The Wettest County in the World

by Matt Bondurant

  For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes,

  and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.

  Then Bertha was kneeling at his feet, the bucket set to the side, the cool water reflecting his face, the horrified look, the staring eyes, and Jack passed a hand in front of it to make sure it was real before looking at her face. Bertha looked up, her delicate chin tilted, her mouth in a firm line. Wisps of black hair across her forehead, tucked behind the fine curl of her ear. Her eyes were gray, soft and unlined. Jack clutched at the pew and arched himself like a squirming cat. The spinning saws opened up in the attic, the thunderous whirr of razors, the blades churning away in the sky.

  And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof:

  but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever

  The preachers standing in a row all gazed at him with puzzled faces. Jack felt the floor twist under his feet and he struggled for balance, gripping the edge of the pew. There was a sudden flash of light, and as Jack watched the men come toward him the long beard of R. L. Minnix, triangular and silver, looked like a double-edged sword emerging from his mouth, a broad sword trailing streams of light. Jack gaped in horror at the advancing line of men in black, seven men, the sword emerging from the lips of the preacher like a tongue of steel.

  There was a sudden heat, a warm touch, and looking down he saw Bertha’s hands cradling his foot, her fingers wrapped around his heel and toes. The firm line of Bertha’s mouth trembled and then a slight smirk curled in the corner.

  Jack pulled his foot away and exploded out of the pew, stepping in the bucket and thrashing against the men next to him, water spilling on the floorboards, the hymn breaking and faltering, growing quiet. Jack could feel the eyes upon him and he took a few steps and crouched, putting up his hands to his ears to blot out the rending sound that blasted from the ceiling. It seemed to make no difference. R. L. Minnix was saying something, gesturing to him, and then Jack was running to the door, banging through it, the ground lurching underneath as he rushed through the anteroom and out into the night, running across the lot in his bare feet like a man running across the deck of a heaving, wave-battered ship.

  Chapter 13

  JACK WAS SITTING at the counter drinking coffee and eating a plate of biscuits with apple butter when Tazwell Minnix pulled up to the Blackwater station the next morning. Tazwell’s father, R. L. Minnix, sat beside him in the car, dozing peacefully. The dew a faint trace on the grass, the air still slightly crisp before the dead heat of August set in. In the lot Tom C. Cundiff was in the process of beating a man senseless.

  To Jack the scene at the filling station struck him momentarily as some kind of spiritual ceremony: a man in a dusty coat, bareheaded, was on his knees in the parking lot, hands bent in supplication to a man who stood before him, a queer figure in a dirty bowler hat, suspenders, and stained shirt. A small group of men stood on the low covered porch, watching with halfhearted interest. A few glanced toward the new car at the pumps. R.L.’s head was slumped to his chest, snoring lightly. Tazwell shut the engine down by the petrol pump and climbed down from his truck, watching the peculiar episode that was unfolding. The man on his knees was crying.

  Please, Tom, the man begged, don’t hit me no more. I swear I’ll leave you be.

  The side of the kneeling man’s face was a crimson mask of running blood. He had rippled clumps of scalp and hair on his forehead, fresh wounds, and his hands shook as he pleaded.

  Please, Tom, please. No more.

  Tom C. Cundiff’s arms hung loose at his sides. In one hand he held a pistol, the hand spattered with blood and his sleeve stained to the elbow. Tazwell froze in horror. Cundiff languidly looked over at him, eyes like dark pinholes, his face twisted with wrath.

  Please, Tom.

  There was a stir of motion among the watching men and they began to back away. Tazwell saw a man standing in the doorway of the station, a tall, wiry man with a jagged scar under his chin who looked upon the scene solemnly. Another young man with a dark shock of hair trotted across the lot to Tazwell’s car.

  Tom, Forrest said from the doorway, that’s it.

  Fuel, sir? Everett Dillon said.

  John Horsely began to sob, his hands clenched in front of him. Cundiff let out a short sigh and rearing back quickly on his heels he dealt Horsely such a clout on the side of his head that it shattered the stock of the pistol. Horsely dropped to the side like a felled tree, his feet bouncing. Cundiff tossed a crumpled piece of paper on the fallen man’s body and spat a thick stream of dark juice on his back.

  There’s your goddamn answer to that, Cundiff said. Tell Carter Lee to stick it straight up his ass!

  The men standing around the front porch began to drift away. Cundiff snapped his suspenders and shifted his quid of tobacco before walking back inside the station. Forrest stood there looking at Horsely’s inert form with a blank look. Tazwell rushed over to the body and knelt beside him and felt under his bloody collar. His scalp was a mess of blood and torn skin, but he was still breathing.

  What is going on here? Tazwell said.

  Someone ought to take him up to Rocky Mount, Forrest said.

  Jack got out of his seat and cupped his hands on the window to see better.

  Isn’t this man a sheriff’s deputy? Tazwell said. Isn’t this John Horsely?

  Yeah, Forrest said. That’s him.

  Tazwell looked around wildly. A few faces showed through the windows, shimmering in the morning sun, including the bewildered-looking face of Jack.

  I came here, Tazwell said, to speak to your brother Jack.

  The cicadas began their shrill chord of language in the trees across the road. Bluebottle flies were buzzing about Horsely’s head, settling in the sticky clumps of hair, crawling down his collar and across his face.

  Did you know your brother came to our service last night? At the Brethren church in Burnt Chimney. Our Love Feast ceremony.

  The faintest smile cracked Forrest’s face.

  I know the place.

  Well he was there, Tazwell said, and he was drunk or crazy.

  Forrest just stared at him.

  Tazwell picked up the crumpled paper that Tom C. Cundiff tossed and smoothed it out. It was a summons to appear in court.

  That man assaulted an officer of the law, Tazwell said.

  Yeah, Forrest said. Shoulda known better than to come around empty-handed and alone when Tom’s been into the stump whiskey for a few days. You gonna take him in?

  What?

  I mean Horsely here.

  Tazwell looked back toward his truck to see the staring, horrified face of his father through the windshield. Jack backed away from the window and sat at the counter.

  THEY LOADED the deputy into the back of truck and when they left Forrest came in and leaned against the counter. Jack rubbed his scabbed ear and pushed the crumbs around his plate.

  What happened to your face? Forrest asked him.

  Ain’t nothing.

  That so?

  Maggie scraped the grill with a spatula, a cigarette clenched in her teeth, her ivory dress worked through with pale roses. Jack knew she was listening. Cundiff shuffled out, mumbling to himself, fired up his car and tore out of the lot and the other men drifted off the porch. Forrest punched the till and lifted out a stack of bills and began counting.

  I heard, Forrest said, about what happened over at Winnie Mitchell’s place. You and Cricket Pate.

  Who told you?

  Doesn’t matter now, does it?

  Jack sipped at his coffee. Maggie strode over and filled his cup. He caught her giving him a slight grin, her lips bending around the cigarette. Oh, God, Jack thought, how many people know? The whole damn county?

  The question is, Forrest said, what are you gonna do about it?

  This question stunned Jack.

  What am I gonna do?

  As soon as he said it he wished he hadn’t.

  You ex
pecting someone else to handle it? Forrest said.

  Jack was thankful no one else besides Maggie was in the station. He shifted on his stool, scraping the top of his foot with his boot heel.

  That ain’t what I meant, Jack said.

  Forrest set down the stack of bills and stepped around close to Jack. He balled one fist and set it on the counter next to the empty plate. Maggie came over and collected the plate and fork on her way into the kitchen and for a moment Jack thought she shot him a sympathetic look but he couldn’t be sure. She strode into the back, her dress whispering against the swinging door.

  Here it is, Forrest said. As long as you’re my brother, you better never let it happen again. You understand me?

  I get it.

  I don’t think you do.

  What if I can’t? Jack said. You know I ain’t…like you and Howard like that. I never been like you.

  Forrest reached and gripped Jack’s arm with his other hand, bending down close to his face.

  There is only one answer, Forrest said. People will know, and you will suffer for it for a long time, maybe the rest of your life. Do something about it. If those animals out there see for a moment you are afraid, then they’ll be at the door and it’ll be over.

  They told me, Jack said, to tell you that they are coming for you next.

  I know it, Forrest said.

  Forrest slapped the stack of bills into the register drawer. After a moment, Jack saw a wave of something like weariness cross his brother’s face.

  You wanna be a part of this, Forrest said, you best be ready to do what’s necessary.

  I am, Jack said. I’m just saying.

  You want the money, but don’t want to work for it.

  Forrest’s throat worked hard, the white rope of scar tissue undulating as he spoke.

  We control the fear, Forrest said. You unnerstand? Without that fear, we are all as good as dead.

  Chapter 14

  1929

  A FEW WEEKS LATER in the early fall the three brothers drove to the Jamison place near Thorton Mountain for a meeting. An outbuilding perched on a stubby knob near a stand of woods on Jamison’s back scrubland, ringed with cars and a half-dozen horses. Jack noticed more than a few new cars in the lineup, vehicles you didn’t see around Franklin, a few Packards, an Auburn sedan, a new Dodge coupe, a two-tone Buick Series 121.

  Somebody around here is making some money, Jack thought, and here the three of us crawl up in Forrest’s busted-down Ford!

  As they walked past the Buick he could smell the supple leather through the window, the ripples of the seams, the burnished shift knob. A straight-eight engine, cast-steel block, 150 horsepower. That sweet mother would do seventy easy. That life under his feet, the smooth roll of power at his toe, the lurch of torque. Jack thought if he could get a new car nothing else would trouble him to the end of his days.

  When the brothers came through the door Jack was surprised by how many men were there, and how many men he had never seen before. Forrest had said that men from all areas of the county would be there: Smith Mountain, Linville, Sontag, Boone’s Mill, Penhook, Ferrum, Calloway, even some men from the border areas of Patrick, Henry, Floyd, Pittsylvania, and Bedford counties. After shaking some hands and nodding in greeting to others, the brothers positioned themselves to one side against a wall. The others shifted around in the straw, cursing the cold, waiting for something to begin. A few jars of apple brandy made rounds but most weren’t taking. Jack recognized a few men: Roosevelt Smith, J. O. Shively, Arthur Land, Irvin Goode, Gummy Coleman, Posey Webb, George Barbour, Homer Johnson, Tom C. Cundiff, C. T. Cooper, Jimmy Turner, Walter “Peg” Hatcher, Aubrie Kendrick, Talmedge Jamison, and G. T. Washburne. There were at least twenty more he didn’t know or had only heard of, like the Duling brothers from West Virginia, whose territory stretched deep into Floyd County. These men were the major players in the business, not just guys with a teapot in the hollow brewing up small batches, people like Cricket and the Mitchells, and it struck Jack just how many large stills were operating in the county and how much liquor was being produced. Peg Hatcher was one of the biggest runners in the county, and Roosevelt Smith, J. O. Shively, and a few others had syndicates that stretched across a few counties. Jimmy Turner, a man in his forties who ran shine out of Penhook, stood on an overturned bucket. George Barbour and Homer Johnson stood next to him.

  Boys, Turner said, I appreciate you comin’. As you know, there have been some changes goin’ on and I figure we ought to get together and straighten it out. We’ve got folks from various organizations, including Tom Carter’s group up in Roanoke.

  Jimmy Turner had a thick bristly mustache and a squinting smile, and was known as a calculating man and one that did not suffer fools.

  For a long time, Turner said, we was able to go about our business here in Franklin, and nobody paid no mind. Lately there’s been some trouble. We know the Alcohol Tax Unit goin’ to come in from time to time an’ cut a still and get they pictures in the paper.

  He got a small laugh, and some swore under their breath.

  The sheriff’s department, Turner said, on the other hand, has always let us be. Looked the other way, what have you. But the fact is the ATU has been coming around more regular and Hodges and his boys have been under more pressure. Like usual, everyone is keeping their mouth shut so we don’t have too much problem, but the ATU is making it difficult to move out of the county, even using the way stations like Shively’s place in Penhook, Hatcher’s filling station to the east, and the Bondurant station up in Blackwater.

  Turner nodded to each man as he named them. Forrest didn’t seem to register the recognition, his eyes flat and calm.

  Some of you, Turner went on, already know that there is an offer from the sheriff’s office, to make things a bit easier on everybody—

  You mean paying a granny fee! Tom C. Cundiff roared.

  Cundiff held an open jar, hands shaking. He looked like he slept in the barn. A few men hooted and began to murmur.

  Call it what you want, Turner shouted over them, but you get something for your money. For things to go smooth you gotta grease the tracks.

  Why don’t you just tell it like it is, Cundiff said. Tell these boys where this plan is really coming from. The sheriff. Hodges don’t have a say over his own pecker. This here is Carter Lee’s plan. Revenuers nosing around only where he says to!

  Now Tom, George Barbour spoke up, there’s no need to get ornery about this.

  Men started calling out: Who’s running this here show? Hey now!

  Nobody is running anything, Turner shouted, we are still running our own show. What we have is an offer of a clear ride. From still to county line, guaranteed. Now that is something worth paying a little money for. The way stations will still get their cut. Hodges and his boys will ward any revenuers off or send ’em on ghost chases. Less risk for everybody, and everybody makes more money.

  What’s your cut, Jimmy? someone shouted.

  Men in the crowd were murmuring and shifting their feet. George Barbour, a fat man with great jowls, spat a stream of tobacco juice in the straw.

  Same as you, Barbour said. Same as anyone.

  Horseshit, said Cundiff. That why you three calling this here meeting?

  Cundiff turned to the crowd. His face was inflamed and his bowler hat tipped far back on his head.

  This here is Carter Lee talking, Cundiff said. The damn commonwealth attorney. This here is about making the fat cats richer. Well I ain’t ever paid no granny fee to no man and I ain’t gonna do it now!

  Cundiff pushed his way through the crowd, swearing, and the barn door slammed. A few men laughed. That’s ol’ Tom, they said, but Jack could tell that many in the crowd were of the same mind.

  Let him go, Turner said. He’s just gonna make it hard on himself. They’ll be a depot of supplies in the old tobacco warehouse in Rocky Mount, anything you need. You may even find some of your old worms and caps there. Sugar, yeast, even copper sheeting can b
e had out of the warehouse and from Simpson’s place in town. A deputy will be assigned to each district and you boys are responsible for getting the fees together from those in your district. So get the word around to anyone you know is making in your area. The deputy will come by each week to collect and keep the ledgers. Everything gets reported to Jeff Richards and he keeps the tabs. Simple as that.

  What’s the price? someone yelled.

  We haven’t worked out the exact figures yet, Turner said, but somewhere around ten dollars a carload, plus twenty dollars a month to make.

  Men swore and whistled, slapped their hats, and Jack watched the ripple of disgust and displeasure on their faces. Occasionally they greased the palms of Hodges and other local deputies, a bit of cash or a few cans of booze to look the other way; it was expected. But this was something else. This was a system coordinated countywide, no exceptions. This meant a man couldn’t even set his own price for his liquor.

  Look, Barbour said, for that you get no trouble. No lost product, no jail time, no blockading troubles. We can all concentrate on what we do best and leave the rest to the sheriff’s office. Let’s not forget easy access to all the supplies we need. Look, you fellas know that Prohibition is near over, done any day now. Now they’ll still be a trade for untaxed liquor in dry counties in Virginia, but we have a chance to make a good stack of money here while the gettin’s good.

  What if we don’t pay? Forrest said.

  The room quieted and all turned to the brothers standing against the wall. Jack straightened his chin and tried to remain still.

  What’s that? Turner said.

  What’s Carter Lee gonna do if we don’t pay? Forrest said.