Whom Gods Destroy

by Clifton Adams

  He drove north from town, where the new residential district had grown away from the river. I expected him to let Vida off at some apartment house, because it looked like that kind of setup to me. It shook me when he pulled up in the driveway beside a rambling new brick house. And it dawned on me then that Vida was his wife. A dumb guy like that with a new car, a big house, and a wife like Vida. God!

  But maybe he wasn't so dumb at that, because he could see what was going on in my mind after we let Vida out and started back toward town.

  “Not bad for a Burk Street boy, huh?” he said, grinning.

  “That's just what I was thinking.”

  “You don't look bad yourself, Roy. You look like you've been doing all right.”

  I thanked God then that I had one good suit. “I can't complain,” I said, and hoped Sid would let it go at that for now.

  Then he pulled the convertible into a side street and began to check a list of names that he'd taken out of his breast pocket.

  “What's this?” I said.

  He looked kind of puzzled. Then he laughed. “Hell, I keep forgetting you've been away. But, with your old man and all, I guess election day doesn't mean anything to you. This,” he explained, nodding at his list of names, “is a list of every good church-going voter in this precinct, and it's my job to see that they get to the polls and vote.”

  “Vote for what?”

  “For prohibition,” he grinned. “Boy, you've got a little bit of catching up to do! Look, how do you think I can afford these things I've got? By working in a salvage shop on Burk Street? Hell, no! I can afford them because I'm a bootlegger.”

  That jarred me for a minute. I'd had the notion that bootlegging had gone out with the Volstead act about twenty years ago. But then I remembered that Oklahoma was one of the two states still hanging on to prohibition, and something about that struck me as being funny. There was no other place in the world, probably, where Sid Gardner could have made a living, but here he was, raking it in.

  I laughed and said, “Well, I'll be damned.”

  “You see now why I've got to work to get these voters to the polls?”

  “Sure, you've got to keep the state dry or you go out of business. But why pick on the church-going voters?”

  He looked at me as though I were feeble-minded. “Why, they're the ones that vote dry.”

  I lay back in Sid's glossy new car and howled, feeling better than I had felt for a long time.

  “Why, hell, I even took Vida down to vote,” he said. “This is hard work. It's impossible to buy a pint of whisky in Big Prairie County today—until the polls close, that is. All us bootleggers are working to get the vote out.”

  That hit me just right and I started laughing again.

  I forgot all about that bus I was supposed to catch. Sid had planted the seed, and now the idea was growing, growing faster than weeds in a rose garden. I knew then that I wasn't going to leave Big Prairie, after all. If Sid could get all this, I could get more. A lot more. And there was one other thing I knew. I would see Lola again. And when I did, I would be ready for her.

  After I made up my mind, Sid couldn't have shaken me even if he had wanted to. But he didn't want to. He wanted to talk about all the old days on Burk Street and the fights we'd had and the football team, and I listened to every word as if it were the Gospel. And in between, we'd pick up the voters and take them to the polls—nobody but church members, the solid citizens of the community.

  Toward the end of the day, I hit Sid with it. I told him I wanted a job working for him.

  At first he didn't think I was serious. “Hell,” he said, “you wouldn't have any kind of job I could give you. The only boys I have working for me are the runners, and you can't make any money at that.”

  “How much?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe seventy-five a week.”

  I wondered what Sid would think if he knew I'd been working fourteen hours a day in hash houses for a hell of a lot less.

  “Seventy-five's all right.”

  When he began to get that careful look I knew I was going too fast. But I'd already laid it on the table, and there didn't seem to be any way of backing up. “Of course,” I said, and tried to look hurt, “if you don't want me, it's all right. There won't be any hard feelings about it. I was doing all right out on the Coast. I've got plenty of contacts out there and I can raise all the money I need any time I want it. I was going back out there, anyway. So if you don't want me, there're no hard feelings. I'm just curious to see how this bootlegging works, that's all.”

  “You figure to go into business for yourself?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. If I decided to do it, I'd go somewhere else. Maybe Oklahoma City or Tulsa. I wouldn't try to horn in on your own business.”

  He thought about it for a long minute, and then he grinned. “Hell, why not?” He did have one idle thought, though, and he said, “It'll take money, if you decide to open up.”

  “I told you money didn't worry me.”

  That decided it for him. He punched me on the shoulder and said, “You're hired, then, if that's the way you want it. I was going to have to put on another runner anyway. When do you want to go to work?”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “You'll have to have a car.”

  “I'll get one tomorrow.”

  We had been cruising around, not heading anyplace in particular. “I've got to get back to the house,” he said, “and pick up Vida. Where can I let you off?”

  “Downtown at one of the hotels will do until I find something better.”

  When he let me out I pumped his hand. “Sid, I want you to know that I appreciate this.”

  “Hell, don't give it a thought.” He was about ready to pull away when an idea hit him. “I just thought of something,” he said. “Some of the boys are getting together tonight to play some poker and listen to the election returns. It wouldn't hurt you to mix with them a little.”

  “That sounds fine. Who are the boys?”

  He grinned. “I'll tell you later. Pick you up at eight in the lobby of the Travelers.”

  The Travelers Hotel was a four-story building on the corner of First and Main, right in the middle of what passed as Big Prairie's downtown section. They gave me a room on the top floor, which was as good as you could expect in a town of that size, and the bellhop hustled around opening windows and turning on lights while I stood at the corner window and looked down at the town.

  “Would there be anything else, sir?” the hop said.

  “What else have you got?”

  “Whisky,” he said and grinned. “Women. About everything.”

  It was quite a town at that. Just for the hell of it, I said, “Bring up some ice and soda and a bottle of Johnny Walker.”

  He was back in about five minutes with the Scotch and mixer. I asked him how much it came to.

  “Twenty dollars, sir.”

  I paid him off and when he left I made myself a drink and stood at the window again, thinking, Geez, twenty dollars for a bottle of whisky! Somebody sure as hell is making money.

  Then I felt myself grinning. I'd finally found a place to grab hold and start climbing, and I didn't care who I knocked down getting to the top. I remembered the old man, and it was almost impossible to believe that he had been buried just that afternoon. But the old man had finally done something to help me, even if he'd had to die to do it. He'd brought me back to Big Prairie.

  Then, out of nowhere it came, that feeling of darkness and queasiness, and I thought, You're forgetting Lola. The future that had only a moment ago been so secure, began to crumble senselessly, just because I had thought her name.

  Forget it, I told myself. It was a kid thing, and all kids get hurt at one time or another, but they get over it. Besides, she probably doesn't even remember you. Not Lola, she had more important things to do than carry grudges against Burk Street nobodies. She had ambition, she had a husband who would probably be governor of the state some day.
Roy Foley?—she wouldn't even remember the name.

  I tried to tell myself that it was coincidence that Lola happened to be the president of the charity that buried the old man. But it was no coincidence. And no accident. You can't put your knife in a man, even accidentally, and then walk away without hating somebody. I remembered something then, and at first I had no idea why a thing like that should bob suddenly to the front of my brain.

  There had been a dog—an ancient, slat-ribbed, crippled hound—that used to lie in the sun beside the sidewalk in front of our house. The dog never bothered anybody. I had passed him a thousand times without thinking about him. And then one day, for no reason at all, I kicked him. I could remember laughing at the way he yelped and jumped up. He couldn't run, because of his crippled leg, so he hobbled around, bewildered and hurt, in a tight, wobbly little circle, and several people gathered around and there was a lot of laughing for a little while. Then suddenly it didn't seem funny any more, and we all stopped laughing and stood there feeling vaguely uncomfortable, and not knowing exactly why. I could feel them looking at me, and then they all walked away. I looked at the dog and felt sorry for him at first, and I began to get mad at myself for doing such a damn fool thing. But what the hell, he was just a dog, wasn't he? What right did people have to look at me that way just because I'd kicked a goddamn dog? So I kicked him again. Harder this time. You mangy mutt, that'll teach you to keep out of my way! I kicked him every time I saw him after that, and pretty soon he went away. I heard later that he turned mean and somebody finally had to shoot him. I was glad. I'd hated the mutt.

  I made another drink, a strong one this time, and poured it down.

  The whisky helped. It put fire where there had been nothing. After a while the sureness and feeling of strength came back. Think about Sid, I told myself. Nobody kicks Sid around—not even a dumb guy like that—so what are you sweating about? Money is the thing that counts. With enough money, you can handle people like clay; even Lola. And there's money, plenty of it, in bootlegging.

  To hell with Lola. Forget about her.

  I drank to that.

  When the hop got back with my suitcase I got out some clean things and soaked for about thirty minutes in the bathtub. After I finished shaving I gave my suit a brushing and got into it. By the time I was dressed and down in the lobby it was eight o'clock. Sid was just coming in.

  “You ready, boy?”

  His face was redder than usual and I could see that he had been belting his own merchandise. “I'm ready. Where do we go?”

  “Vida's got the car outside.” His grin seemed a little forced. “She's kind of mad, I think. Don't mind Vida if she's kind of mad. Hell, a man's got a right to celebrate on election day, hasn't he?”

  “Sure he has. Let's go.”

  We went out to Fourth Street where Vida had that red convertible parked. She didn't even give us a glance when Sid opened the car door and piled in. She stared straight ahead with her jaw set like a bear trap. “Damn!” she said, as Sid tilted over and almost dumped in her lap. She snapped her head around and said to me, “What's your name again?”

  “Roy Foley.”

  “Roy, you'd better let Sid sit next to the door, just in case.”

  That was fine with me. I elbowed Sid out, then I slid in next to Vida and Sid got in next to the door.

  “Hell, I'm not drunk,” Sid said. “I'm not drunk by a damn shot.”

  Vida slammed the car into gear. “You'd better roll the window down for him,” she said. “Let him get some air.”

  So I rolled the window down and Sid hung his head out for a minute. When he pulled his head inside again he looked as sober as anybody. “I guess I needed some air at that. I feel fine now, though.”

  Without looking at him, Vida said, “Sure. You look fine.” They threw it back and forth for a while, as if I weren't there. While they were at it, I studied Vida.

  She was one of those women who are almost ugly, but with something about them that knocks men flat. She had practically no color in her face except for her mouth, which was painted blood red. Her eyes slanted just a little, or maybe it was the way she made them up. Her hair, almost white, hung as straight as a board and came to her shoulders. She looked as cold as frosted glass-still it was hard to look at anything else.

  She was wearing a thing that was probably called a cocktail dress, but with a fur stole over her shoulders I couldn't tell much about it. After a while she caught me looking at her, so I started paying attention to what was going on in front of the windshield.

  “Look,” I said, when the traffic got heavier, “where are we going, anyway?”

  “Across the river,” Vida said, “to Barney Seaward's place.”

  “Am I supposed to know Barney Seaward?”

  Sid fumbled for a cigarette and seemed to be glad to change the subject. “Barney Seaward is the wholesaler for Big Prairie County,” he said. “He ships the booze in from Texas and spends money in the right places for protection and keeps things running smooth.”

  “He sounds like quite a man.”

  “He's the biggest man in Big Prairie County; and don't forget it. Me, I'm just one of the retailers. There are two of us in Big Prairie, and four or five more scattered around the county.”

  “You mean this Seaward supplies all the bootleggers in Big Prairie County?”

  “All the big ones. There's a few wildcatters, but they don't do enough business to bother us.” He got his cigarette going and thought for a minute. “I guess I'd better fill you in,” he said, “if you're thinking of going into the business. To begin with, we'd better not say anything about you going to work for me. Not tonight, anyway. I'll just introduce you as a guy who used to live on Burk Street. If I vouch for you, it'll be all right.”

  “Whatever you say. Who's going to be there besides Seaward?”

  “Well, there'll be Joe Kingkade, the other retailer. He works the west side and the business district and part of the river, area. And there'll be Clyde Somers, the county sheriff, and McErulur, the chief-of-police.”

  “This begins to sound more like a peace officer's convention than a get-together for bootleggers,” I said.

  Sid looked at me. “How do you think these people get elected to office? Who do you think pays their campaign expenses and sees that they get good write-ups in the paper? They wouldn't be anybody without the whisky dollars backing them, and they know it.” He grinned faintly. “This being election night, Paul Keating will probably be there, too. He's the county attorney.”

  I guess I should have expected that. As long as Seaward was buying up all the county offices, he might as well buy the county attorney while he was at it. But the thing knocked the wind out of me for a minute.

  “The women folks will be there, too, probably,” Sid went on. “On election night, it's kind of like a party.”

  For a few brief seconds panic seized me and left me weak. Then something else hit me and I almost laughed.

  “Well, I'll be damned!”

  “What's the matter with you?”

  “I was thinking of something.”

  For a moment a picture had come clear in my mind, and that was what I was laughing at. I saw Lola catering to a crowd of bootleggers and crooked politicians, and hating every-minute of it. But catering to them anyway, because she was the county attorney's wife and she was ambitious. I would bet that right at this minute she had her eye on the state capitol and the governor's mansion.

  “Do you want me to run this down for you or not?” Sid said, and he was a little peevish because he couldn't see anything to laugh at.

  “Sure. I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

  “Well,” he said grudgingly, “this is the way we do things. And wherever you go, it'll be the same way. To be a whisky dealer, you've got to buy a county, and you do that by starting with the county seat. The first thing you do is organize, like me and Seaward and Kingkade. And then you buy the county newspaper and see that it prints what you want it to print. N
ext you take in the county offices—the sheriff, the county attorney, the chief of police of the county seat. It's cheaper to put your own men in office than to try to buy the ones already in, and that's easy enough, if you own the newspaper. The county attorney is the key man because it's up to him to get clearance from the state officials. After you do all that, buy your trucks and start bringing the stuff in.

  “And then you have more trouble. You can't buy protection for your transportation across the state line because that's up to the Federal officers and the highway patrol, so you've got to figure on losing a truck now and then. And the sheriff's got to make a raid once in a while to make it look good. On top of that, wildcatters try to hijack your trucks for you, and there's nothing you can do about it except fight them. We're not bothered too much with hijackers, though. Seaward's boys carry sawed-off twelve-gauge shotguns, and they know how to use them.”

  Sid had been looking at the tip of his cigarette and talking to the windshield. Now he turned and looked at me. “I'm telling you all this to give you an idea of what it's like. Bootlegging in Oklahoma is big business. It takes big money to start it and big money to keep it going. There are big risks to take and there's a chance you might even get killed. Do you still think you want in?”

  Sid would never know how much I wanted in. I said, “I haven't changed my mind about that. But I'm beginning to see why the price of whisky is so high.”

  “You're damn right it's high,” he said self-righteously. “We've got expenses.” Then he settled back in the seat, looking satisfied with himself. “Well, that's that, then. You can work with me for a while until you catch on. I know a county up in the Panhandle where you can get started on your own.”

  To hell with the Panhandle counties, I thought. Drinkers up there could drive across the state line and get their own booze at legal prices. I wanted a place like Oklahoma County, or Tulsa County, right in the middle of the state, but I knew there wasn't a chance of moving into places like them. I figured Big Prairie would be just about right, to start with.

  “By the way,” Sid said, “how much money can you raise, when the time comes?”