So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction

by Christopher Barzak

"Sister Farr sent you a note," the boy said.

  Tully opened his mouth to slap him down--every white man in Nolan County might call Joe Farr "Sister," even the ones who didn't mean anything nasty by it, but no colored had any place doing it -- and the boy plowed on as though he hadn't said anything improper.

  "Mr. Seeley wants to see you."

  That shut Tully up. Mr. Seeley was--Mr. Seeley. He'd been a judge, years back, then when Prohibition came in, he'd retired and bought land up on Irish Mountain, saying Nolan County was no place any more for a drinking man. They said he had parties up on the Mountain with women from far away as Memphis and even New Orleans, and you could see the lights of his house for miles. Even on a foggy night, you could glimpse them; Tully'd seen them himself, coming down County 9 with a load of bootleg liquor, gentle lights flicking in and out like the fireflies in summer.

  "Give me the note," he said, and knew as he spoke he'd missed his chance to put the boy in his place. The boy knew it too, the knowledge sparkling in his eyes, but he handed over the folded sheet of paper without cracking a smile.

  Tully opened the note, reached for the light switch to make the scrawled words come clear. The top part was written in scratchy blue: Sister's favorite pen, the one his mother had given him when he graduated from high school, the one he'd used ever since even though it never had written quite right. Just a few words in Joe's familiar looping hand, Tully -- please do what Judge Seeley asks -- Joe Farr, and then beneath it, in darker ink and a broader, bolder hand, a longer note.

  Tully Swann. Please make pick up and delivery of goods to my house at Irish Mountain. Cal will show you the way. Auberon Seeley.

  Auberon? Tully thought. It occurred to him he'd never heard Mr. Seeley's Christian name before. If you could call a name like that Christian. He looked at the boy. "You're Cal?"

  Cal bobbed his head, almost a parody of respect. "Yessir."

  "What goods does he mean?" Even as he asked, Tully thought he knew. Sister was a small-time bootlegger himself, selling liquor to the ladies of Troytown to supplement what he made at the flower shop. Tully had been driving for him since he was seventeen, and sometimes he branched out, worked for other bootleggers, carrying the goods up and down the mountain roads. He was getting a name for himself, had offers from bigger men, but so far he hadn't felt the need to take any of them up on their offers. Sister pretended he disapproved--or maybe it wasn't all pretense, he was a worrier--but at least since Tully'd been driving, Big Jake Montross hadn't been able to bully Joe into paying outrageous prices.

  The boy bobbed his head again. "The usual, boss. Mr. Seeley says, you take his car."

  Like hell, Tully started to say, but then he looked past Cal, out through the door to the yard, and saw the car. How he'd missed hearing it, he'd never know--maybe Cal had turned off the motor, let it roll through in neutral--but even in the scant light from the kitchen, the lines of it were clear and clean. A black touring car, with a long rounded hood like the newest Fords and a sweet-curved sweep of fender and running board; the back had a low trunk like a Buick roadster, but it wasn't either one. A little bit like a Packard, maybe--as expensive as a Packard, anyway--except Packard never made anything as smoothly curved as those fenders. A Peerless? Duesenberg? He'd never seen either of them except in the Hollywood newsreels. The radiator grill, black-painted like the rest of it, was empty of any badges. Eight cylinders at least under that long hood, he thought, maybe even twelve. Someone had picked out just the edges of the doors and the flanges with silver paint, barely enough to catch the star shine on a new-moon night, and the chrome-plated triple bumper was scrubbed to gleaming. There were headlights and fog lights and a third pair between them, and the spare wheels strapped to the running boards were as black and polished as the body.

  "What the hell kind of car is that?" he asked. He hadn't meant to, but he couldn't resist, had to know, and Cal gave him a quick, unreadable glance.

  "That's Mister Seeley's car."

  "Yeah, but what make is it?"

  "Mister Seeley, he had it built special," Cal said. "Ain't no other like it in the world."

  Or at least in the county, Tully thought, but he couldn't master the skepticism he knew he should feel. "Wait here," he said, and stuffed the note in his pocket. Sister reluctantly owned a shotgun, kept it locked in a cabinet in the little passway between the kitchen and the dining room, but Tully had the key on his watch chain. He collected the gun, automatically breaking it and slipping shells into the chambers and another handful in his pocket, came back into the kitchen with it hanging in the crook of his arm. Cal blinked at the sight. Tully ignored the movement, gesturing for him to go ahead of him out the kitchen door, then followed the little man, closing the door gently behind them both. He laid his hand on the car's polished nose, feeling it cool as though it had never been driven, and knew he was going to take the job.

  "So what kind of goods are we picking up?" he asked, and ran his hand along the edge of the driver's door. The window was open, and he slid the shotgun inside, setting it at a safe angle against the seat. "Or maybe I should just say how much?"

  "I believe it's a full load, sir," Cal said, and his teeth flashed in the twilight.

  "Open up the hood for me," Tully said, and stooped to check the springs. They were reinforced just like they should be, and the engine--twelve cylinder, twin sixes and clean as a whistle--looked solid. He stepped back to let Cal close and latch the hood, then pulled open the driver's door. Cal grinned again, and scrambled around to the other side.

  "One thing," Tully said. "I'm going to need some help loading."

  "They'll be folks there, I think," Cal said.

  "So where we going?"

  "We follow Highway 20 west, boss, til we get to the junction of County 12," Cal said. "Then I'll tell you where to turn."

  It was almost full dark, the sliver of a moon just setting over the fields to their left as they turned onto the highway, and the fog was starting to rise from the ditches. Tully took a deep breath, and smelled, over the oil and gas and leather, the wet, dead-leaf smell that meant the fog would last. The headlights cut through the damp air, the pavement a sharp straight line, and he worked quickly through the gears. This was a car for racing, a car for overdrive, for a foot to the floorboards and all the cylinders bellowing. He grinned, reading their speed, and slowed reluctantly as they came up on the crossroads.

  "Where to?"

  "It's a right, boss," Cal answered. "Then straight on til we cross the St. Francis."

  Tully nodded, swung the car right onto the county road. It was gravel only, crunching under the wheels and rattling the undercarriage: smarter to keep the speed down, on a road like this, but a part of him still wanted to floor it, send the stones spraying just to see what the car could do. This was Cahill country, the Cahills being both sheriff and bootleggers, and he hoped Mr. Seeley had squared this business with Pete Cahill. Otherwise.... He shut his mind firmly to that "otherwise:" he was not going to go to jail, not with Sister needing him, and not with a car like this under him anyway, because nobody in the county could catch him even in Joe's Franklin. It was still foggy here, that was something, maybe even getting thicker; he thought for a moment about trying the second set of lights, but decided against it. The road dipped once, then twice, and the posts of the St. Francis bridge loomed out of the dark. Tully slowed, the wooden slats noisy under the wheels, and Cal stirred beside him.

  "'Scuse me, boss, but it's coming up soon."

  "What am I looking for?"

  "There'll be a track, off to the left, under a big poplar tree."

  Even as Cal spoke, Tully spotted it, a road he'd never seen before, barely more than a pair of bare wheel tracks in the grass. He turned onto it, hoping the ground was harder than it looked, but the big car took it without hesitation.

  The track wound with the river, following its banks, and the fog was heavier. Tully switched lights, slowed down, hunching forward over the wheel. Here and there the fog was like a
wall, reflecting the light so he could barely see beyond the end of the hood; he held his breath, driving through, but each time the wall dissolved, whisking up and aside like a curtain at the movies.

  And then at last he saw more lights ahead, an indistinct glow that resolved to more headlights, slurred and soft with fog, and he had his foot on the brake and his free hand resting on the shotgun before Cal could clear his throat.

  "This'd be them, boss."

  "I sure as hell hope so," Tully muttered under his breath. He kept the car in gear as Cal opened the door and walked forward into the fog. There was a mutter of voices, Cal's for once genuinely deferential, and then the boy came back into sight, beckoning him forward. Tully took his foot off the brake, slipped forward through a last bank of fog that closed behind him like a door.

  They were in a clearing, a widening of the road, the river to his left and a stand of trees to the right. The other headlights belonged to a new-looking Oldsmobile, drawn up on a slant so that the beams of its lights cut across the road and were lost in the trees. There was a darker shape that might be a truck behind it, and three men beside the car, one of them tall and slim and wearing a well-cut suit. He was the one who stepped through the lights to lean in at the window.

  "So, you're Auberon's new man." He had a voice like a movie star, not quite English, but almost, and a thin, fine moustache just like Errol Flynn. The hand on the window edge looked manicured, and for an instant the air carried a whiff of sandalwood.

  Tully suppressed a shiver, telling himself it was the fog and not desire or fear. "Just for tonight," he said, and the stranger grinned.

  "That's what they all say."

  "Mister Tamlin," Cal said. "Mister Tamlin? You want we should start loading, sir?"

  The fair man straightened, looked back over his shoulder, still with that same easy, superior smile. "All right, Cal. I guess Auberon's in a hurry?"

  "He told me to make it quick, sir," Cal said apologetically. "Sorry, sir."

  Tamlin shrugged elaborately. "All right. Come on, boys, Mister Seeley wants his liquor." He turned back to the car as the shadowy figures began to move, stooped again to the window. "What's your name, son?"

  Tully answered with the first name that came to mind. "Jeff Davis. Cahill."

  "Jeff Davis Cahill," Tamlin repeated, and Tully cringed. It didn't generally pay to lie, not where most everybody knew everybody else in the business, but with a stranger involved, it made sense. The man gave him the willies, anyway; he didn't trust the man, didn't want this too-sharp stranger knowing his real name. But he'd forgotten Cal, and now Cal could give him away. He braced himself to brazen it out, to denounce Cal for a lying ignorant fool, but the little man just looked at him, eyes wide in his dark face. "That's Jefferson Davis, I presume."

  "That's right." Tully made himself meet Tamlin's mocking stare. Goddamn Yankee, he thought, and that seemed to break the spell. Tamlin straightened, looking over his shoulder at the men still hauling the wrapped bottles, and Tully clicked open the door.

  "Excuse me," he said, and made his voice as insolent as he dared. "Got to be sure they load it right."

  Tamlin stepped back, out of the light, and Tully reached for the flashlight he'd seen before, went around to the trunk. His legs were trembling; he stiffened them, let the light play over the burlap-wrapped bottles. Tamlin's men knew their stuff, but even so Tully waited until the last bundle had been stowed away before climbing back behind the wheel. Cal was there already, looking worried, and Tully pressed the starter. He backed the car, careful because of the soft ground at the river's edge, started back along the narrow track. The car felt heavier under his hands, but steady, the springs solid, and he took a deep breath, working his shoulders. There was something about Tamlin that set his back up, beyond the fancy suit and the manicured hands, and he risked a glance at Cal.

  "Who was that guy?"

  "He's Mrs. Seeley's boyfriend," Cal answered. "So you don't want to get on his bad side."

  "Mr. Seeley puts up with that?" In spite of himself, Tully heard the outrage in his own voice, and Cal shrugged uncomfortably.

  "They go their own ways, Mr. Seeley and his wife. He's got a girlfriend or two of his own up on the Mountain."

  That was true enough, or at least that was what the gossip said. It just seemed strange a man as tough as a judge would let his wife get away with something like that. "Where the hell did she find him?"

  "I believe he used to be in pictures," Cal said. "Or so I heard."

  "That figures."

  "May I ask you a question, sir?"

  Tully glanced sideways again, startled. "OK."

  "Who told you not to tell him your name?"

  "Nobody." Tully scowled at the track unreeling in the headlights. "Why tell folks your real name if you don't have to? Besides, I don't know the man. As far as I know, he might could be off to the sheriff right now."

  "It wasn't Mister Farr who told you?"

  Tully shook his head, the back of his neck prickling. "Why?"

  Cal looked away. "Coming up on the highway now, sir."

  Tully hesitated, wanting to know more, but he could tell from Cal's face he wouldn't get a sensible answer. He let the car bump up over the last ruts and onto the gravel road, not bothered at all by the weight of liquor in the back.

  "Which way's best?"

  "East, sir," Cal said. "And you can let her fly."

  Tully couldn't help a grin at that, but he kept the car to a decorous thirty-five until the intersection of County 9. That road was paved all the way to the state line, thanks to the fact that the Cahill county commissioner was tight with the Cahill bootleggers, and Tully shifted into third. The car responded, surging forward, the twelve cylinders rumbling like a distant storm. There was one more gear, and only about ten miles to use it before 9 started its climb up to Moorton Gap, but the fog was still heavy, and he held himself back. Beside him, Cal looked more relaxed. Hell, Tully thought, Cal had sounded almost respectful there for a minute, almost like--almost like he'd passed some test he hadn't known was there. Though why anyone would make a fuss about him not giving his proper name to a strange bootlegger, he didn't know. But it had mattered. The fog lifted as they made the first long turn into the hills, and as it parted, Tully thought he caught a glimpse of Irish Mountain, the lights garish at its peak.

  "How far up?"

  "'Bout three miles," Cal answered. "You'll see another turn-off to the left. Watch for a white cut on a big oak tree, and then about another hundred yards."

  The directions were better than the turn-off road. Tully winced as the big car pulled itself up the steep turns, jouncing over rocks and holes left after the rain had carved its own track down the mountain. In fact, there were times when it felt as though he was driving up a dry creek, not a road, but every time he thought he'd lost the track, the wheel ruts reappeared again.

  "Mr. Seeley must not get many visitors," he said under his breath, and Cal cackled softly.

  "We go up the back way, sir. Not so much notice paid."

  Tully grunted, hauling on the wheel to avoid a bigger rock that loomed out of the darkness. It was a good idea, he supposed, but damn hard on the car.

  The road tipped down again, swerved off to the left, and the fog thickened abruptly. The headlights swung and steadied, sparking off a shimmer of water that resolved to a wide, shallow-looking stream. A curtain of fog was rising from it, as thick as it had been by the river. Tully looked dubiously at it, and then at Cal.

  "The boundary line, he calls it," Cal said. "You can drive on through."

  Tully grimaced, but put the car in first. The water wasn't deep, not even up to the wheel rims, but he could feel big stones shifting under the tires, and the fog swirled close, blinding him for an instant. And then they were out of it, in clean air, and the road showed clear ahead, a wider, smoother track. He thought he could hear music, but the noise of the engine washed it away. There were lights ahead, and in spite of himself he pushed the accele
rator, driving the big car a little harder.

  The car wound its way up the track--almost a road now, beaten smooth--and came at last through a screen of trees into the clearing that surrounded Mr. Seeley's house. It was a big place, two stories, with every window lit up and more lights on the broad porch that ran along the front of the building. The music was very clear now, the kind of jazz you could hear on a still night when the air was just right and the radio could pick up the St. Louis stations. Thunderstorms always seemed to follow those nights, and Tully glanced up, but Mr. Seeley's lights turned the sky to empty velvet. There were a dozen cars drawn up to the porch, another dozen parked on the edges of the clearing, fancy roadsters with paint that showed cream and red and green in the headlights, and as he edged the car between them he spotted two custom Pierce-Arrows.

  "Take it around the back?" he asked.

  To his surprise, Cal shook his head. "Pull up to the steps there. Might as well make it easy."

  Sure enough, half a dozen boys in white waiter's jackets had appeared at the end of the porch. Even before Tully cut the engine, one of them had opened the trunk, and they began hauling the liquor inside. He levered himself out from behind the wheel, blinking in the light from the porch. He was stiff, but there were so many people watching that he didn't feel right stretching. There were seven or eight of them, mostly men, but three women with them, leaning on the rail and on their escorts, highballs in their hands. They were dressed to catch the eye, in long dresses that had to be silk, like something out of the movies but twice as sheer and clinging. One of them had what looked like diamond clips in her wavy hair, glittering in the porch light; she saw him looking and gave him a lazy smile. There was interest in it, but contempt, too, and Tully was suddenly away of his work pants and shabby jacket. She turned away, laying her hand on the arm of a man in a dinner jacket, and vanished into the shadows.

  "Where's Joe?" he asked, and when Cal didn't answer, caught the little man by the shoulder. "Joe is here, isn't he?"

  Cal nodded, almost reluctantly. "But you better leave him be, Mister Tully. He--he wouldn't want you involved."