Glory Boys. Harry Bingham

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      Abe looked intently at the storekeeper. ‘The house behind the store has a new front, Hen.’

      ‘Yes, I was lucky. I got to the fire before it had done too much damage. I don’t give a damn for Prohibition. I don’t see why federal government should meddle in county business. But then again, I don’t like the idea that some goons could go buy themselves the laws they wanted. I don’t like the way they take out their guns at the first sign of trouble.’

      ‘And now?’

      ‘They want us gone. That sound crazy? But it’s true. They just plain don’t want us as neighbours. Course they got jobs down there. Poor folks’ jobs. Would be coloured jobs, ’cept we never had too many coloureds round here. Cleaning floors, mending roads, that type of thing. But aside from that, they want us gone. It’s little things, but it’s all the time. Farmers wake up, find somebody’s fired their hayrick. Houghton here gets his place smashed up ’bout once a year. Me, I’ve had my own problems. If anybody even whispers about resisting, it isn’t long before they’re jumped on and beaten to a pulp. We’ve had one person blinded, six hurt so bad they can’t walk without help, and one very brave man killed. And people are leaving. There are easier places to live, easier places to make a buck. They want us gone, Captain. They’re killing the town.’

      Silence filled the room. The breeze outside had fallen almost silent and the thumping beat of the electricity generators down in Marion could be heard.

      ‘That’s one heck of a story, Hen.’

      The older man nodded, reached for his pack of cigarettes and found it empty. ‘The hell with it,’ he said, flinging the pack away from him.

      ‘Sounds like you don’t plan on quitting.’

      Hennessey made a gesture with his hands, which could have meant just about anything. ‘I have a steel plate on my door and bars over my windows. I have a gun in the shop and another one by my bed. I’ve stayed because I don’t like quitting, but not everyone feels that way. No reason why they should.’

      Abe blew out. ‘Sheez, Hen… Listen, tell me more about the booze.’

      ‘What’s to say? You want a drink, I’d say the bars in Marion were pretty nicely stocked.’

      ‘I didn’t mean that. The way you tell the story, the gambling came first and the booze came second. I don’t figure it like that.’

      ‘I don’t follow.’

      ‘Think about it. If you wanted to make money out of gambling there are plenty of places you could pick. Marion doesn’t look like the most obvious choice. On the other hand, if you were thinking of making money from booze, then Marion looks like a million-dollar bet. It’s connected to the sea by a few miles of river. The coast is quiet and open. It’s as close as you want to Bimini and the other islands. The local coastguard has its hands full trying to keep booze out of Miami and Jacksonville. How much time will they spare trying to keep it out of Marion?’

      Hennessey nodded. ‘Yeah, they bring it in all right. They’ve got a big shed on the river. But still, how much can one bunch of hoods and gamblers drink?’

      ‘There’s a rail line. A spur running right down to the coastal express.’

      ‘Yeah. Twenty, thirty years ago some folks from the north found kaolin upriver from here. They built a rail line, then the kaolin ran out and the business folded. But the line’s still there.’

      ‘I don’t think Marion drinks all the booze it brings in.’

      ‘They load it onto the railroad, you think? Could be. I wouldn’t say no. Hell, who knows what goes on in a goon’s mind?’

      Abe didn’t answer that. Still lying on the bed, he stretched like a cat, right down to his toes. Then he rolled over, reached for his glass of whiskey and swallowed what remained.

      ‘What I’m wondering,’ he said, ‘is what goes on in a storekeeper’s mind. And specifically, why a storekeeper should go to a lot of trouble to tell a beat-up pilot a lot of things that aren’t any of his business.’

      Hennessey picked up the whiskey bottle, thought about pouring himself another glass, but thought better of it and set it back on the table. He looked suddenly old, tired and unshaven. When he spoke his voice had none of its earlier guile or subtlety.

      ‘We need your help,’ he said. ‘We need you to save us. You’re all there is.’

10

      Ted Powell was six foot, an athletic mid-fifties, and had a face that smiled almost constantly. The smile was deceptive. That was a thing Willard would learn to remember. Ignore the smile. Look at the eyes. The smiles were like a gentleman’s agreement. They looked nice and meant nothing.

      ‘Welcome to Powell Lambert,’ said Powell, as they strode along to his corner office. ‘Your first time on the Street, I imagine. You get here OK? No trouble parking?’

      ‘Parking? I came by cab.’

      ‘Oh! Cab?’

      ‘Sure. I –’

      ‘And I assumed you’d come by airplane! What? Our roof isn’t good enough for you?’

      ‘I – uh –’

      Willard smirked in embarrassment, but Powell had begun to laugh away at his own joke. ‘It’s a good roof. Nice and flat. Or have you decided to quit falling off skyscrapers? Ha, ha, ha! Hell of a stunt that.’ He zoomed his hand vertically down like a stone. ‘America’s favourite ace! Ha, ha, ha!’

      ‘I guess we should have paid for the catapult.’

      ‘That was a stinker of a movie, eh, Will? A stinker.’ Powell’s face didn’t change as he said this. It was still smothered by smiles and tobacco smoke.

      ‘Well you know, I wouldn’t quite –’

      ‘You want to know my favourite bit? It was the bit where Blondie has to jump off the clock-tower and there you are right underneath in an airplane. You know –’ Powell leaned forward. His face grew serious and he wagged his finger for extra emphasis. ‘You know, I think you were right about the catapult. I just don’t think that would have been realistic.’

      Willard leaned back. He prided himself on a sense of humour, but Powell was pushing things too far. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t like the movie,’ he said stiffly.

      ‘Ha, ha, ha! I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said it was a stinker. I liked it. Boy! I liked it.’ He roared with laughter, a series of guffaws that subsided into chuckles and then into silence. ‘So … you’re six weeks late on your first repayment. Second instalment due in two and a half weeks.’

      ‘Yes. That’s what I wanted to come and talk about.’

      Powell’s cigar had run into some kind of problem, and he was puffing away over a lighted match to get things started again. ‘Hmm? Eh? Oh, needn’t have done, Will. No need.’

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