Son punched two holes in a Pet Milk can and set it on the table. He and Frank Long took some, but Dr. Taulbee and the girl drank their coffee black. Son took a sip of his as the girl watched him. It was weak and about all he could say for it, it was hot, but he nodded to the girl and gave her a little smile. She'd worked on the coffee like she was preparing a full dinner.
Son didn't push or ask questions; it was still their party. But nobody seemed ready to get to the point until the coffee was on the table. Then Dr. Taulbee sipped his and said, "Ahh--" and blew on it close to his mouth and sipped at it again.
Frank Long bit off the end of a cigar and said, "Goddamn-it," and picked shreds of tobacco from his tongue. "The proposition is this."
As he paused then to light the cigar, Dr. Taulbee said, "The proposition is we buy the whiskey from you."
"Who's we?" Son asked.
"We. Us. The United States Government." "I didn't know the government was in the business."
"Not in the business. But there is such a thing as government spirits. Didn't you know that? For various reasons, like medicinal use, and so on." Dr. Taulbee leaned in close to the table, his eyebrows raising. "Now, somebody has to be making what the government approves and buys, would you agree to that?"
"Whiskey don't make itself," Son answered. "I'll agree that much."
"Fine." Dr. Taulbee grinned. "We're starting to get along, aren't we?"
"Who pays me for the whiskey?"
"The government does."
"How much?"
"A fair price. You tell us what you want and you submit it like a bid contract through Frank here's office. Of course there's one thing." Dr. Taulbee waited for Son to jump up and say what, but Son just looked at him and Dr. Taulbee had to continue. "You have to pay a government tax on what you've produced, otherwise it's illegal whiskey." Dr. Taulbee sipped his coffee and eyed Son over the rim. "First though, of course, I'd have to taste the whiskey before issuing a stamp."
"Buy it," Son said, "you can taste all you want."
Dr. Taulbee sat back and laughed. "My goodness, do you think the government is dumb? They aren't going to buy anything unless I tell them it tastes good."
"Then they don't buy it," Son said.
Frank Long bit down on his cigar, hunching in and said, "Jesus Christ, who do you think you are holding up the goddamn United States Government?"
Son shifted his gaze to Long. "Frank, if you want to buy it, give me the money and I'll tell you where it is and get out of your way. Otherwise you're just blowing smoke out your ears."
"All right," Dr. Taulbee said, "now let's discuss this like gentlemen. I believe we're getting somewhere and there's no need to get excited, is there? Son here has a product for sale and we're the customers. Right? Now like on any deal it's a matter of the two parties getting together. Maybe there's a little give and take, but finally it's worked out to everybody's mutual satisfaction. Miley, honey, you want to pour a little more? That coffee just hits the old spot, doesn't it, boys?"
Son glanced over at Miley. He wasn't sure if she was still looking at him, or looking at him again.
She said, "Who cooks for you?"
"I do," Son answered. "Or Aaron. Whoever wants to."
"You aren't married?"
"Miley,"--Dr Taulbee's tone was pleasant but loud--"I said we'd like some more coffee--" She got up to go to the stove. "It isn't very good, is it?"
Son watched her move, too slowly for a young girl; she stood with her back to them.
And Dr. Taulbee was saying, "Supply and demand is the golden rule of commerce, boys. When somebody has something other people want, then by golly he gets paid for it. Son, how much do you want?"
"Twenty-seven thousand dollars."
Frank Long started laughing, forcing it and shaking his head. He said, "Now who do you think's going to pay you twenty-seven thousand dollars for a hundred and fifty barrels of moonshine?"
"If you're not, Frank, we can talk about foxhounds or the price of corn or you can get the hell out of here and I won't mention it again."
"Now, wait a minute," Dr. Taulbee said. "The man says that's his price. All right, you got to start somewhere in working out this supply and demand business." He waited while Miley poured the coffee, then stirred his thoughtfully, though there was no sugar or cream in the cup.
"I was just thinking," he said. "If the government can't pay your price--I mean if they believe it's too high and just won't budge on it--what would you say if I was to offer to buy it as a private citizen?"
Son placed his spoon in his saucer. "I'd say you were a bootlegger."
Dr. Taulbee laughed now, curling his mouth and showing his big teeth. "Whoeee, my goodness, if the folks in Frankfort heard you say something like that. What I mean, if I bought it as a speculator, paid you for it, but kept it right where it's at, gambling on repeal coming about during the next year or so. If the country stays dry, I lose my shirt. But if the Eighteenth is repealed--and I'll admit I got a hunch it's going to be someday--I buy me some tax stamps and market the booze before the big distillers get going again. Even with repeal it's chancy; somebody could under sell me and I'd end up drinking it all myself." Dr. Taulbee grinned his finest grin. "But if it's all as good as you say it is, then having to drink it might not be so bad either. Son, what do you say?"
He said, "What does this Prohibition agent think about it?"
"Frank's a reasonable man. Aren't you, Frank? If you believe like I do that repeal's coming, then it would be wasteful to pour off a hundred and fifty barrels of good stuff, wouldn't it?"
Son watched Frank Long pretend to consider this and nod thoughtfully.
"I guess it would be a waste at that," Long said.
Now it was Son's turn to nod. "Well, then," he said solemnly, "if you feel that way, Frank, I guess I'll just keep the whiskey myself and wait on this repeal you all are talking about."
Neither Frank Long nor Dr. Taulbee was smiling. They sat quietly for a minute staring at Son Martin. For what it was worth Long said, "You can't afford to speculate, Son, but he can. That's the difference. That's why I could permit him to keep the whiskey, but not you. I mean I wouldn't let you take the chance."
Son didn't bother to reply and Long, in the silence that followed, added nothing to the statement. Dr. Taulbee was the thoughtful one now and he was not pretending or stalling or getting ready to present a new proposal. He was accepting reality, resigning himself to the fact that Son Martin was not going to be talked out of his whiskey. It was going to take work; no doubt a pretty dirty kind of work.
Dr. Taulbee was glad to see Dual Meaders coming up the steps. There he was, the sweet boy, coming right when he was needed, marching in on cue, looking hot and tired and meaner than usual, which was all right with Dr. Taulbee. Yes, sir, when in doubt turn Dual loose, and the meaner he felt, the better. Dr. Taulbee got up from the table.
"Boy" he said mildly to Son, "I see you're going to make us work, which Frank claimed right along would happen. I'm not opposed to work, but I am a little disappointed in you, at your hard-headed stupidity, because we're going to get your whiskey and I think you must know that, whether we have to break your legs to get you to tell or put you under and find it ourselves."
Son shook his head. "If I don't tell, you won't find it."
"Just a minute, boy. I'm not finished my speech. We're going to let you have a few days to think about it and watch the trouble start to come down on you, then we're going to come back and ask you again in a nice way, 'Son, where's the whiskey at?' I'll bet you ten dollars right now you tell us. If you don't tell, you win the bet and I'll put the ten spot in your pocket when we bury you."
Son waited a moment. "Is that the end of the speech?"
"All I'm going to say," Dr. Taulbee answered. "Then I'll see you in a few days."
Son waited on the porch as they walked toward the car. He had better not say anything else. He had better hold on and, when they were gone, get up to the still and see if Aaro
n was all right. He was looking that way, toward the hillside and the faint trail of smoke above the roof, when Dr. Taulbee called to him.
"One more thing, Sonny."
Son looked over.
"Dual here showed you his gun, but he never showed you what he can do with it." Son waited. Let him talk; don't say anything. "See that barn yonder? See the two mules in the pen? Watch."
Dual drew his revolver, standing in front of the car with one foot on the bumper, a good thirty yards from the split-rail fence at the side of the barn. He didn't hesitate. He raised the .38 and fired and fired again and one of the mules jerked its head up and sidestepped and, as its knees buckled, fell heavily to the ground.
Dual looked over at Son on the porch, the revolver still in his hand. Dr. Taulbee looked over and waved good-by.
Frank Long rested his arm on the top of the seat cushion and shifted around to look at Dr. Taulbee in the back seat.
"He'll tell once we get done with his neighbors."
Dr. Taulbee's head moved with the motion of the automobile and he seemed to be nodding. "It might work."
"I'll guarantee it. If you can get the men." "All we'll need."
"I think about eight anyway. You can get eight?"
"Dual," Dr. Taulbee said, "call when we get back to the hotel."
Dual looked up at the mirror. "Then I'll go out to Caswell's and see they have a place to stay."
"You're way ahead of me, aren't you, boy?"
Dual smiled with his mouth closed, his eyes on the road. He didn't know what to say to that.
Miley sat close to the side window, staring at the fence posts and telephone poles and thickets and empty fields.
She said, "Why doesn't he just run?"
Dr. Taulbee's head drifted up and down. "Who?"
"If he knows he might get killed, why doesn't he just give you the whiskey? Or run away and forget it?"
"You sweet little thing," Dr. Taulbee said. "Because he's dumb."
"I can't understand that. He seems smart to me." Miley was silent, picturing seeing him smile as he raised his coffee cup. "How come he's not married?"
"His wife's dead."
"When did she die?"
"I don't know. A long time ago."
"He never got married again?"
Dr. Taulbee was looking out the window.
"I'd think some Marlett girl would have got him before this." Miley was silent again. He was nice looking and owned land. Why wouldn't he just get married and forget about the whiskey? She said, "What does he expect to get out of it?"
"Pain," Dr. Taulbee said, "if he thinks a minute. And anguish."
"I can't understand him--"
"Sweetie, don't worry your pretty head." "Why he'd risk getting killed for nothing." "Some people are funny," Dr. Taulbee said.
Miley was turned to him with a serious expression. "Why don't you buy it from him?" "Because we don't have to."
"You offered to buy it at first."
"Sweet thing, if he didn't believe it, why do you?"
"I thought you meant it."
"We were trying to get him to tell," Dr. Taulbee said, "without trying too hard."
"Maybe he would sell it to you though."
"Except now we're not buying," Dr. Taulbee showed his teeth. "Sugartit, why don't you just sit back and enjoy the ride."
Miley sat back. It seemed like they were always driving somewhere, always in the car looking at the same wire fences and telephone poles and plowed fields, always the same run-down farm houses and the same filling stations at the crossroads, the same MAIL POUCH and NEHI signs and the same skinny old men in overalls looking up as the car passed.
It was hot in the car. Miley rolled the window down as far as it would go. She didn't care if the wind blew her hair. She was going back to the Hotel Cumberland, Room 210, and if the doctor was in the mood he'd have her hair all messed up anyway in five minutes, his too, with his waves down on his forehead or sticking out on the sides. She'd smell his tonic and the breath sweetener he used, sweet little things like bird shot he was always popping in his mouth. He had clean habits, but, God, his stomach was a size and after he was through doing it--all the while whispering dirty little sweet things in her ear--he would rest on top of her for a couple of minutes, sprawled out like a giant seal lying on a rock.
She had to wait till he stirred and finally rolled off before she could go into the bathroom. When she came out, he'd be lying on his back with his eyes closed and his mouth open, the round white mound of his belly rising and falling in peaceful sleep. Miley would put on a kimono and maybe read a magazine, waiting to see if he wanted to do it again when he woke up.
Sometimes she wished she was still working in the house. If there were no customers or, like in the afternoon when usually only one or two would come by, the girls would sit around talking and laughing or she and another girl would go shopping and have lunch out. It wasn't ever boring. It was usually fun, and interesting to meet new customers, to see a group sitting in the parlor and wonder which one was going to pick her first. It was nice to get a good-looking young one, though some of the old boys, like Dr. Taulbee, fooled you and had little tricks the young studs hadn't learned yet. She hadn't met any man who was so ugly that he repulsed her, and only once in a while did she get one who was smelly or whose breath was so bad it was hard to smile at him. The clientele was mostly a higher class, who could afford clean habits and ten dollars a trick.
Dr. Taulbee had got in touch with her after the house in Louisville was closed by the police. Dr. Taulbee had been a customer of hers for almost a year; she liked him and she appreciated him taking care of her now. He was generous and it was a pretty interesting and exciting life. Even the automobile trips to different places weren't too boring. The only thing that bothered her about the arrangement was the feeling, lately, that she was being wasted. God, Dr. Taulbee was the only man she had gone to bed with in the past five months. It seemed a shame with all the nice-looking fellows around. Dual Meaders didn't interest her--ugh, he'd be quick and serious and never say a word or crack a smile; get up, get dressed, and go. But she had been wondering, since meeting Frank Long and knowing he was in 205, what he would be like. And now she found herself picturing Son Martin taking his shirt off and looking at her and smiling. He probably wouldn't say much but--Miley made a little bet with herself--he would be something to experience.
Dual let them out in front of the hotel. Going up the steps, Dr. Taulbee gave her a little pat on the fanny and said, as if he had just thought of it, "Hey, honey, I know what let's do before dinner."
Miley smiled and Dr. Taulbee winked at her, running his arm around her waist.
"He didn't have to shoot the mule," Aaron said. "What would he want to shoot a mule for?"
"He likes to shoot his pistol," Son answered. He was harnessing the other mule. They'd drag the dead one out of the yard and bury it somewhere down in the hollow.
"I got a gun I like to shoot," Aaron said. "Next time I do it too."
Son shook his head. "No next time."
"He shoot a mule, the mule don't even know what the man want. I had him in front of me," Aaron said. "I could have shoot him for going in my house. I didn't know he was going to shoot no mule."
"Forget about him."
"He say he coming back, I don't forget about him."
Buckling the harness, Son paused. "He'll kill you if you're here. It's his business."
"I let him try."
"No, you go away for a while. You got family in Tennessee, haven't you? A sister? Visit her till this is over."
"I got two sisters and a old uncle. But I live here thirteen years."
"I know you have."
"Since the time you go in the Army and your daddy hire me to help him."
Son shook his head. "This has got nothing to do with you."
"They want the whiskey I help make."
"And if they think you know where it is, they'll ask you and break one of your legs and ask yo
u again."
Aaron stared at him, his broad shoulders sloping and his arms hanging at his side. "You afraid I'd tell them?"
"I know you wouldn't," Son answered. "So they'd have to kill you."
"If they want to try," Aaron said. He brought over a coil of rope to tie around the dead mule. "That's all the talking about it I'm going to do."
Chapter Seven.
Five days following Dr. Taulbee's visit, E. J. Royce drove up the hollow to tell Son about the raid on the Worthmans place:
How the dirty son of a bitches in their suits come in the dead of night without any warning and took all the moonshine they could carry off and tore up the still with axes and shot Uncle Jim Bob Worthman through the neck when he came outside with a shotgun that wasn't even loaded.
Mr. Baylor had sent E. J. with word that Son was to get over there, since it was Son's good old army buddy, Frank Long, who led the raid and Virgil Worthman would swear to it in court. Son said to E. J. Royce, what court? And E. J. said, he just wants you over there, probably because nobody knows what to do. Their still was gone, smashed to pieces, and Uncle Jim Bob, with a hole going in his neck and a big hole coming out, would probably never talk again, if he lived.
The Worthman place was less than two miles away in a straight line over the hills, but more than five miles through the hollows and around by road, On the way E. J. Royce told Son everything he knew about the raid, which wasn't much. Mr. Baylor had sent him over just a few minutes after they got there. Other people were arriving, E. J. said, hearing about it and coming out. By the time they got to the Worthman farm the yard looked like a family reunion was taking place. There were a dozen cars and trucks in the yard and along the dirt road, a bunch of children climbing on one of the trucks. The grownups, mostly men, were standing around and staring at E. J. Royce's official car as it drove up. The men nodded or seemed to as Son got out and nodded to them, but nobody said anything. They stood with their grim serious expression and those that were in the yard, by the porch, stepped back so Son could walk up to the house and go inside.