Asylum Heights

by Austin R. Moody

  Papa mused, “You’d think the boys came from Belfast.”

  Jordan looked at his watch and said, “I have to get back to the bank. Just be careful and we’ll settle up when you get home from your trip.” Then he climbed back onto Chicago and rode north again. Now they had the final blueprint, the plan that would bring all of their efforts, their hopes, suffering, and waiting to fruition. Glen was ready to go to New Orleans.

  After the noontime visit with Jordan Peltier, Glen returned home and slept until 4:00 p.m. that evening on May 22, 1931. He got up, dressed and ate a brief meal.

  Glen checked over the vehicle that would bring them the fortune that they had worked so hard to achieve. Finally ready, he took his mother in his arms, kissed her, and then looked at his father.

  Papa said, “Good hunting, son. Just bring more than game birds in your bag from the big city when you come home.”

  Glen started the truck and put it into gear to embark upon his newest adventure in this most unusual odyssey. The dependable old Model A Ford moved south from home, laden with bottles of the wine that Papa Hailes and Glen had so carefully crafted. The Ford had not faltered in the delivery that meant so much to them all. Glen encountered no difficulties with the wine cargo or the law.

  Uncle Glen arrived in a warm and covering pervasion of fog along the wharf district of the French Quarter by 3:00 a.m. on the morning of May 23, 1931. At the intersection of Canal with Royal and Carondolet Street, a pair of headlights responded to his arrival. Uncle Glen knew that it was Salvatore Palermo, and he knew that soon he would receive more money than neither he nor Papa Hailes had ever dreamed of nor hoped for, that is, if his newly acquired customer was not preparing to kill him and make away with all of the wine and keep the money in the process.

  Uncle Glen reasoned, “Now, why would he want to kill me and lose a source of something that almost everyone in New Orleans wants and needs to enjoy at almost any price that Sal would want to charge?” He grinned into the darkness, shut off his lights then quickly turned them on again. The other car started and began to move in his direction.

  As the proceeding automobile approached, the driver turned and stopped directly in front of the Model A. The driver turned off the engine and extinguished the headlights. One of the men on the back seat then emerged from the car followed by all of the remaining occupants, six in addition to him. The others remained beside the car and the man walked up alone and tapped on the window on the driver’s side of the Model A. Uncle Glen rolled down the window and simply inquired, “Yes?”

  Salvatore Palermo grinned and asked, “Did you have a good trip?”

  Uncle Glen grinned back and replied, “Yes.”

  “Anything get hurt along the way?” Sal asked.

  “No.” Glen assured.

  “Follow me, but not too close.” Sal instructed.

  “Where are we going?” Glen responded, at first puzzled, then becoming apprehensive.

  Sal explained, “We are going back to Mississippi to make the swap because our lawyers told us to do so. We don’t want to stand around here all night. Besides, we have a party to get to in the Quarter and you are going you need your sleep.”

  Glen was now incensed at this lack of hospitality. He said, “I have the wine. Just don’t lose me.”

  Sal turned, motioned to the rest of his companions and got into his vehicle. The driver started the engine and pulled forward. Glen pulled behind him and allowed him to move ahead. He dimmed his lights and followed at a reasonable distance, knowing that he was embarking upon one of the greatest moments of his life that would result either in great comfort and style or in a sudden abrupt terminus of life itself.

  In either event, the ultimate answer would be quick, pointed, and would no longer protract an existence of poverty, want, despair, and futility. He could expect either a new life of security, excitement and adventure, or a very protracted period of immeasurable quietude.

  The car ahead turned out into very scant traffic. After a series of turns, the two automobiles moved onto a highway. Uncle Glen noticed a sign indicating that they had entered U.S. 90 heading eastward toward the Louisiana and Mississippi Gulf Coast. The fog became ever denser as they increased their speed. Uncle Glen pressed his accelerator to prevent the tiny red rear lights ahead from disappearing as they began to flicker with intervening wisps of vapor.

  After thirty minutes, Uncle Glen was having enough. The early morning haze had already quickly ingested the lights of New Orleans, and nothing lay ahead but darkness and uncertainty. He moved forward more rapidly until he approached the lead vehicle almost touching its rear bumper. Then he pressed the switch in the center of his steering wheel. The horn let forth a protracted, high pitched, though somewhat melodious and sustained announcement to his newly acquired and somewhat tenuous companions before him. They did not slow down nor stop, but continued on their journey oblivious to the obvious determination of their follower to end this pursuit.

  Uncle Glen measured off one more mile upon his odometer, and then he slowed and eased off to the side of the road and stopped. He pulled the old Ford about into a 180 degree turn into the other lane that would take him back to New Orleans, He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a pistol, an old Colt six-shot revolver that had been loaded for just such an occasion. He felt comforted and placed the gun upon his lap. He then slowed down and waited for any sign of headlights approaching now from his rear. He didn’t have long to wait. He saw his obviously agitated customers in his rear view mirror, approaching at bristling speed, their irritation almost manifest in the rate and intensity of their pursuit. Scared to death, Uncle Glen continued his slow and steady return toward New Orleans.

  If one died now in this early morning lonely enshrouded cold and empty place, then surely there would be two. One of them would be Salvatore Palermo. They overtook him and pulled into the passing lane rapidly accelerated and abruptly turned in front of the Ford, forcing Uncle Glen to brake, decelerate and come to a halt on the side of the road.

  Uncle Glen managed to laugh within himself and waited for Sal and friends to get out of their car and make their next move. Interestingly, they didn’t open their doors and get out. This was not quite what Uncle Glen had expected. He bent forward beneath the steering wheel and the dashboard of the car honestly expecting and anticipating a barrage of bullets at any moment.

  Then he thought again, “Surely they won’t shoot up the whole car. Why break every bottle of hooch they came out here for?” He sat back up erect in the driver’s seat. The silence persisted for what Uncle Glen felt was an eternity. After several minutes, however, Sal got out of the car alone once more and walked toward the Ford with a flashlight. He shone its light directly into Uncle Glen’s face. He tapped on the window again. Uncle Glen slowly turned the crank, lowering the window to hear what Sal had to say.

  “What are you doing? Are you trying to be funny? Do you think we have all night?”

  Uncle Glen steadily returned Sal’s angry, blistering and furious gaze without any show of hostility, looking straight into his eyes without wavering. He held the Colt pistol with his right index finger inserted into the trigger guard, his sensitive fingertip resting upon the trigger itself. The distal phalanx of his thumb caressed the burled arch of the trigger’s hammer. The muzzle of the barrel lay within a half-inch of the interior lining of the door on the driver’s side not six inches from Salvatore’s abdomen that pressed against the other side of the door.

  He simply replied, “I have brought a great amount of wine down here for you to try. I want you to smell it and taste it, and then decide if you want to buy it or not. I’m not selling just one or two bottles of it; not just one case. I want you to buy it all or none of it.”

  Salvatore said, “I want to take a good look at your balls. They gotta be big, real, real big. I want to see if they are as big as your mouth.”

  Despite his terror, Uncle Glen stuck the Colt into his right back pocket, opened the door of the Ford,
got out of the car and stood erect, and then he unbuttoned his pants and extracted his genitals, displaying the entire collection of his jewels and looked directly at his adversary.

  “Kiss ‘em if you want, but you’ll have to pay in advance.”

  Two things Sal liked about this simple, honestly dishonest, bucolic, backwater farm boy, who within the last two hours had become more than just a man, but had readily proved to be one with love, loyalty and fidelity to his family above his own life. That was something Salvatore Palermo could understand and respect.

  Salvatore’s visage ameliorated. “The contact man in Quitman said the price is $6.50 a fifth. That’s more than most men earn in a week’s work. This better be damn good stuff. I trust the guy’s taste and judgment, but you just show me what you’ve got here.”

  Glen looked directly at Sal then at the men seated within the Packard. He got back into the Ford, reached beneath the seat and extracted a dark bottle. He deftly reached into the glove compartment and produced a corkscrew, and quickly opened the contents. He removed a whiskey jigger from the compartment and poured a generous dram from the wine bottle then handed it almost reverently to Sal for tasting.

  Sal took his flashlight and positioned the light to pierce the liquid within the glass. Sal noted its clarity and its deep ruby garnet color. He inhaled its odor slowly and thoughtfully. He exhaled, then lifted the jigger to his lips and touched the wine with the tip of his tongue. He rolled a bit of it around in his mouth and spat it out upon the ground.

  Glen thought that he was rejecting the wine, but then Sal took another substantial draught from the glass, thoroughly swished it around upon his tongue and palate, and then swallowed. Sal exhaled with satisfaction. “Where on earth did you get these grapes?” he exclaimed.

  “From our vineyard,” Glen replied.

  “Did you make the wine yourself?” Sal continued after another generous swallow.

  “My father and I made it.” Uncle Glen certified.

  “How many bottles do you have here and how much can you deliver?” Sal’s interest had by now become much more intense.

  “O.k. boys, let’s unload the truck and stack it into the Packard. We’ll count it out as we move it and I’ll pay him off. I can use a drink. It’s been a long night and I want to get the hell out of here.”

  Uncle Glen intervened, “Before you go to all the trouble of moving from one car to the other, I want to get a count of the bottles and then get paid. Then I’ll stay here and help you until they are all in your trunk.” He reached and felt his right buttocks for the reassurance of the gun. He got out and once more joined Sal and one of his men. They counted and Uncle Glen verified every bottle that was removed and watched as they were carefully stacked into the Packard. When the Model A was entirely empty, they multiplied the number of bottles removed by $6.50 per bottle.

  93 bottles x $6.50/bottle = $596.50!!!

  Uncle Glen got back in the car and sensed the pleasure of the sublime delight and exhilaration that must have been experienced by the victor of a titanic confrontation such as the leader of a conquering army or a world class prize fighter standing with raised gloved fists over a vanquished opponent, or a bullfighter at the head of a dying beast whose horns had narrowly missed eviscerating the matador, a maneuver that would have left the man to die instead of the bull, his moribund opponent. To his credit, Uncle Glen maintained his composure. He then reached into his left back pocket and produced a wallet. He dug into his right front pocket and found several coins of change. He counted out fifty cents. Then he opened his wallet and retracted three one dollar bills. He sat and motioned to Salvatore.

  “I’ll take six one hundred dollar bills, or thirty twenties, sixty tens or six hundred ones,” He spoke quietly and without any indication of the violent, adrenergic storm raging within himself. “When you come up with it, I already have your $3.50 in change right here in the palm of my hand. That is, if you don’t pay me with the ones.”

  Sal said, “I’ve got your cash.” He leaned forward across the window of the roadster in close approximation to Glen’s left ear and whispered, “If you get out of the wine business I want you to come to work for me.” Then after a moment’s further consideration, Sal added, “Just don’t get out of the wine business.”

  In one almost predestined moment, Uncle Glen sealed his own security and that of his family for as long as they did business in New Orleans and all of south Louisiana. He turned his head toward Salvatore Palermo and simply stated, “If you like our wine and you feel our price is fair, then we won’t sell to anyone else just so long as you give us payment in cash and right at the time of delivery, you don’t let any of your competition get in the way of our deal and don’t let them bother us here in New Orleans, back home in Mississippi, or anywhere else that could stop us from taking care of your needs.”

  Without a moment’s thought Salvatore stated solemnly, “If you will deliver on time and don’t try to jack us around with the price then you have my word that no one will ever give you any problems in Mississippi, Slidell, or anywhere else for that matter.”

  Slidell, Louisiana is the gateway city just beneath the Mississippi/Louisiana state line, sitting near the northern shore of Lake Ponchartrain. It enjoys the cleanliness and the fragrance of the great forest of long-leaf pines, comprising one of the true pearls of the South and whose brackish coast is a sanctuary to a host of seafood, especially the finest soft shell crabs and their more mature and armored brothers, the blue crab residents of the Gulf of Mexico.

  Uncle Glen extended his right hand through the window, took the proffered fist of Salvatore Palermo, containing three hundred dollar bills, ten twenties and one hundred dollars in tens and a permanent bond was sealed at that moment. This contract that was entered without reduction to neither paper nor certification by any notary was never broken between them for as long as they both would live.

  It remains unclear whether the agreement so bound was sustained through an abiding commitment to their mutual honor or to the brevity of their longevity. Sal had enjoyed Uncle Glen’s company. He suggested that Uncle Glen come back into New Orleans right then, and get a hotel room, and come and celebrate the night in the French Quarter.

  Uncle Glen courteously deferred. “I’m too close to Mississippi. I think I’ll run on back home before it gets daylight. I’ve got to pull off another batch and bottle it up for you boys within the next couple of days.”

  To Uncle Glen’s considerable surprise, Sal said, "No. Don’t move too much down here too fast. The law is always on the lookout for a pattern. The next thing you know they’ll jump you and instead of having a good time with us you’ll be breaking your ass in prison.”

  Uncle Glen hadn’t given too much thought about the consequences of getting caught by the law for this enterprise. He certainly knew the implications of being convicted and committed to what, by all reports from that prison’s alumni, their loved ones, and dependents, was a consignment to hell on earth.

  Parchman Farm was the crown, the icon of the Mississippi penal system of corrective institutions. Its shadow fell with a sinister chill upon every petty thief and career criminal throughout the state and indeed the entire South. Its eerie mantra spawned an image, an apprehension, and engendered paranoia of ultimate, agonizing retribution for the perpetrators of felonious acts and sins.

  This fear was so deeply ingrained into the lawbreakers of Mississippi that almost every citizen was able to leave his house unlocked upon his departure for a day, a week, or even a month without fear of burglary, vandalism, or even simple trespass. Robbery and all but some crimes of passion were almost non-existent. There had been no equal of punishment, easily from the dark ages and perhaps even antecedent to those terrible days of criminal rectitude.

  Uncle Glen agreed, “I see what you mean. I’ll get in touch with you in two weeks and then we can figure when and how I set it up to bring you the next delivery.”

  Salvatore shouted after Uncle Glen as he pulled out
onto the highway in the now empty Model A Ford, “Don’t drive too fast and take your time. Above all, be careful.”

  The only thing Glen heard over the noise of the car was a few guttural incantations that quickly faded behind him. And now, as he progressed eastward and to the north, the only thing Uncle Glen could think of, indeed, even feel at that moment was a bulging wad of legal tender bills that he had rolled up and that were caressing his right outer thigh. It was his first installment in satisfaction of that near oath that he had made to himself that day, long ago on the street behind the Pantaz Drugstore in Quitman, and nothing had ever felt or tasted sweeter than what he was experiencing at this exact moment.

  He drove into Slidell just as the sun began to pierce the cloud laden sky above the trees that signified his return toward home and to a waiting Papa Hailes. Uncle Glen pulled into the yard shortly before 11:00 in the morning.

  Papa was sitting on the steps of the front porch and quickly stood up. He advanced to the car and placed his left foot on the running board as Glen killed the ignition. Papa stared intensely into his son’s eyes. “Are you alright?” Papa asked.

  Glen didn’t say anything at first, just sat there as though preoccupied within himself, with some abstract introspection.

  “Glen?” Papa asked again, now concerned that he really might not be alright, but rather deeply disturbed. His intrusion into his son’s distraction was rewarded by the broad smile of Uncle Glen. He turned his face to his father, reached deep into his right pocket, grasped the huge wad of bills resting there, and displayed them directly under Papa’s nose. Then he summoned and emitted a primal scream, a noise produced by the southern civil warrior, often the last sound that a northern brother or the confederate himself would know before he died. It was a rebel yell.

  Incredulous, Papa took the bills and began to count the money. Uncle Glen didn’t say another word. He climbed out of the car, went inside the house, and got into bed. He was asleep quickly, before Papa could intervene and question him about what had occurred during the previous night, the wine, the money, and the events that had precipitated this most unusual and unique response to his simple question. He saw his son’s motionless body upon his bed; Papa touched his face then turned and quietly walked from the room.