The Death and Life of Zebulon Finch, Volume 1

by Daniel Kraus

  PART FIVE

  1919–1931

  Herein The Twenties Cavort And Crash, And Your Hero, Of All People, Is Called Upon To Catch A Killer.

  I.

  WE CROSSED THE ATLANTIC in a repurposed German battleship and in May moored at the city of Newport News, Virginia. Other termini were more common (New York City, Philadelphia, Charleston, and—forgive my shudder—Boston), but this was the straw we drew, and when we stepped upon the dock we girded ourselves for the homecoming that had become part of the military narrative: limp girls ready to be dipped into deep kisses; confetti cast from above; high school bands muddling through nationalistic atonalities; and a slow ride down Main Street in a roofless auto.

  But the nation, poor thing, was tuckered out from parades. The only welcoming parties were those gathered to reclaim the lost luggage of their households’ males. I knocked through the theatrics and joined across the street those of the Seventh Marine Regiment not yet met by family. We numbered seven, including Jason Stavros, who had wired his Utah kin that he was taking the long train home so that he might prepare his diary.

  Their presence placated me. Long past Armistice, these men had made good on Church’s promise to protect me, enacting subterfuge after subterfuge so that I might sidestep dicey administrative hurdles, from physical evaluations to discharge paperwork. Our silences were common and comfortable. Here, though, on American soil, they felt gawky, and we fussed with our packs until a scab-faced grenadier grunted, “Beer?” and we all nodded, grateful that one of us remembered what men did when not busy killing.

  We found a brass rail and put our feet up on it. The saloon was a muddy-floored sewer populated by dockyard slobs, and they bought us round after round while we mishandled basic public behaviors. We spoke too loudly as if over mortar fire; we whispered too softly as if crawling beneath enemy wire; we reacted stoically when what was called for was easy laughter. The mirror behind the bar reflected our panic.

  Thanks go to that scabby grenadier, who again saved the day by mooning at his glass of ale and saying, “Enjoy it, mates, it might be your last.”

  I, of course, could not drink, but felt party to their pain. While our boys had been bayonetting Huns and burying the corpses of their friends, what thank-you gift had America wrapped? Why, they’d bowed a ribbon of legislation called the Eighteenth Amendment, which would soon illegalize intoxicating spirits, and, as long as they were having fun, passed a postscript called the Volstead Act, which would extend the ban to the most harmless of lagers.

  What rabid curs had orchestrated these waylays upon our full-flavored foams? Priggish prudes acting under such disquieting titles as the Anti-Saloon League (horrors!) and the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (I think I shall be sick!). These “Drys” blamed we “Wets” for every social ill under the sun, but let us not be coy. The brewing industry was run by lions of legend named Budweiser and Busch and Schlitz, all of them German—Kaiserites!—and that was reason enough to shut them down. Our nation never asked we who fought the Germans if we also wished to drink their beer. Ja, Reader, ja!

  In the wee hours, we Marines stumbled from the bar as if gutshot. Ever sober, I guided us to a hotel destitute enough to contain such destitute hearts. Ribaldry ran out as we unrolled sweaty rolls of cash, paid for berths, and then loitered in an ill-lit lobby, embarrassed at night’s end the same as we’d been at the beginning. It was gentle Jason Stavros who dared ask the unasked.

  “Anyone heard from Church?”

  I shuddered at the name. I’d lost him, and it was less painful to let him stay lost.

  The grenadier scratched loose a few scabs.

  “Few of us went to the hospital in Paris,” said he, “but he made us scat.”

  “How was he?” asked a private.

  “Bad.” The grenadier tried to think of a better word but could not.

  “I heard they shipped him back in January,” said Jason Stavros.

  “Here?” asked the private. “Shipped back here?”

  We exchanged looks of terror. What if Burt Churchwell was right here in Newport News? We’d be honor-bound to track him down and lay our frightened eyes upon what was left. My own slow corrosion I could stomach, but strong, proud Church’s abrupt one? I did not believe I could withstand it.

  “Nah,” said Jason Stavros. “New York. He’s back in Iowa by now, for sure.”

  We sighed in relief. Iowa was farther away than Europe, Japan, and the North Pole combined. Backslaps were manufactured, goodnight adieus delivered, and promises made to breakfast together and exchange addresses in the morning. I nodded agreement, and they, my steadfast chums, were good enough to play along; surely they’d noticed that I hadn’t paid for a room. These fine men had more than fulfilled their duty in regard to Private Zebulon Finch.

  At ease, boys, thought I.

  Dawn found me on a southbound train. Marine garb does wonders for a traveler and I was given every deference. Two days later I was back in Xenion, Georgia, the only real home I’d ever known. The lane to Sweetgum brought me solace. There was the ivy-strangled pergola, the Roman columns, the four-paneled front door. Best of all were the plentiful patches of white cotton scattered across the field. At last, Sweetgum was returning to life.

  I proceeded no farther than the front gate. Those patches of white were not cotton—not even close. They were paper surgical masks, the kind worn by every American back home suffering through the Spanish Influenza Pandemic of 1918–1919, which, before it had dried up, had killed more Yanks than the Germans and with no more fanfare than a quick bedtime smothering. Why so many of these masks here at Sweetgum? No sooner had I posed to myself the question than I surmised the dreadful answer.

  I slunk back into town, found a neglected tavern, and gestured for a drink; I required a glass to grip if I were to make it through the next few minutes. The bartender curled his lip and offered me a milk. A milk! I presumed he believed me underage before I noticed there was not a barrel of beer nor bottle of spirits on the premises. The South was overstocked with Christian zealots—just ask ol’ Mr. Stick—and it looked as though all worthwhile beverages had been hauled off to the stockroom of that lucky son-of-a-bitch Saint Peter.

  The man planted before me the glass of milk. He looked as disgusted as I, so I capitalized upon our shared dysphoria.

  “What happened out at Sweetgum?”

  The bartender smirked at my aristocratic accent.

  “Who’s asking? You even know what clan live thereabouts?”

  “Lucy, Nelly, Patsy, Peggy, Polly, Susannah, and the honorable Mrs. Joseph Thomas Hazard.”

  It was a convincing enough reply. The bartender swiped up his towel and searched for something to wipe clean, but again, there were no barrels, no bottles, nothing upon which dust might settle.

  “Tell you what. Them ladies are saints. The flu hit, there wudn’t room in no hospital for miles, and them ladies opened their home to folk who wudn’t kith or kin. Took care of my Adelaide, too, and brung her through the worst of it. She got a cough now here to stay and she can’t see right no more, but she’s alive, ain’t she? Them Hazard ladies did that.”

  “Did they . . . ?”

  “Die? Four of them did. It’s a awful thing. But how many like my Adelaide lived because of them? A hundred? That’s a debt no one round here can pay.”

  Four of the seven gone. Which four? No, I could not bear to know! I pushed aside my milk, slapped some money to the counter, and stood.

  “Look here, son,” said the bartender. “I got me some gin ’neath the floor. Sit down, I’ll pour you one on the house.”

  I waved him off, exited, and blundered around the back. Trash bins blocked my way; I kicked them over and out spilled more whiteness—masks or milk, both were ill omens. Farther back was an outmoded privy that still stank from regular use. I sat in the scrub-grass with my back to the whorled wood, as much in s
orrow for the good sisters of Sweetgum as for myself, alone again, evermore.

  Hours passed before I heard the voices. They rose from behind the rusted hulk of a junked automobile fifty feet up the hill. Unwilling to field human contact, I crouched behind a bank of tall weeds and watched two Negroes, biceps bulging beneath large crates, head toward the tavern. The first was old and bearded and the second no older than thirteen. They entered the tavern through a back door and minutes later emerged with empty arms but thick pockets.

  “Ain’t our fault some a’ them bottles gone missing,” grumbled the kid.

  “Boss Man gonna have our necks when he hear—”

  “Well, what do he expect? You give a man a car full a’ shine, he gonna drink some, ain’t he? It just be human nature.”

  “You know I don’t drink a damn drop. Boss Man count every bottle.”

  “Me neither, Paw-Paw.” The kid grinned. “Not while we working anyways.”

  Moonshiners! They ran thick as ticks in agrarian Georgia, or so I’d heard; even the Hazard sisters had indulged in fiery backwoods bootleg on occasion. With Prohibition about to squeeze the last drops from a long-liquored nation, an empyrean age had arrived for these black marketeers. Their cauldrons would bubble at accelerated rates and their desperado dealings could become legend, if they employed the right kind of scofflaw with the right kind of disregard for personal safety. Now, let’s see—did I know anyone who fit that description?

  I rose from the weeds, tipped my cap.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said I. “My name is Zebulon Finch.”

  The duo, believe it or not, was not overjoyed to meet me. Their first instinct was to run; their second instinct, upon seeing my Marine emblem, was to fix in place in fear of being fired at; their third instinct, the prevailing one, was to draw into a crouch of defense or retreat, whatever my next action provoked. To put them at ease, I smiled, though I expect it was unconvincing. I could not pretend to be comfortable around their kind.

  “Forgive the intrusion. But I overheard remarks regarding troubles in moving your moonshine.”

  “Ain’t no one said nothing about no shine, mister,” muttered the kid.

  Paw-Paw snatched his grandson by the overalls. “We’ll just be going about our way, sir.”

  “Discussion of your work is verboten, I realize, but might we suspend the taboo here in private? I believe I am uniquely suited to your profession. Briefly, my qualifications: One, I have no affection for the Anti-Whiskey Bunch or the League of Upset Ladies or what-have-you. Two, I am discreet, as you can plainly see. Three, I am handy with a gun. Four, you need not fuss over bottle count for I do not drink.”

  The kid possessed a twinkle of nerve I recognized from my own misbegotten youth.

  “What do a man who don’t drink care about selling drink?” asked he.

  “It is a matter of philosophy, I suppose.”

  “Harold,” warned the elder.

  “Hold on, Paw-Paw.” Harold examined me. “You can drive a car?”

  “Drive a car?” I had no idea how to drive a car. “Of course I can drive a car!”

  Paw-Paw glared at Harold.

  “You can’t bring no white boy back to Boss Man!”

  “Think what we could do if we had us a white boy in uniform. You just said we about to lose a runner.”

  A runner?

  My chest nearly burst with pride!

  “Gentlemen,” spoke I, “do forgive the forthcoming boast. But when it comes to running few men upon this Earth are my equal.”

  Five minutes of lavish hyperbole later, I found myself hunkered low in the backseat of a jalopy as it rollicked along bad roads to worse roads to no roads at all. Phone cables crisscrossing overhead gave way to woodland sunshade and the parting curtains of gangly kudzu. The car wheezed to a halt in a dark copse, from which we hiked a trail marked only by the sly placement of white stones at the bases of certain trees. Before I saw it, I smelled it: the bready aroma of rye, the sweet smoke of burnt sugar, the flat caramel of warm whiskey.

  The distillery was an impressive wooden lean-to built against the incline of a hill. Steam mushroomed from steel vats and the ingredients of the trade were stacked high enough to act as walls: sacks of corn, potatoes, and yeast, and crates of corked jugs, pint and quart jars, empty wine bottles, and wide wooden barrels. At least twenty people, most of them women, stirred and tasted and bottled, while a few more sat on tree stumps and sang along to a man strumming a gap-toothed banjo. Every single one of them was colored. Foreboding, indeed, but what was even worse?

  Each one toted a gun.

  Weaponless and pale as I was, I began to postulate that I had made a critical blunder. Before I could escape, Harold, that purposeful whippersnapper, led me by the elbow through clouds of smoke and presented me before a figure who needed no introduction as Boss Man.

  He was forty years of age, unremarkable of height and lean of build, and reclined upon a log bench with hands laced behind his head and shirt unbuttoned to the breeze. His oaken face was channeled by a life spent in the hard sun, but was, at this instant, placid as a sleeping newborn’s. Hair, once dense and black, had grayed and withdrawn, allowing for an angelic golden gleam courtesy of the noonday sun. Nevertheless I recognized the crook at once and my stomach sank like a ship into the sea.

  Boss Man was John Quincy, the corn thief, that secretive, insolent Negro with whom I’d shared a jail cell alongside General Hazard eighteen years before.

  “You!” cried I.

  John Quincy yawned.

  “Boss Man,” said Harold, “this boy here say he want to run for us.”

  I’d once belittled this man to cure my own battered ego. To appear before him as a subject made my cold skin crawl with shame. An obnoxious feeling; I shielded myself with indignation.

  “I withdraw the offer!” declared I. “I would sooner work for the Kaiser!”

  “He say he the best runner ever been,” continued Harold. “But I don’t know. He look pretty regular to me.”

  Though a few workers remained in place to funnel liquid, churn syrup, and waft steam, the bulk of the Negro Militia had drifted close to watch, no doubt with their pink palms to the butts of silver guns.

  “Is it your claim that you don’t remember?” demanded I. “That onslaught upon our jail?”

  “Boss Man been in lots of jails,” crowed Harold.

  “Well, I am not surprised to see that he’s resumed his life of crime.”

  “You can’t talk to the Boss Man like that!” Harold tipped his hat back so I could see his thrust bottom lip. “Ain’t you never heard of Booker T. Washington? Marcus Garvey?”

  “If these are playmates of yours, rude child, I hope never to meet them.”

  “Ain’t you never heard of black pride?”

  “Pride? Oh, Alice, I have joined you, my dear, through the looking glass, into a land where two-bit bandits expect praise for their contemptible thievery.”

  “Yeah, my poppa stole. So? He good at it, mister!”

  “Your poppa? I might have guessed.”

  “Boss Man can steal a hundred dollars worth a’ potatoes while you stand there talking school talk. By the way, mister, I don’t want to meet your friend Alice no more than you want to meet my friend Marcus Garvey.”

  “Seeing how your father is dumb, if not deaf as well, I shall direct my final query to you before taking my leave. What does your group do, then, Boss Boy, with your old man’s stealings?”

  “What do you think? Boss Man seen them Prohibition fools coming a mile off. Pretty soon we be making a hundred gallons a day easy. Look at our alky-cookers. We got the best still in the South. Can’t you see good out them eyes?”

  The quip elicited a scattering of chuckles and I looked over my shoulder. What I saw were endless brown faces beaming with pride at their quick-lipped up
start. Banjo plucking continued undaunted, and the women at the tubs swayed their hips with a wantonness rarely seen beyond bordello walls. I could not help but admire the gyrations.

  The entire still, in fact, was testament to these women’s tart humor. Nailed to the posts were handbills deriding the evils of alcohol (“Progenitor of Folly, Misery, Madness, and Crime!”); medical charts associating each type of spirit with expected Vices, Diseases, and Punishments (“Egg Rums” led to “Gaming, Peevishness,” which led to “Puking, Bloatedness,” which led to “Jail”); and magazine adverts based on doubtable claims (an infant in a high chair paired with the rhyme, “The youngster, ruddy with good cheer, / Serenely sips his Lager Beer”).

  I studied John Quincy.

  “Is this why you stole that corn all those years ago?”

  Harold smacked his forehead.

  “How else you think corn whiskey get made?” He counted off on his fingers. “You has to soak it, sprout it, dry it, grind it, ferment it, distill it. You want to add juniper juice, that up to you. Boss Man got his own recipe. You want a swaller? Naw, you said you don’t drink. Too bad. It’s the best mash since the Plymouth Rock Pilgrims brought theirs over, isn’t that right, Poppa?”

  John Quincy at last showed a tinge of emotion, a slight uplift of lip, before apportioning to me that rarest of his products, his voice.

  “You look the same, Mr. Stick,” said he. “Got the same fight, too. Let’s see how we get on.”

  No further slander crossed my tongue. Try as I might to tap wellsprings of resentment, the Negro’s quiet confidence brought to mind the Soothing Foursome brother who’d lugged my body to the field of honor in 1902 without a word of thanks. To whom else had I to turn? My massacre in the Argonne had burned down Mary Leather’s efforts to build me into a gentleman. A hidden forest cove was where I belonged; running rotgut was the job I deserved. So I gave a curt nod. I’d move his moonshine. Perhaps for only a few days, maybe a full week if I was struck by the urge to grandstand. I’d show John Quincy which one of us was the natural-born sinner.