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

[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.