The Wettest County in the World ((for deadrum))

[alittlehinky]

Up until Jack got ambitions, most of the Bondurant brothers' product was sold within the county, delivered direct to neighbors or driven as far as Rocky Mount to be sold to connections there. If someone wanted to take it as far as the big city, they were welcome to do it themselves, but they'd have to come to Franklin to get started. Not so, now. The real money has always been in the selling of the product up north, in New York, in Chicago, in Baltimore. Forrest would have rather kept close to home and earned his money without getting mixed up with the big-time distributors, the Floyd Banners and Al Capones of the world, but Jack...well, Jack's feelings on the matter are different.

There are limits to what his ambitions can accomplish for him, of course. He's not crossing state lines, but county borders are nothing. Not in a souped-up engine designed and kept in working order by Cricket (but they don't try to run it on moonshine, not when there are better options). And now, they'll go to Lynchburg as a matter of course to sell, or even further up, to Charlottesville, if the price is right.

It's Jack that fancies himself the glamorous bootlegger, and he likes to drive when the crates are full. Cricket doesn't begrudge him that, though he's perfectly happy to harass him about the airs he's putting on, in private. He's content to let Jack be the spokesman of the operation, and he stands back by the car while he haggles. Cricket's an easy figure to miss and an even easier one to underestimate, even with a rifle held loosely in his hands. It's not hard to see the braces on his legs, and there's something about his face and body language that speaks of a young man all too used to the thin end of the stick. He's always polite, though, soft-spoken and calm unless there are weapons drawn, and when an exchange of goods for cash seems to be safely underway without treachery on either side, he's willing to chat.

He'd be hard-pressed to call himself an expert on human nature or body language, but on this particular occasion, out of the folks they're meeting up with, Jasper strikes him as not very different from himself and Jack. Someone come from the working class, just trying to get by, like you do. And he seems friendly. So when there's a pause in loading and unloading, he gets a thermos out of the front seat of his car and tilts it toward the other man. "Fuckin' cold out tonight. You want coffee? Might still be warm."

Comments

[deadrum]

Jasper had gone into this looking not just for an adventure, but to find a bigger place in something new and exciting, within arm's reach rather than way off the coast -- and so far he hasn't found himself disappointed.

In the grand scheme of things, runs like these aren't all that different from what he'd been doing: taking booze from supplier to buyer, avoiding the law, and picking up his cut. But rather than manning a schooner the same way he'd been doing since he was big enough to pull his weight - a schooner, familiar and able to clip away out of American waters at the first sign of trouble - he's driving long, bumpy roads sandwiched between stretches of trees and farmland, and at this point, with a couple of local runs under his belt, he's pretty sure he's spent more time in a car here than he has in his entire life. And rather than working alongside people he's known most of his barely-more-than-twenty years, he's with a couple of the New York guys: a broad, surly fella from Jersey named Ray, and a Great War vet named Guy that Jasper's convinced also snuck in from Canada - from out West, is his guess - but he won't say either way. And that's another thing adding to the brand-new experience: he's not exactly here legally, one of a good few less-than-legal things on the list thus far, and the threat of what might happen if he gets arrested - or even just scrutinized too closely, if he's not just shot first - is like a fire in his veins.

This trip down to Virginia is the furthest he's ever gone. He's had more than a few looks at the East Coast map in the pocket atlas he'd found dropped at Grand Central a few weeks ago, tracing the coastline from their general location all the way back up to the arse-end of Nova Scotia sticking out by Maine, trying to wrap his head around it all as they get further and further away. Guy even tells him to knock it off, at one point, thinking he's checking the route again, which apparently makes him antsy; Charlottesville ain't moved in the last thirty minutes, and they've still got hours to go.

Just as planned, by the time they're there to make the pickup, it's dark -- and it's Jesus cold. Ray is taking care of the actual business with Jack, while Jasper gets a handle on the culture shock of talking to a couple real-deal Virginian moonshiners, watching the proceedings with interest -- and jumping to action with a good-natured joke or two once the booze needs to be moved. At one point, though, something goes a little awry with one of the hidey-hole compartments in the car, and with only enough room for Guy to try and sort it out, Jasper finds himself sidelined with the braces guy, who's been just sort of a background element so far.

Not so, now, though. Jasper's eyebrows raise in surprise and a little relief at the offer of coffee - he's no baby, mind; he's done his fair share of hauling cod in the cold, the real cold, but it's not like he's dressed for fishing at the moment, is he - and he pulls a hand out from under his arms to take it.

"Coffee? You're fuckin' right I do," he says, and takes it gratefully, giving it a little cheers-lift Cricket's way before he twists the cap off. Jasper gives it a quick sniff, but doesn't bother even waiting for it to register, just downs a gulp -- it's lukewarm, and bitter, but Christ, it's something.

"Shit. Thanks, bud." He hands it back and stuffs his chilly hands back under his arms, giving his companion a quick once-over. "Was I hearin' him right? He was callin' you Cricket?" He grins. It just seems to suit, is all. Mostly, he just wants to make sure he's actually got his name.

[alittlehinky]

Maybe what makes him feel inclined to friendliness is the recognition that this other young man is in a similar position, curious and taking it all in. Cricket and Jack are nowhere near as far from home as their contacts, but it's a brave new world for them nonetheless. Jack has a kind of tension and swagger to him; he's capable of feeding on the adrenaline rush of this kind of business, and the money and attention it has afforded him so far is as rewarding as he always thought it would be. Cricket is more practical. Loyalty is what brought him here and what keeps him here--not that he's not getting paid well, but he'll be glad when they're back in Franklin County and he can relax. And yet, the opportunity to hear a little about the world outside the mountains is one he can't let slide by.

He's been listening attentively, but subtly, to all the side conversations. He's been watching the body language of the other men, keeping an eye out for trouble. The first time they tried this, after all, they were within a breath of getting their brains blown out, and maybe Jack has forgotten that, but Cricket never will.

The coffee is black, and between that and how long it's sat, it's bitter as hell, but it's still better than nothing at this hour. Mountain cold and ocean cold have some similarities; both have the wind in them, whistling past to bite at any skin it can mouth.

Cricket smiles a little when he's thanked, takes a gulp of the coffee, himself, and sets the thermos on the roof of the truck. He makes a little snorting noise at the question and nods. "Ain't my real name, just a nickname, but it's what everyone's called me since I was around four."

His brow quirks, and he studies the other man in return. "How 'bout you? Gotta ask, is Jasper your real name?"

The dialect of this region has some quirks. One of them is that 'jasper' is a generic term for an acquaintance you're on decent terms with. It'd be an ideal pseudonym for trading in this area, like Ulysses calling himself Nemo, except hopefully Jasper won't be running into any Cyclops.

[deadrum]

At the mention of how long Cricket's had his nickname, Jasper tactlessly glances back down to the young fella's legs. Not pointedly, not as a joke or to be cruel, just in making what he thinks must be the connection before Cricket gets his own question in.

Jasper looks up again and smiles conspiratorially. He's no stranger to the fact that his name isn't all that common - just a couple of 'em around back home, far as he's aware, all old guys - or that it means other things in other places (and not all of them nice), but he can't be sure which thing it is that's prompting Cricket's question.

"Depends. You a cop?" He sniffs at his own bad joke. "Yep. Maybe shoulda got me a -- a nom de plume, but..." He shrugs an already-hunched shoulder, squinting up into the dark slope of trees. Too late for that now, Jasper; you're deep in it, name and all. "Way she goes."

There's a muffled curse from Guy, which briefly draws Jasper's attention away, but it looks like everything's fine -- must've just dropped something. He returns his attention to Cricket, then to the thermos on the truck roof -- he nods towards it. "Gonna steal another nip outta this if you don't mind." He reaches for it again, but doesn't pick it up straight away in case there's any objections. If not, he takes it. "Long fuckin' drive, I'll tell ya."

And the drive back will only be longer, both because of the extra weight and because of the danger they'll be in right up until they roll back into the garage. The curious part of him wishes they could at least stay a little while, learn a few things, but all he can do is make use of this lull.

"Ray says just about everybody in Franklin County is makin' this stuff." The moonshine, of course. Not the coffee. "Can't throw a rock without hittin' a still. Even the cops're involved. That true?"

[alittlehinky]

He sees that look, down to his leg braces and back, and there's a subtle shift in his posture, back drawing up straighter. Not everyone comments on it, and of the ones who do comment, only about half are rude, but a man has to be ready for these things. It's a mild but pleasant surprise that Jasper doesn't say anything; even more so that there's nothing overtly pitying or amused in his eyes when he looks back. That's the way to earn a measure of Cricket's respect; he doesn't say anything, but gives the slightest nod of acknowledgement.

And then laughs. "Hell of a disguise, if I was." He shakes his head. "Just don't go telling your last name and your family business and I reckon you'll be a'ight. Not like you're gonna be in this place for long anyway."

Mind you, Jack isn't shy about his family name, but that's because Bondurant carries a lot of weight, even this far outside Franklin County. That might have a lot to do with Floyd Banner, or his men.

"Help yourself," he encourages, waving lightly toward the thermos. "I drank th' first half. If Jackie ain't claimed his share by now, he ain't gonna and it's his loss."

He frowns a little at the question, not from displeasure, necessarily, just thinking it over. There's a thoughtful look a lot of Appalachian locals get when you ask them something that treads on the line between small talk and prying, like they need a minute to chew the question over and decide if you're worthy of a real answer. The community can be tight-knit, and close-mouthed.

"Well," Cricket says at length, "it ain't that simple. Local cops used to be good with it. Give 'em a case here and there, or a little taste of the profit--that's just good business. Got some problems with a U.S. Marshall right now, though. He wants a lot more money, and some bootlicking on top of it. A lot of the moonshiners've folded, giving him what he asks. The Bondurants haven't, and they ain't gonna."

He glances over his shoulder at Jack, brow slightly creased as if with concern. "Bondurants don't lay down for nobody. Ain't a pretty business, though. Not right now."

"It is a thing to see in the dark, though," he smiles faintly. "All the little fires lighting up the sides of the hills where the stills are running overnight."

[deadrum]

Jasper takes another swig of coffee and hangs onto the thermos this time while he takes in Cricket's answer. The twang of the accents down here is still novel, but that doesn't distract him too much from the actual meat of what Cricket's saying -- that things are tricky and that the Bondurants (it never gets old: the actual fuckin' Bondurants!) aren't about to fold. And, hell, that's exactly the kind of thing Jasper is eager to hear in the middle of a cold night, far from home, with a long and perilous journey ahead: that some people aren't giving in, even with the law right on their doorstep. Even if those people are, according to Ray, supposedly already supernaturally invincible.

He lets himself imagine the picture Cricket lays out of the hills, and smiles a bit, too. The image, fires like little candles rising up in the dark, conjures up a memory, a connection; one he doesn't mind sharing. "Sounds like the rum runners' boats back home. All them lights out in the bay waitin' to load up 'n ship out." He takes a slow breath of earthy mountain air that smells nothing like home and gives the coffee an idle swirl. "Somethin' to behold, eh?"

He does miss it sometimes.