s models. As Landry pulled in beside it, he said, “I see the mayor is dining here tonight.”
“That’s his car?”
“It is.”
“You know him?”
“We’ve met. Chamber of Commerce meeting, I believe it was. I attended as a guest of Mr. Hancock.”
Seated in the driver’s seat of the town car was a man with the bill of a newsboy cap pulled low over his eyes. Thatcher asked, “Who’s that?”
“Mayor Croft’s chauffeur,” Landry said, adding tongue-in-cheek, “and if you believe that, I’ll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.”
They alighted from Landry’s car. As they walked toward the entrance of the café, Thatcher got a closer look at Croft’s chauffeur. He had bulky shoulders and the face of a boxer who’d gone a thousand rounds.
As Thatcher and Landry reached the door of the café, Bernie Croft emerged from it. Upon seeing them, he pulled up short. His eyes sawed between them, lighting on Landry. “Mr. Landry, isn’t it?” He stuck out his hand and Landry shook.
“Thank you for remembering, Mayor Croft. Allow me to introduce—”
“I know who he is.” Croft settled a brittle gaze on Thatcher. “Mr. Hutton.”
Thatcher tipped his head.
Croft hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. “Your companion is well known for his derring-do, Mr. Landry. And his amazing skill with a six-shooter.” Then to Thatcher, “I heard you saved a deputy’s life.”
“A lot of agony, anyway.”
“Well, splendid marksmanship.”
“Thanks.”
Landry stepped in. “What do you recommend from the menu, Mr. Croft?”
“You can’t go wrong with the fried chicken.” He doffed his hat. “Enjoy, gentlemen. ’Evening.”
Landry murmured a response, then entered the café. Thatcher followed, but as he stepped inside, he looked over his shoulder to see the chauffeur holding the rear seat door open for Bernie Croft. Both were looking back at him.
* * *
Clyde Martin was a rotund and cheerful man who took obvious pride in his establishment and its longevity. It had occupied the same corner on Main Street since the turn of the century, serving breakfast through dinner. Salt, pepper, and sugar shakers, along with bottles of ketchup and Tabasco, were kept on the tables.
Mr. Martin welcomed the new arrivals personally and ushered them to a table. Thatcher took the chair with its back to the wall, giving him a view of the entire room. This was his habit. But also, from the moment he’d noticed Landry loitering in the dark corner of the boardinghouse porch, unobtrusively observing the others as he smoked, Thatcher had determined that he would never turn his back to this man.
Was it Landry’s sly grin and oily manner that put him off? His pomaded hair? Was it the gold tooth, tucked into his jaw like a kernel of secret knowledge waiting to be exposed and used to someone’s disadvantage?
Thatcher also had gotten the sense that he was better acquainted with Bernie Croft than either had let on.
Thatcher couldn’t specify what it was that caused him to question Landry’s integrity, but on matters as important as trust, he relied on his gut. The salesman’s friendly overtures toward him seemed a little too polished to be genuine or spontaneous.
Now, as Landry cut into his thick slice of fried ham, he said, “I am as tired of the other boarders as I am of Mrs. May’s uninspired cooking.”
“Why do you room there then?”
“It’s cheap. But the company is dull. Their conversation isn’t exactly scintillating, is it? Or even interesting.”
“You seem to get on with Randy all right.”
He smiled. “He isn’t bad company. He can tell a good dirty joke. He’s just young.”
“Outgoing.”
“Yes, he’s gregarious. But underneath all the braggadocio, he’s as shallow as this pool of redeye gravy.” He dipped the slice of meat into it. “Unlike you.”
Thatcher had chosen a T-bone. “Unlike me?”
“The strong, silent type.” Landry intoned the statement like a stage actor.
Thatcher speared a bite of steak and put it in his mouth.
His failure to comment didn’t deter Landry. “You keep your own counsel, Hutton.” He wagged his fork at Thatcher. “You never give away what’s going through your mind.”
“Usually because it’s not worth knowing.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I seriously do.” He appraised Thatcher as he broke off a piece of dinner roll and spread it with butter. “Tell me about yourself.”
Thatcher gave him a sketchy biography, sharing nothing of importance. “Mustered out, was making my way back, wound up here.”
“Where you got stuck and now plan to stay for a while. Is that about it?”
“Just taking it one day at a time.”
“A man with no plan.”
“In the trenches I saw men die in mid-sentence. Planning your next breath is a wasted effort.”
“Strong, silent, and a philosopher.”
Flashing the wily grin that instilled Thatcher with dislike as well as mistrust, Chester held his stare a beat longer, then continued eating. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, patted his stomach, and sighed with contentment.
“Must say, that was tasty. I’ll have to trust the mayor’s endorsement and try the fried chicken next time.”
“Have you had a hamburger at Lefty’s?”
The salesman cocked his head. “Lefty’s?”
“It’s a roadhouse. Out a ways. I’ve heard the burgers are worth the drive.”
Thatcher couldn’t say what had prompted him to drop a mention of the roadhouse into the conversation. It had been a gambit, like placing a large opening bid only to see how the other player at the table would react.
Chester Landry didn’t take the bait. He gave a hmm of disinterest, and signaled to Mr. Martin that they were finished. Thatcher noticed that they were the only two diners remaining. They passed on dessert but ordered coffee.
As Mr. Martin served it, he said, “Take your time, gentlemen. There’s plenty in the pot for a refill.”
Thatcher sipped his coffee piping hot and black. Landry added cream and sugar to his and stirred it for longer than necessary. When he lifted the spoon from the cup, he clinked it against the rim several times.
He said, “It’s such a shame that you were—associated—with the investigation into the missing woman. That couldn’t have been a pleasant experience.”
“It didn’t last long.”
“Even so.”
Thatcher sipped his coffee, saying nothing, hoping the subject would die.
Landry wagged his spoon just as he had his fork earlier. “See, Hutton? That’s what I’m talking about. Most men would be furious, railing at the sheriff, at everybody who would listen about the unfairness of your detention. You act unaffected, but I wonder if behind the steely veneer, you’re seething. Or are you truly this slow to rile?”
Before Thatcher could answer, motion toward the back of the café drew his attention. The swinging door into the kitchen was being pushed open. By Laurel Plummer. By Laurel Plummer’s bottom. Her very shapely bottom.
She was attempting to wedge through the door with both hands raised, each supporting what looked like a baking dish draped in a dish towel. It was a precarious balancing act.
In an instant, Thatcher was out of his chair. Mr. Martin was late to respond because he’d been behind the counter matching the day’s receipts with the money in his till.
Thatcher pulled wide the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said as she was turning. “I shouldn’t have tried to—” She came to an abrupt stop and blinked up at Thatcher. Several seconds passed without either of them speaking, then she mumbled a thank you and sidestepped to go around him.
He reached for the dish in her left hand. “Let me take this one.”
“No thank you. I’ve got them.”
Mr. Martin rushed around the end of the counter. “Mrs. Plummer, forgive me. My people working in back were supposed to tell me when you got here.”
“It’s quite all right. They were busy.” She took a breath and gave a shaky smile. “As ordered, a pecan pie and a peach cobbler.”
She handed them to Mr. Martin in turn. He set the baked goods side by side on the counter and whisked off the muslin towels with the flourish of a magician over a top hat. “Ah, they look scrumptious. Beautiful, too. My wife, God rest her soul, always got the crust too brown.”
Laurel looked pleased but self-conscious over the compliment. “I hope your customers approve.”
“I’ve got two gents here now who turned down dessert, but I’ll bet they’ll reconsider.” He winked at her. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Plummer has started baking for me, and her pies are out of this world. The cobbler is still warm. Can I tempt you? I’ll add a scoop of ice cream on the house.”
