Fiction logo

Bootleggers' Legacy, Chapter One

A prohibition story

By Dawn HarperPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
Like
Bootleggers' Legacy, Chapter One
Photo by Byron Breytenbach on Unsplash

Elisha and George huddled together over the newspaper from Shreveport. It was several weeks old and smudged from dozens of fingers running across the pages, but the words of the headline were still unmistakable: PROHIBITION TO START IN JANUARY. George shook his head and took a swig from his flask. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “Well, I reckon we got us three more months to stock up. That dadgum Congress and this fool Volstead, whoever he is. Parson says it ain’t gon’ be agin’ the law to have liquor, but ain’t nobody gon’ be able to sell it, legal-wise, nohow.”

Elisha sat back and pulled his pipe from the bib of his overalls. His expression was thoughtful as he went through the ritual of painstakingly filling the bowl from a crumpled bag of tobacco he produced from the depths of a hip pocket. Preparations made, he patted himself down for matches and found none. “Belle!” At his bellow, the diner’s only waitress poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Whatcha need, sugar?” Her sun-leathered skin was heavily powdered and Elisha was fairly certain her brassy orange hair color was not the shade God had given her.

“Matches!” Elisha was perfectly capable of putting together actual sentences, but when he was deep in thought, he tended to communicate in short grunts and growls.

Belle sashayed over to their table, the heavy floral scent of her cheap perfume marching before her like an advancing army. She reached into her apron and held up a book of matches. Waving them back and forth in front of Elisha, she simpered, “Are these what you was wanting, hon?” Elisha grabbed the matches and growled. Belle shook her head and laughed. “You’re welcome, you old coot!”

As she disappeared back into the kitchen, George looked around the otherwise empty diner. Elisha tucked the stem of the pipe between his lips and gripped it with his teeth. He carefully struck a match and lowered it to the tobacco. He gave another grunt, this time of satisfaction, as plumes of smoke began to billow out on either side of the pipe.

He puffed away in silence for a few minutes. George, long accustomed to Elisha’s thoughtful brooding, looked back at the newspaper article again, squinting at the smudged text. He gave it up after a while and let his eyes roam around the diner. Dusty photographs of people no one remembered adorned the walls. A veneer of grease and smoke coated the windows overlooking the street. Once-shiny tiles covered the bar, now chipped and faded and dull.

Finally, Elisha broke the silence. “I got that spot back in the woods – y’know, where we used to have our fort?”

George grinned. “I ‘member that fort! You stole the nails we used t’ build it out of ol’ man McDunnow’s barn!”

Elisha chuckled at the memory. “Yeah. He was pipin’ mad when he found that box o’ nails gone. Was a three-dollar box of nails! He never did find out it was me, neither. Rest his soul.” Elisha touched the top of his head as if to lift his hat, which hung on a hook by the door. Then his face turned serious again. “You got the makin’s of a still?”

George cocked his head to the side. “Well, I ‘spect maybe I do. You thinkin’ of breakin’ the law?”

Elisha stood up and brushed the crumbs from his lap. “You just see if you got what we need.” He dug in his pocket and discovered his tobacco, three peppermints, and a toothpick before two dusty dimes and a nickel emerged. At the end of the bar, he pounded his fist, sending two loose tiles skittering to the floor. Belle stuck her head out again and saw Elisha reaching for his hat. Walking to the register, she stumbled a bit, and Elisha caught a whiff of whiskey fighting its way through the perfume. When she saw the coins Elisha placed in her outstretched hand, her eyes widened.

“A nickel tip? Why, ain’t you in a right generous mood, Mr. Elisha?”

Elisha let out a sound that was neither grunt nor cough nor laugh but somehow a combination of all three and stalked out into the early fall’s slanting afternoon sun.

Series
Like

About the Creator

Dawn Harper

Preacher's kid, unrepentant bibliophile, reformed lawyer, aspiring author

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.