Asylum Heights

by Austin R. Moody

  He still clung to his argument, “But I didn’t know I had to keep it a secret.” A roar of derisive laughter pelted him in response to this feeble defense. Everyone there had come to this job knowing that they were going to accept, store, and transport strong alcoholic spirits, that it was against the law, and that they could, everyone to the man, go to prison if discovered.

  Glen quickly raised his hands to quiet the noise. He spoke softly when order had been restored, “William, each of us depends upon all the rest of us to protect the sum of us, in order to make a great deal of money for ourselves, our homes and families. I am no different from you or any of the rest. We need a good man such as you, to give his word and bond in order that we all will be protected. That way we can achieve what we came here for, to make it all work, and to leave here with a secure future, without facing the shame of our names by going to prison because of too much talk. Agree with us or sign and leave if you must, but rather stay and help us to succeed.”

  William looked at the congregation of expectant faces. He pondered a moment and simply said, “Well, if that’s the way it is, Glen, then I guess it’s alright, you can count me in.”

  Glen’s logic had won the day. The men in the company stood up in unison with a great round of applause and shouting. At that moment, Glen knew that he had been accepted. He looked at his watch and finally proclaimed, “The time is up.”

  After the last of them had left he stepped down from the podium and quickly walked back to the entrance. Petrous was waiting, holding a writing tablet to provide a signature list of those that would decline further participation in the venture. Glen looked at him. Petrous’ gazed back, waiting for the question he knew that he would be asked.

  “Well, how many signatures do you have?” Glen asked. Petrous began to smile broadly and answered, “None, Boss, not one. They all filed out without looking in my direction one time!”

  Glen smiled back, but Petrous could see that his face expressed total weariness and exhaustion. Glen said, “Let’s rest.”

  Three days later the first truck from Birmingham arrived at the service station and stopped at pump number one. The driver opened the truck cabin door and climbed down. He strolled across the short, graveled distance to the cafe, entered, and ordered breakfast. Concurrently, a service station attendant walked up to the same pump from the maintenance shop in the rear, trying to suppress his nervousness and excitement. He removed the hose valve and with shaking hands unscrewed the cap from the fuel tank. He carefully inserted the nozzle into its neck and squeezed the handle of the valve. In some remote place another motor activated and a clear, yellow liquid began to flow into the empty tank. The fluid reeked of corn whiskey.

  The attendant held the valve compressed and continued to direct the filling until a small amount spilled out upon the ground. He raised his hand, signaling to the waitress behind the counter of the coffee shop. She looked directly at the driver. He had a final sip from his coffee cup and took the ticket from the counter. He walked to the cashier near the entrance and paid his check. A few moments later, the truck started and pulled out onto the highway, heading southwest toward New Orleans.

  A mile beyond the Dothan city limits, the driver noticed a single figure, standing on the edge of the asphalt of Highway 84 South. The pedestrian raised his thumb, pointing in the same direction as that of the truck. The driver immediately recognized Glen Hailes. He applied the brakes and ground to a stop, fifty yards beyond the hitchhiker. Glen ran up to the truck, opened the cab door, and climbed into the passenger’s seat just as the loaded vehicle came to rest beside the road.

  Glen grinned to the driver and said, “Thanks for the lift.”

  The driver laughed and said, “Well, I’ll be damned!” Then the operator depressed the clutch and shifted into first gear. The truck started, regained the highway and moved south once more. After a while, the driver turned to continue the conversation, only to discover that his erstwhile passenger had already passed into sleep. There was no traffic and the driver once more experienced the lonely emptiness of the dimly lighted, uninterrupted thread of blackness ahead. He was well rested and did not falter.

  Glen would not awaken until the outskirts of Mobile, Alabama. He opened his eyes but did not stir. His first thought was of Sybil. He would never go to her house again uninvited. Sal had brought them together, and Glen knew that he would reunite them if there were any possibility of reconciliation. He continued to remain silent hoping that he would return to sleep. After a time he succumbed once more to the hum of the engine and the quiet road. Two hours later Glen opened his eyes once more as the truck began to slow and finally, brake and stop. It too signified the first red signal light, the entrance to the City of New Orleans. He sat upright, stared out the window, and watched the moving panorama of the lights of the city. Forty minutes later they arrived at the body shop and pulled into its protective shelter to his greatly anticipated reunion with Sal.

  Sal was waiting, smiling as the big truck crept into the brilliantly lighted bay.

  When fully inside, the driver stopped the truck, shifted into low gear, turned the ignition switch and killed the engine, then pulled the parking break up into the locked position. The overhead entrance door swung down quickly, extinguishing the glare that had flooded out upon the street.

  Sal opened Glen’s door, reached into the cab and extracted Glen bodily from the seat of the truck, pulling him down to the concrete floor. Sal embraced Glen then kissed both of his cheeks and proclaimed, “You did it! You really did it! All the boys up there told me you did it!”

  Glen straightened, smiled, reached out and took Sal’s hand then he said, “Thanks, I’m very glad to see you.”

  He paused, and then continued, “Of far greater importance, I have a little present for you. It’s in the truck. I brought two fruit jars from home. Give everyone the rest of the night off. After everybody is gone we’ll take a little sample from the first tank. It is the first trickle that will soon be a torrent. You are the one that did it Sal, and it is all because of you and for you!”

  Sal smiled then called out to everyone in the shop, “I want each one of you to have a hundred dollar bonus. I remind you that everything you see and do here, remain here. You will have your cash bonus tomorrow after you have cleaned the place, but if you tell what you do here to anyone, I mean ANYONE, YOUR WIFE, YOUR CHILDREN, YOUR MOTHER, FATHER, OR ANYONE ELSE!! Then you must answer to me, or to Glen, your new boss. Now, each of you go home to your family and sleep well, we will have a lot to do tomorrow.”

  Five minutes later, Sal and Glen stood in the empty, quiet shop. Glen went to the passenger’s side of the truck, climbed up on the running board, opened the cab door and extracted a large brown paper bag from the floor beneath the seat. He peeled open the folded top of the bag, removed two full Coca-Cola drink bottles and then extracted two empty, pint sized fruit jars from within. He handed one Coke to Salvatore and removed the cap from one of the remaining jars.

  He reached into his left coat pocket and pulled out a lengthy rubber hose with a metal clamp on one end. He had purchased an enema bag from a drug store in Dothan. He had severed the delivery tube from its juncture with the bag and created a makeshift siphon hose. He grasped, twisted, and removed the cap from the first fuel tank of the truck that contained the precious corn whiskey. He inserted the tip of the hose into the depths of the tank and placed the other end into his mouth.

  He began sucking on the hose, applying gentle negative pressure, holding the first fruit jar with his remaining hand below the level of the tank. Suddenly his tongue experienced the wetness, then the heat of the raw alcohol that filled his mouth. He didn’t spit it out. This stuff was too good and it cost too much. He quickly transferred the dripping end of the hose from his mouth into the depths of the fruit jar. The whiskey continued to flow smoothly into the empty vessel. Glen watched as it slowly and quietly filled the container. When it was one third full, he reached for the remaining jar and quickly tr
ansferred the draining end of the hose into its interior. When it had also filled to one third of its capacity, he clamped off the metal valve switch and handed the now partially filled second jar to Salvatore.

  Glen then reached into his back pocket and withdrew another modest sized drinking flask. He carefully opened its top and poured enough clear liquid into each glass to fill them to two thirds full.

  Glen retrieved the Coca-Cola bottle and removed the cap with a bottle opener, then poured it into the whiskey until the mixture reached the top of the jar. He then filled his own, and offered it up in a toast. Their jars touched, but as they lifted their glasses to take a swallow of the newly concocted mixed drink, Sal held up his hand and interrupted the proceedings.

  He questioned, “Wait a minute. Before we take a sip of this stuff, I want to know what you added to the glass besides the Coke,”

  Glen laughed, “It’s water, distilled water.”

  Sal’s face turned crimson red with anger and exclaimed, “You cut the stuff. Everyone will know that it isn’t as strong. They will know they are being cheated. Why in hell did you do anything as stupid as that?”

  Glen was not shaken at this response and explained, “This is a process called ‘proofing,’ in which the concentration of the pure alcohol is reduced by the distilled water.

  I also added a half-pint of top drawer Tennessee bourbon to every gallon of the ‘stilled lightnin.’ It is half as raw; it’s easier and much more tasteful to drink. There is much less burning and sizzling on the customer’s tongue and it mellows the introduction to the flavor. The kick takes a little longer and is much gentler, but the taste is there from the beginning. The men will like it. The ladies will love it. We are not going to cheat them, because we will label each bottle, ‘100 proof.’

  This is a standard throughout the strong spirits industry of the entire world. Pure distilled liquor is accepted as 200 proof. We will simply add onto the label, ‘This bottle contains fifty percent alcohol by volume’, and instead of $5.95 a half pint it will only cost them $3.95. You will also double your yield from 3200 units to 6400, and your gross profit from $19,200.00 to $25,600.00.”

  Glen pressed on, “I got the bourbon from a bellman that I’ve known all my life. He works up in Memphis at the Peabody Hotel. I paid him four hundred and fifty dollars and he sent me a 50-gallon keg from his uncle up in the mountains near Leesburg. He told me that he could deliver up to 100 gallons a month at that price.” Glen extended his jar out to Sal and said, “Try it.”

  Sal glowered, fumed and muttered, “This stuff had better be good!” He then brought the rim of the fruit jar to his lips and tentatively sampled a first tiny draught, rolling the liquor about on his tongue. The effects of the excellent bourbon, the distilled water, and the cola indeed softened and rounded the taste of the whiskey, imparting a smoother and less irritating effect on the mouth and palate. He swallowed it and presently felt the warmth of the ethanol in his stomach.

  Glen took a long swig himself. He carefully observed Sal’s facial expression, his reaction to the beverage. They continued to drink in silence, but Sal did not hide his satisfaction.

  Finally, Sal said, “I must admit that you’re right about the flavor, the smoothness. I like this taste better and not getting my mouth burned every time I want to feel good. In fact, I’m beginning to feel pretty good right now. Let’s make a run back down into the French Quarter and continue the party.”

  Glen shook his head and declined, “Sal, I am just too tired to be any fun tonight. Just give me a ride to the Chartreuse. I called ahead from Dothan and guaranteed my reservation. We have a lot of planning and work ahead, and I will need my best and clearest concentration tomorrow.”

  Sal replied, “That’s fine, but I will hold your marker for the party next time.”

  They both emptied the contents of their jars. Sal turned out the lights of the shop’s interior and raised the overhead exit door. Glen followed Sal out into the evening and climbed into the door to the passenger’s side of his car. A few minutes later he got out in front of the Chartreuse Hotel, and checked in.

  He was awakened early the following morning by the hotel bellman knocking on his door. He called out, “Mr. Hailes, you have a telephone call.” Glen thanked him, dressed quickly, and hurried to the telephone booth in the lobby. He lifted the receiver.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  BELLE TERRE

  Sal greeted him, “Good morning, Genius. You are going to make us rich. My driver will be out front of the hotel in thirty minutes, he is going to take you for a drive. I won’t say where, but I think you’re going to like it.”

  Glen laughed and responded, “Good morning Genius, yourself. We are going to make us both rich.”

  He continued on, “With respect to my little trip, anything that you do for me is spectacular, so bring your driver on.”

  After twenty minutes, Glen stepped across the quiet hotel lobby, passed through the revolving entrance door, and stood at the curb. Paradoxically, the January morning was filled with bright sunshine. There were no clouds and the temperature was warm as springtime. Shortly thereafter Sal’s limousine pulled up. The liveried chauffeur emerged and briskly rounded the rear of the car. He stood at attention and opened the passenger’s door for Glen to enter.

  A few minutes later they turned onto Canal Street and proceeded east to the river landing. The driver made no attempt to make light conversation; rather, he remained silent and apparently focused on his duty to deliver his charge safely to his pre-assigned destination.

  A ferry pressed into its slip in front of the car and the entrance barrier was lowered. The chauffeur maneuvered the large automobile onto the floor of the vessel, locked its brakes, and turned off the ignition. The remainder of the waiting vehicles followed until all were securely on board. The captain raised the barricade once more then cut the power on the engines. He turned and walked to another set of controls at the opposite end of the wheelhouse. The ferry began to drift away from the landing. What had been the front, or stem of the vessel would now become the rear, or stern. Two drive shafts and propellers were situated on each end, obviating the need to turn the barge around for each trip across the river. He shifted the gears to transfer the engine power to the second set of drive shafts and propellers and advanced the throttles. The ferry moved forward in the opposite direction, accelerating toward the landing across the river.

  Glen could not resist the temptation to get out of the car and to stand along the gunwales of the ferry, hearing the steady sound of the engines as they drove through the gentle chop of the river’s surface. He felt the soft spray of the water upon his face as the hull plowed along through the murky, red clay silt of the Mississippi.

  Almost a mile across; it brought rich, nutritious fertility to the delta swamps and bayous beyond. Having done so for a millennia, it now provided a recompense for property and human losses that the South had suffered during the war and that Providence had seemingly exacted in retribution from the triumphant sister-states to the north. Too quickly, the ferry began its approach and impaled upon the landing of the eastern shore. The limousine was the first to leave the ferry, moving onto the highway and accelerating along the narrow blacktopped road toward the plantations of southern Louisiana.

  There was little traffic as they passed through marsh country, with stands of sorghum, ribbon cane and cotton crops, and tiny, identical rows of gray, wood battened sharecropper houses with corrugated tin roofs. Occasionally, Glen could see the mansions sequestered within the deep shadows at the end of heavy oak and pine tree lined entry roads. These were the survivors of the finale of the great civil strife, with huge white, ornately chiseled columns and crests, providing sunshade and shelter to the gray painted porches below. He never saw anyone, only the exquisitely manicured green lawns and the garnishing flora and fauna of the quiet, luxuriant, easy life of wealth and power.

  He thought of home and felt the same disparity of position that the croppers must have
known and felt. The only difference was that he had the key, the bridge, the ladder to ascend from the mire of all of their lives. He knew, as he sped along in the chauffeur driven limousine that he was going to use it. Forty minutes later, the limousine slowed then turned to a broad asphalt lane.

  The entrance to the estate was guarded by a pair of black cast iron stallions that was reared up on granite pedestals. Their destination, “BELLE TERRE,” was inscribed upon a bronze plate attached to the base of each of these mirror images. They proceeded slowly down the little lane between white wooden fences until they reached the final gateway entrance to the magnificent old ante-bellum estate. Three gardeners worked silently and did not look up as the car pulled into the main driveway. The chauffeur got out and went to the front door on the porch. He touched a button and Glen could hear the distant melodious sound of bells announcing their arrival. Shortly thereafter the big door opened and a uniformed butler stepped out onto the darkened porch.

  The two conversed quietly for several moments, and the butler cast one surreptitious glance at the occupant that was seated in the rear of the automobile but did not smile nor show any evidence of recognition of the new guest. He quickly returned to the depths of the house.

  The driver came back to the car, opened the rear passenger’s door, and Glen got out into the bright morning sunshine. As he began to stretch from the extended ride, the main front door opened once more and Salvatore Palermo bounded from the house. He called out to Glen, “Paesano! Vengamente!”

  Glen had no idea what the words meant, but he could tell that they evoked warmth and genuine gladness that he was there for whatever purpose. The reason didn’t really matter at the moment and he was very pleased at Sal’s obvious demonstration of genuine affection and welcome.

  Feigning confusion, Glen looked about to see if someone else was there, then he looked at Sal, pointed to his own chest and inquired, “Me?”