Raven 1

by D M Barrett

  “So you found a tenant or buyer for the Thirsty Turtle property?” the banker asked excitedly.

  “I have a tenant who has an interest subject to certain terms and conditions,” the preacher replied.

  “What are these terms and conditions?” George Hickman asked.

  “Free rent for twelve months in exchange for some painting and fixing up of the property. They will pay for the utilities, property insurance, and liability insurance,” the preacher announced.

  “Twelve months! Twelve months! Everything else works but I just can’t do twelve months of free rent,” the banker exclaimed as he almost choked on his unlit cigar.

  “Well, I’m not in the banking or real estate business, mind you,” the preacher continued, “But you’ve been stuck with that property for over a decade with no current hope for a deal. It sounds like a decent offer to me.”

  “Why do they need twelve months free rent? Why not just ask for a reduced rate for the first year?” Mr. Hickman inquired.

  “They need to spend their money for basic working capital to get it going. They have to paint up and fix up the property. They have to buy supplies. They have to buy plates, utensils, table cloths, and other things,” the preacher explained.

  “Six months of free rent and $50 a month thereafter,” the banker offered.

  “Six months of free rent, $25 a month for six months, and $50 a month thereafter,” the preacher counter-offered.

  “Have you prayed about this preacher?” the banker asked slightly sarcastically.

  “Absolutely,” the preacher responded emphatically.

  “You should have prayed a little harder,” the banker said gruffly as he completed the lease paperwork.

  “Make that out to Cecil Smith and Randall Smith and call the property the Bluebird Café,” the preacher instructed.

  “Preacher, why won’t you ever let me make a little money until later?” the banker asked.

  “I’m helping you to lay up treasure in heaven, Brother Hickman,” the preacher said.

  “At this rate I’ll have one of the best mansions there, but I may end up in the poorhouse down here,” the banker retorted.

  The banker handed the completed lease to him. He walked up the street to Discount Grocery. Cecil and Randall Smith were waiting anxiously for the preacher’s report.

  The preacher handed the lease to Cecil. Randall looked over Cecil’s shoulder and read along. The preacher winked at Jack Wright.

  “This had to be of the Lord,” Cecil remarked.

  “Why do you say that, Cecil?” Jack Wright asked.

  “Because George Hickman’s heart is no bigger than a walnut and hard as a pine knot. The Lord had to soften it. Nothing else could have done it,” Cecil Smith said joyfully.

  “With God all things are possible,” the preacher remarked.

  Everyone said in unison, “Amen!”

  6: Great Scott

  Since his arrival in Ferguson, the preacher had not paid a visit to Joe Scott at Scott’s Apothecary. It was less of an oversight and more of the good fortune of the preacher avoiding illness during his brief tenure at Community Church.

  When the preacher opened the door at the pharmacy, he heard the ring of a small bell atop the door announcing his arrival. He saw a tall, salt-and-pepper haired gentleman in a white coat move around the back counter and toward the front of the pharmacy to greet him.

  “My name is Joe Scott. I’m the pharmacist and you must be the preacher,” the druggist said.

  “Guilty as charged,” the preacher replied.

  “What brings you here, preacher, sickness or disease?” Mr. Scott asked.

  “Neither, I wanted to pay a social visit and ask what the Lord could do for you, Mr. Scott?” the preacher explained.

  “I need a doctor,” the pharmacist said bluntly.

  “Are you ill?” the preacher inquired.

  “No, I’m going broke, preacher,” Mr. Scott responded.

  “I’m not sure that I understand,” the preacher said with a confused look.

  “Our local doctor passed away about the time your predecessor did. If there’s no doctor, there are no prescriptions. Without prescriptions, there’s no need for an apothecary in Ferguson,” the pharmacist explained.

  “What about patent medicines, mixing and compounding, and selling some health and beauty products?” the preacher inquired.

  “With this depression, there’s a lot less call for patent medicines or over-the-counter medicines as they are often called. With Ferguson’s population being less than one third of what it was a few years ago, the demand for health and beauty products is virtually non-existent,” Mr. Scott explained.

  “I’ll do my best to pray you up a doctor,” the preacher promised.

  “Pray hard, preacher. I’m selling out starting next month and heading to Knoxville,” the pharmacist disclosed.

  “I do have an idea for a product that could possibly help you,” the preacher announced.

  “What is the product you are touting, pastor?” Mr. Scott asked.

  “Can you compound or mix different flavors of extracts?” the preacher inquired.

  “Fruit extracts range from 80% to 90% pure alcohol. The balance is water and flavorings: lemon oil flavoring, orange oil flavoring, etc. Vanilla extract is about 35% alcohol, juice from crushed and brewed vanilla beans, and water,” the druggist responded.

  “How much can you make?” the preacher asked pointedly.

  “Given some time and ingredients, more than the city of Knoxville could use in a month,” Mr. Scott said with a chuckle.

  “What are your principal impediments?” the preacher asked.

  “Legal alcohol and distribution of a finished product,” Mr. Scott responded.

  “What size bottles would you use? Do you have or can you get bottles?” the preacher fired back in rapid succession.

  “I would use clear 16-ounce bottles for vanilla and small, brown, three-ounce bottles for the other flavors. I have plenty of bottles and can always get plenty more,” the pharmacist said.

  “Hmmmm,” the preacher said with one eye closed.

  “Is the Lord having you supplement your preaching pay with the extract business, pastor?” Mr. Scott asked with a large smile.

  “Actually, he may be supplementing the future revenues of Scott’s Apothecary until he can find a doctor,” the preacher suggested.

  “I’ll order some of the oils and vanilla beans today. But I don’t have a legitimate source for ingestible alcohol,” Mr. Scott said.

  “The Lord will provide, Brother Scott. The Lord will provide,” the preacher said with smile.

  * * *

  The preacher left Scott’s Apothecary and made his way to Sheriff Hankins' office. He opened the door to the sheriff’s office and found him dozing with his feet propped up on the desk.

  “Slow day?” the preacher said loudly.

  “I was . . . I was just . . . resting my eyes preacher,” the sheriff replied as he sat up at his desk.

  “I’m here on the Lord’s business,” the preacher said bluntly.

  “That sounds pretty serious. What do you need?” Sheriff Hankins asked.

  “I need four-gallons of the best white corn whiskey from these parts; and, I need to see the two most skilled ‘shiners in this area,” the preacher explained.

  “There are only two shiner families left in this area, so that’s easy. But four-gallons of ‘shine is quite a bit. But I’ll get it for you,” the sheriff responded.

  “I want to meet the ‘shiners with the ‘shine at the church this afternoon,” the preacher said.

  “I can take you up to the stills and you can talk to them,” the sheriff offered.

  “There are two words that will prevent that: plausible deniability. I can always tell the revenuers that I don’t know the location of any moonshine stills near Ferguson,” the preacher replied.

  “I see your point, preacher. I will explain that to the ‘shiners,” the sheri
ff said.

  “Can you have them at the church about 1:00 pm?” the preacher asked.

  “Sure, they’re just up the road on Jerusalem Ridge at . . ., the preacher held up his hand to silence the sheriff’s explanation.

  “I’ll look for you after lunch,” the preacher said as he reached for the door handle.

  * * *

  Sheriff Hankins, two moonshiners, and a four one-gallon crock jugs of white corn whiskey showed up at the church door promptly at 1:30 pm. The men looked rather sheepish as the preacher invited them inside.

  Before the preacher could say anything, one of the shiners remarked, “Well, I’ve been to church a few times in my life. But this is the first time I ever had more than a pint with me.”

  The other shiner, a man named John Lee Pettimore, remarked, “I ain’t never had a sheriff take me to church with four-gallons of ‘shine; but, I had one take me to jail with a bigger batch of shine.”

  “Gentlemen, to say the least, times are changing,” the preacher remarked.

  “We all heard about your turning Miss Rosie’s Cathouse into Miss Rosie’s Bed & Breakfast,” John Lee Pettimore announced.

  “Preacher, are you gonna tell us that we are goin’ to hell for ‘shinin’?” Tim Huddleston asked.

  “Let’s just say that the Lord is working on a few plans to move you from illegal to legal alcohol production,” the preacher replied.

  “What does he have in mind, pastor?” Mr. Pettimore asked.

  “If I understand it correctly, you sold moonshine for $1 a gallon during Prohibition. Is that about right?” the preacher inquired.

  “A dollar a gallon was the sales price. We had to bribe the law, dodge the revenuers, get it to Lebanon, and pay for supplies and equipment. It was more like 50 cents a gallon after expenses,” Tim Huddleston explained.

  “Who was the wholesaler?” the preacher asked.

  The two men looked at each other and then looked at Sheriff Hankins. They had not intended to reveal any buyers.

  Sheriff Hankins said, “He wants to know who bought it in volume.”

  “It was Henry Wooden from Lebanon. We’d haul it down there in a truck with a hidden tank and siphon it into a hidden holding tank under his garage floor,” John Lee Pettimore said.

  “But since Prohibition was repealed, he don’t buy much corn liquor at all,” Mr. Huddleston said.

  “Let me do some ciphering. At a dollar a gallon with 128 ounces in a gallon, that’s almost a penny an ounce,” the preacher said.

  “If you say so,” Mr. Pettimore said.

  “What if I told you that there was a legal way to sell it for $2 a gallon or about one and one-half cents an ounce? That’s roughly double what you were getting during Prohibition,” the preacher said.

  “What’s the Lord’s cut?” Mr. Huddleston asked with a smile.

  “Church attendance and a good free will donation every week,” the preacher replied.

  “What does Sheriff Hankins get?” John Lee Pettimore inquired.

  “He gets a county with absolutely no illegal moonshine stills; and, everybody in your area will support his re-election,” the preacher retorted.

  “What’s the catch?” Tim Huddleston asked.

  “Here’s the deal: (1) Everything about the still must be solid copper not just the tubing; (2) The alcohol must be at least 80 percent pure or 160 proof with no cutting; and, (3) No side sales of ANY moonshine or the revenuers will haul you away to the federal pen,” the preacher instructed.

  “Where do we deliver it?” John Lee Pettimore asked.

  “Deliver it to Scott’s Apothecary on Mondays and Thursdays. Bring about 25-gallons each time. Joe Scott will keep records and pay you $2 a gallon. If he needs more, he will tell you each delivery,”

  “Does anybody get a cut?” Tim Huddleston asked.

  “Yes, Uncle Sam might get a cut, but the pharmacist may get an exception for it being used in medicine and food flavorings,” the preacher explained.

  “What do you intend to do with these four jugs?” John Lee Pettimore asked.

  “That is for Scott’s Apothecary,” the preacher replied.

  “Who’s paying for it?” Mr. Huddleston asked bluntly.

  “The Lord said, ‘Cast thy bread upon the water and after many days you may receive a return,’” the preacher explained.

  Both men looked at Sheriff Hankins who said, “It’s for an investment. You better hope that it works.”

  “Anything else, pastor?” Mr. Pettimore asked.

  “Yes, at 11:00 am on Sundays be here and be ready to drop some green in the collection plate.”

  “We figured out that you’d make sure the Lord gets his cut,” Mr. Huddleston said with a chuckle.

  After the ‘shiners left, the preacher and the sheriff walked the moonshine to Scott’s Apothecary.

  Along the way, the preacher asked Sheriff Hankins, “Are we bootlegging?”

  “We’re on a humanitarian mission delivering medicine to the pharmacist,” the sheriff said tongue in cheek.

  “I like the way you think, sheriff,” the preacher said with a smile.

  The preacher couldn’t get the chorus of the song ‘Good Corn Liquor’ out of his head:

  “Well the sun don’t shine

  On a moonshine still

  Copper line hiding in the side of a hill

  It’ll get you there

  It’ll get you there quicker

  Fruit jar full of that good corn liquor.”

  The pair handed off the alcohol to Joe Scott. He promised to have some samples ready for the preacher as soon as he got his fruit oils and vanilla beans from Nashville.

  The preacher told him that he planned to get it on Lester’s Produce truck for delivery to Henry Wooden tomorrow afternoon. He headed to the Discount Grocery with Sheriff Hankins walking with him.

  “Why are you going to the store?” the preacher asked Sheriff Hankins.

  “I gotta see how this story plays out. It’s better than one of those radio dramas,” he said rather excitedly.

  When they arrived at the store, the preacher asked Jack Wright, “Do you know Henry Wooden?”

  “Not in the biblical sense. But I’ve had some business dealings with him,” Jack said rather sarcastically.

  “What type of business does he operate?” the preacher inquired.

  “He’s a wholesaler or jobber for just about everything: canned goods, clothes, mercantile, fabrics, certain types of fruit, and so forth. During Prohibition he bootlegged wine and moonshine, too. But he’s dried up – so to speak,” the shopkeeper explained.

  “Will he take your call?” the preacher asked.

  “Sure, I’ll get him on the phone,” Mr. Wright explained.

  He reached for the phone, cranked it, and said, “Miss Sarah, will you get me Henry Wooden in Lebanon. I’ll wait.”

  After a few minutes pause, the storekeeper began to speak, “Mr. Wooden, this is Jack Wright at Discount Grocery in Ferguson. I’ve got the preacher here and he wants to talk to you . . . No, I don’t think he wants a donation.”

  The proprietor motions the preacher to the phone. He took the receiver and said, “Mr. Wooden, I have the finest vanilla and fruit extracts east of the Mississippi River made here in Ferguson. . . They are produced by the pharmacist, Joe Scott. . . These products are at least 25% cheaper than any other major brand. I will have samples brought to you tomorrow by Lester’s Produce truck. Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Let’s hope that Joe Scott is as good at making extracts as we all hope he is,” Sheriff Hankins commented.

  “What’s the Lord’s cut?” Jack Wright asked with a chuckle.

  “I’ll find out and tell Joe Scott after I work a deal with Mr. Henry Wooden,” the preacher winked and replied.

  “Are you going to preach the gospel of the Lord to him, pastor?” Sheriff Hankins said with a laugh.

  “I plan on starting with economics and eventually getting to that after we have a deal,” the p
reacher said wryly.

  7: Deliverance

  When the preacher looked out his window at the morning sunrise, he noticed that a light fog had covered Ferguson. It reminded him of some of those picture postcards that were sold to vacationers at the Smokey Mountain National Park near Gatlinburg.

  The preacher finished his morning routine and sat down at his card table desk to begin his studies. Before he could get a few verses of scripture read, there was a frantic knock on the meetinghouse door.

  “Who is it?” the preacher yelled.

  “It’s Leon Kyle. Mr. Lester sent me to talk to you,” he replied.

  The preacher opened the door and asked, “What important errand has you at my door at this time of morning?”

  “Henry Wooden called Mr. Lester this morning and told him to send that preacher down to Lebanon on his truck. Mr. Lester told me to go home, get my truck, and drive you to Lebanon to see Mr. Wooden,” Leon explained.

  “Did he say what he wanted?” the preacher inquired.

  “According to Mr. Lester, Mr. Wooden wants to sign papers to distribute that extract that you sent him,” Leon Kyle said.

  “I’ll grab my coat. You go down to the root cellar around back and grab two gallons of blackberries and put them in the truck,” the preacher instructed.

  “Are you going to sell him blackberries or just be neighborly, preacher?” Leon asked.

  “Hopefully, we’ll do both,” the preacher replied.

  * * *

  When the two men arrived at Henry Wooden’s mansion, they were greeted at the door and invited inside by one of the servants. The home was stately and elegantly furnished. It appeared that no expense had been spared on the decor.

  When Mr. & Mrs. Wooden arrived in the foyer, Leon Kyle had a gallon of blackberries under each arm. The preacher extended his hand and smiled.

  “Preacher, are you selling fruit, too?” Mr. Wooden asked with a chuckle.

  “Just bringing an offering of some of east Tennessee’s finest blackberries,” the preacher replied.

  “They are quite large and tasty,” Mr. Wooden remarked as he sampled the fruit.

  “There are hundreds of gallons available from two of my church members, John Henry and Henry Clay Prichard,”