Bootleggers' Legacy

George wobbled slightly as he entered the diner. Belle, who had been watching for him, came out from behind the counter.

“Well, come on in and sit down, Mr. George! I jes’ got yer table all cleaned off and ready-like. You got what you said you was gonna bring me?”

George allowed himself to be led to his favorite table. His morning coffee had been liberally doctored with ‘shine, and he was feeling in love with the world. His tongue felt a little loose, too. Grinning goofily at Belle, he said, “I shore do, Miz Belle! I got it right here in my pocket.” He fished around in one side pocket of his overalls and came out with his old beat-up flask. “Naw, not that’un,” he said thoughtfully, reaching for the other pocket. From that one, he pulled a shiny, new flask. “This’un’s fer you, Miz Belle. It bein' 'bout Christmastime, I got you a purdy shiny flask for it.” He handed it to her, and she grabbed it and whisked it out of sight into her apron pocket.

“You gon’ hafta learn to be more… more… You jes’ can’t be lettin’ jes’ anybody see, Mr. George! I heard tell, from some o’ them folks what come through here from Shreveport, that them revenuers from down Baton Rouge way been pokin’ around up here lately,” she scolded. She slipped a dollar bill into a napkin and handed it to him.

“Aw, Belle, ain’t nobody else in here ‘cep you ‘n’ me!” He started to tuck the napkin into his pocket, then stopped and brought it to his nose. “Hoo-wee, I better run this to th’ bank ‘stead o’ takin’ it home! Lispeth’ll have a conniption iffen I come home smellin’ like yore perfume!”

Belle flounced indignantly. “It ain’t that strong, and ‘sides, ain’t gotta be nobody else in here fer somebody t’see you!” She gestured toward the filthy windows that overlooked the street.

George snorted. “Hadn’t nobody been able t’see in them windows since 1904!” He took a bold sip out of his flask to show her how sure he was no one could see him. Sniffing first the flask then the air around him, he made a sour face. “And it is that strong, you drown out th’ smell o’ my whiskey!”

Belle huffed and stormed off into the kitchen. As if on cue, the front door swung open. A flood of bright light and crisp winter air preceded a grizzled old man into the diner. Jim Folson flung his hat at one of the hooks by the door, never looking back to see it sail to the floor. His eyes locked onto George. “Say, there, George, you doin’ alright today?”

There was an odd pitch to his voice that George noticed, but immediately dismissed. He half-stood and touched the top of his head. “Doin’ jes’ fine, Mr. Folson, sir, howsabout y’self?” There was only a fifteen year age difference between the two men, but Jim Folson had been grown and married by the time George learned to talk, so he had always been “Mr. Folson.”

Jim’s gait seemed to stutter a bit as he walked to George’s table. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before George realized he was waiting to be invited to sit down. “Have a seat, iffen y’ hank’rin’ fer one, Mr. Folson.” The older man looked around quickly and pulled out a chair. His hands twitched nervously on the table and George noticed he was sweating, despite the chill in the air.

“George, I was… well, I was wonderin’ if maybe, I mean, if you can, could you… ah, could I get a pint o’ them corn squeezin’s folks been sayin’ you have?”

George frowned. “Now, who’s been sayin’ I got anything like that?”

Jim glanced around again, this time with a somewhat frantic air. “Jes’ folks, George, now, y’got any, or not?”

“Not with me, Mr. Folson,” George sighed. “I gotta run home here in a little bit to take Lispeth some sugar ‘n’ flour, an’ I’ll pick you up a pint whilst I’m there. Now, it’s a dollar a pint. You brang a dollar an’ meet me ’round back o’ here at two o’clock, a’ight?”

A look of immense relief coupled with guilt crossed Jim’s face. George misinterpreted the expression entirely. “Aw, now, Jim, ain’t nuthin’ wrong with a bit o’ th’ drink here ‘n’ there. It’s that crazy law what’s wrong. That damn fool Volstead and these idjits in the legislature. Don’t you worry none, we’ll get ya fixed right up an’ ain’t nobody gon’ be none th’ wiser.”

Jim nodded, then stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his chair and made a beeline for the door, leaving his hat where it had landed in the floor. Belle emerged from the kitchen just in time to see him push twice on the door, remember it opened inward, jerk it open and scurry out. She aimed a quizzical look George’s direction, got a shrug in response, and rolled her eyes.

That afternoon at two, when George rounded the corner of the diner, two men in snake boots and dark dungarees were waiting for him instead of Jim Folson. George turned and tried to run, but the men were faster than he was. They tackled him just as Belle heard the commotion and stuck her head out the diner’s back door. “Belle!” He yelled when he saw her. “Get Junior! Tell ‘im they got me! Th’ revenuers got me!”

Before Belle could answer, the two men hustled George into a wagon and its driver shouted to the team of horses pulling it and took off.

Belle stood there open-mouthed at the corner of the diner for several seconds, watching the cloud of dust disappear down the road. Finally, she turned and walked slowly back toward the door. A movement in the shadows at the end of the alley stopped her in her tracks.

“Who’s there?”

“Just me, Belle.” Jim Folson stepped out into the dusty sunlight. He twisted a grimy kerchief back and forth in his hands and refused to meet Belle’s eye. Belle might never have done well in school or had any real ambitions, but she was a savvy old bird, and in a flash she realized what he was doing there.

“Why, James Mason Folson! Did you have anything to do with them revenuers grabbin’ George?” Jim didn’t answer immediately and Belle stomped her foot hard. “You sorry, no-good, side-windin’, lily-livered, backstabbin’ sneak of a worthless mule’s tit! You jes ’wait ’til Junior finds out – no, you wait til Lispeth finds out! There won’t be nothin’ left for you t’ do ‘sides sneak outta town and hope she don’t catch up with yore flea-bitten hide!” She proceeded to stomp inside the diner and slam the door, then opened it again long enough to yell, “And don’t you even think of steppin’ foot back in this here diner again! Ever!” She slammed the door again, leaving old Jim to slink off home.