Bootleg Freight

Thanks! I wish I could sit home all week and write but I can't. I'm on the way out the door right now; not much of a weekend getting home yesterday but maybe next weekend will treat me better.

 

Isaac was standing in front of the unlit house, having just lowered the garage door for the final time, when Samson entered the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires of the Expedition.

“How is he?” Isaac asked as Samson lowered the widow and turned off the ignition.

“He’s fine, Brother Isaac. Sleeping and dreaming; good dreams I think. I didn’t use too much. I did just like you said.”

Matt’s slumber had been induced by a drug not available from any pharmacy or hospital and officially didn’t exist. According to those with knowledge of such matters, it was developed during the seventies by order of the old Soviet KGB as an interrogation tool. Rather than rendering totally unconscious, this drug puts the subject into a dreamlike state of semi-consciousness, reportedly unable to differentiate between conversation with interrogators and figures sharing his dream, supposedly resulting in truthful answers to any questions posed.

The legend goes on to say the CIA obtained the formula during the Reagan era either by stealing or buying it from a turncoat Soviet agent. The latest rumors had the drug being used at Guantanamo Bay but these stories come and go like the wind.

Isaac wasn’t concerned with the drug’s history, only its effectiveness. He was impressed with the fact that it seemed safe for use on children and had yet to observe any adverse side effects. His reputation for delivering his precious cargo was impeccable and he intended to keep it that way.

“And your little friend?”

“In the crate, Brother Isaac.”

“You know we must release him into the forest.”

“Will he survive the cold?”

“The Lord will provide for him,” Isaac said. In reality he had no concern for the well being of the freaky little snake from Sri Lanka. His concern was to not be in possession of any more evidence than necessary that would tie him to any of the mayhem he was responsible for. Having to answer questions about that God forsaken critter during a random traffic stop was a headache he could do without.

As Samson carried the crate containing the pit viper Isaac inventoried the other items from the truck in the shopping bag on the passenger seat as he slid behind the steering wheel.

Buddy’s wallet was the first thing he pulled from the bag. The investigators would discover the victim’s identity by contacting the trucking company but it never hurts to throw annoying little obstacles into the path of one’s would be pursuers.

The envelope containing the one hundred and forty hundred dollar bills was accounted for, but the most prized item of them all was the transmitter that had been discreetly attached to the underside of the cab of the red Freightliner.

As with the sleep drug, the origin of this handy little device was debatable but its performance was not. The titanium encased unit tracked Buddy’s movements in real time, relaying the information to Isaac’s smartphone, or laptop if he chose.

The GPS capability was nothing new but Isaac found the phone signal interception feature to be quite impressive. Anytime a phone was within range of the unit, in this case Buddy’s, the number of the phone was displayed, along with the numbers of any incoming or outgoing calls. Additionally, conversations could be monitored in real time with the option of recording them.

The same person that installed the nifty little device under Buddy’s floorboard also inserted the discreet cameras in the air conditioning vents on the dash. These things were accomplished while Isaac kept Matt and Buddy occupied in the diner.

“Is everything okay, Brother Isaac?” Samson asked as he sat in the modified passenger seat. The seat had been lowered and mounted an additional distance rearward, not only for the big man’s comfort, but in an effort to attract less attention from other motorists whenever the dark tinted window happened to be lowered.

Isaac had wanted Samson to obtain the shipping papers for the now missing load of whiskey. As with the deceased driver’s identity, it would serve as a minor stumbling block for the cops to wonder where the rig had last picked up or delivered. With the disabled Quallcom unit, he hoped the comings and goings of the big rig in the final hours of Buddy’s life to forever remain a mystery.

Samson returned with the truck’s registration instead. Samson never learned to read, despite Isaac’s patient teaching since they left their home town on that fateful Easter Sunday all those years ago. He could distinguish letters from numbers and apparently mistaken the serial numbers and dollar amounts on the registration for weights and quantities.

Isaac saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes when he realized, merely by the way Isaac looked at the paper, that he had made an error that had the potential to disappoint his older brother. But Isaac strived with his utmost will to never scold or to act the least bit displeased with anything Samson did.

Their father did enough of that to last a hundred lifetimes. The raised welt like scars that wrapped around Samson’s neck and ribcage from the braided leather bullwhip were a testament to the man’s suffering. The steel manacles that kept him secured to the wooden railing in the barn overnight for not meeting his daily work quota left their own set of scars as well.

“You did good, little brother. Did you make sure to get all of Matt’s belongings?”

“I did, Brother Isaac. Everything is in the suitcase with the blue bear on it. I even looked under the mattress to be sure nothing was left behind, just like you said.”

“Very well, little brother. That’s good enough for me,” Isaac said as they drove away into the night with Matt talking softly about a beautiful young Angel.

 

SIX​

Jeremiah Hill had an older brother named Elijah. Just as Jeremiah had a flock putting money in the offering plate on Sunday, Elijah had a flock of his own putting money in his pocket on Saturday night. These were sometimes the same people.

Jeremiah considered his brother an unwitting tool of Satan and did not allow his name to be spoken in his presence by anyone, especially by his own family. But Isaac loved his Uncle Eli and would often spend his days at his isolated cabin when he should have been at school. He looked at him as a rogue, willing to ignore the rules of society for his personal gain.

More than a rogue he thought of him as a business man; not wealthy by most standards but not signing a time card at the railroad for seventy hours a week or descending into the dark abyss of the mines either.

Isaac learned to pilot a tractor-trailer when he was eighteen years old by hijacking an old White Road Commander out of Knoxville, Tennessee. He held an unloaded .32 caliber revolver to the driver’s head as the man was unlocking his door at the old K-Town Truck Plaza east of the city. It just so happened to be a load of whiskey on board destined for Montgomery, Alabama.

After observing everything the driver did for a few hours, Isaac felt confident he could handle the rig as good as anybody. He put out the unfortunate driver along a barren stretch of US Highway 41 south of Chattanooga, Tennessee, down on the Georgia state line, leaving the man enough money for a meal and keeping the rest for fuel.

He had heard there were quite a few dry counties in Georgia, with the Southern Babtists still maintaining a strong foothold. What better place to unload his illicit freight than somewhere that craved the forbidden fruit?

The small town of Elijay seemed as good a place as any to start and his hunch paid off. The three men sitting on the steps of the old general store had a brown bag resting by their feet. He had seen them passing it around from a distance and now one of them attempted to hide it behind his leg when he parked the truck and began walking over to them.

Seeing him get out of the rig, the men knew Isaac wasn’t a cop but they were still apprehensive of a stranger in these parts, especially under the circumstances.

After a few minutes of some meaningless ####-chat Isaac said “Well, I’m hurt that you boys ain’t offered me a swig of that ‘shine. I ain’t no stranger to it, being from Harlan County, Kentucky, and I #### sure ain’t no cop.”

A look passed between the three men and the brown back containing the Mason jar of Georgia’s finest corn liquor was passed to Isaac. He hated the stuff but bravely took down a swallow with nary a wince. After some more meaningful conversation and a second swallow he seemed to build some rapport with the fellows. He declined a third hit, explaining he had miles to drive overnight and didn’t want a confrontation with the police. They nodded silently in agreement.

Isaac finally got down to it, explaining bluntly what he wanted to do, though not mentioning exactly how much liquor he had in his possession. After what seemed like an eternity one of the men rose to his feet wordlessly and entered the store. He apparently left through a back door, for he returned an hour later riding in the passenger seat of an old black Plymouth sedan. The car rode on stiff springs and the dual exhaust pipes gave off an authoritative rumble, even at idle.

 

The driver of the Plymouth was a hard looking man with a hand rolled cigarette planted into a corner of his mouth. The brim of a black felt hat was pulled low on his brow, his elbow hanging over the top of the door. He motioned with an abbreviated three fingered motion for Isaac to approach the sedan. As he neared, Isaac realized the man’s little finger was missing, as was most of his left ear.

The man motioned with a twist of his head for Isaac to get in the passenger side of the front seat as the fellow from the steps got out of the car.

“Look here, mister. I ain’t no dumb hillbilly here to play games and don’t be thinkin’ you gonna roll me neither,” Isaac told the man, pulling up the front of his shirt to reveal the handle of the pistol protruding from the waist of his trousers.

“I ain’t thought no such a thing, boy. Now git your skinny ### in the car and I think me and you will get along just fine.”

They never exchanged names. Isaac knew him from that point on as the man with the black hat and he thought of Isaac as the boy from Kentucky.

The man with the black hat paid fifteen cents on the dollar of the shelf price of the Jim Beam, cash money.After it was unloaded he took Isaac to another man who would paint the stolen rig, having it ready by sunrise. Over half of Isaac’s cash went to the paint job, but he considered himself way ahead of where he started.

The painter worked out of a faded red barn miles from anywhere. He was popular with the region’s moonshiners and Isaac could see why. He slept on a cot in the corner of the barn while the man worked through the night by the light of several kerosene lanterns.

The man woke Isaac at first light, offering him coffee in a ceramic cup from a battered tin pot on the ancient woodstove.

Isaac was astounded at the appearance of the stolen truck. The lackluster brown finish could have been painted half a dozen years ago. Nobody would give it a second glance. He understood immediately how this would be beneficial to a bootlegger who had been recently pursued by the law wanting a new look but not wanting to be obvious about it.

The man with the black hat and the boy from Kentucky developed a business relationship that lasted quite a few years. Isaac soon came off the road and generally had two or three drivers in his employ using variations of his initial heist. He had steady customers as far west as Mississippi and even ventured as far north as Pennsylvania.

But the law enforcement agencies picked up on patterns and began laying traps for the big rig bootleggers. Isaac shut down the operation when one of his men lost his life in a shootout with the Tennessee State Police. Ironically, this occurred at the K-Town Truck Plaza in Knoxville where Isaac initially launched his prosperous enterprise.

 

Jud Kowoski was Isaac’s senior driver. He was smart, ambitious, and trustworthy. Jud set up this deal himself and Isaac gave it his stamp of approval.

Not rushing things, Jud felt safe dealing with the driver he had known going on six months. The deal was simple, much like with Buddy decades later. The two men met at an abandoned tobacco warehouse in Tazewell, Tennessee and moved the cases from one trailer to the other using hand trucks. Jud was in a clean truck; one bought legitimately by Isaac with proper plates and registration. It had never been used before and should never been recognized.

But Jud was set up like a bowling pin. The other driver was a paid informant.

After paying for forty gallons of Hi-Test diesel Jud parked behind the diner before going in for a slice of apple pie washed down with black coffee.

His waitress, Karen, did not seem to be her usual self; not responding to his customary flirting, barely making eye contact. He finally asked her what was wrong. Rather than reply, she bit her lower lip as she turned her back on him.

Frustrated, Jud rose from his chair, left some money beside his plate, including his usual tip, and walked to the back door, giving him direct access to his truck.

“Watch yourself out there, Jud!” Karen yelled at his back as he opened the door. He turned around only to see her dart back into the kitchen. Shaking his head, he stepped out into the semi-darkness of the ongoing sunset.

As he approached the red Diamond Reo a man appeared from around the corner of his trailer to his right, a small revolver in one hand, while another showed himself from the corner of the diner bearing a bolt action rifle.

It was evident to Jud that nobody would be yelling “stop or I’ll shoot” and neither man was displaying a badge.

He cursed himself for leaving his piece in the truck but he had always thought of the old diner as a safe haven. The two men weren’t playing around and began closing in fast. Jud broke into a sprint, covering the last nine feet to the truck’s step in two strides. He counted four shots, a habit he picked up in Korea, by the time he grabbed the chrome door handle. One of the rounds tore through his right calf, while another nicked his left elbow before shattering the door glass.

Jud scooped up the Army issue .45 from between the twin shifters in a smooth motion, racking the slide as he fell backwards, tucking himself into a ball as he hit the ground, rolling toward to diner’s wall, desperately seeking cover but there was none.

Knowing his fate was sealed, Jud was doing all the damage he could on the way out. A blur from his peripheral vision told him the guy with the little revolver was standing over him. A man with limited options takes the one most available.

The first fat slug to leave the pistol tore into the assailants gut. Jud made no effort to modulate his rate of fire or control barrel rise. He merely squeezed the trigger as rapidly as he could, each shot finding a higher target. The soft point rounds decimated lungs, heart, and throat before number six entered the right nostril at an upward trajectory, exited the top of the skull, spraying blood and brain matter across the red brick of the diner’s back wall.

Bullet number seven was still in the chamber when a .30 caliber round from the bolt action rifle slammed into Jud’s left temple from a distance of three feet.

*

 

Isaac was at his home in Corbin, Kentucky having iced tea on his front porch with another of his drivers, Billy Banks, when the local sheriff turned into his driveway from the state road.

Billy was one of several men on Isaac’s tobacco account. They hauled tobacco from various farms to the cigarette factory in Louisville and got the occasional load of the finished products to distributors in the southeast. It gave Isaac the cover of legitimacy and a way to launder the cash from his more lucrative enterprises.

The sheriff adjusted his western style hat after unfolding his six feet, three inch frame from the late model Chevrolet Impala, glossy from being waxed and polished by inmates at the county jail.

He didn’t remove his mirrored sunglasses until he was within the shade of the house, the pre noon sun having yet to crest the roofline.

“Howdy, Sheriff,” Isaac said. “Care for some sweet tea?” He didn’t know the sheriff well but knew the look of a man on the reluctant mission of delivering bad news.
“No, sir, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Billy here hasn’t been coming off Raccoon Pass runnin’ ninety miles an hour again has he?”

“No, sir, I ain’t got any bad reports on Billy in a good while. It’s about another of your drivers. Jud Kowoski.”

Isaac fought the panic he felt upon hearing that name emanating from the sheriff’s lips. This can’t be good.

“I’ll get right to it. He was killed in a gunfight with the police after he got caught with a batch of stolen whiskey. They said it was the damnedest thing. Said they told him to come out of the truck with his hands up and he just come out blazing. He shot a deputy in cold blood, so it didn’t leave them much choice but to put him down. I understand he was in Korea and I know all about that God forsaken hell hole. Who knows? Maybe the fella just snapped. It happens.”

Isaac was trying to absorb what he was hearing. It didn’t add up. Jed was the most rational person he knew. He would fight if cornered but he wasn’t suicidal.

“This is terrible news. He sure had me fooled. You always take a chance hiring drivers off the street, the way some folks lie about their past. I sent him down to Georgia to pick up a load of peanuts. How in the world could I expect something like this to happen?”

“I promise nobody around here would hold it against you, Mr. Isaac. You’re a respected business man in these parts and had no way of predicting something like this could happen.”

“I appreciate that, Sheriff. This whole thing comes as a shock to me. I just don’t know what to say.”

“I understand. I really do. I have a telegram here from the Sheriffs Office in Knoxville. It has the address of where your truck is and who you need to see down there.”

*

 

Thank-you so much. I think this one is a keeper. This is actually the second draft of this story and once it's completed and polished up will be submitted to Amazon.

I may put some of the first draft that I wrote last year on here at some point just for the heck of it.

I'm starting to pull for the bad guy now and I know he is evil, but we do that in movies too.