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224 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1969
Bud's dad, at the table across from Mr. Baylor [the sheriff], said, "Now wait a minute before you say too much."
Mr. Blackwell had once been as smart-mouthed and sure of himself as Bud; he was an older, smaller version, now balding and wearing a Teddy Roosevelt mustache to make up for his bare expanse of forehead. "[Frank] Long had a gun on Bud when he hit him."
"Is that right?" Mr. Baylor said. "Well, if you were there, then you saw your little sonny boy pull a bone-handle knife before he got his ears beat off."
"Who told you that?"
"Your other boy, Raymond. Now, if you're through I'm going to tell you how things are."
"They aren't going to sneak up on us," Bud Blackwell said. "You wait and see when they try it on us."
Every once in a while, Mr. Baylor remembered his blood pressure and his seventy-three-year-old heart and would make himself breathe slowly with his mouth closed. To fall dead while beating Bud Blackwell with a pick handle wouldn't be too bad; but to go out screaming at him and slobbering and popping all the veins in his face would leave the memory of a mess they had to clean up before they put him in a box.
Mr. Baylor said to Bud, "What happens if you shoot a federal Prohibition officer?"
"They bury the son of a bitch," Bud grinned. "If'n they can find him."
Mr. Baylor had breathed slowly in and out enough that he was still in control, a kindly and wise old man. He said, "Bud, honey, that's true. But you know what else happens? Whether they find him or not, you got the whole United States Government after you, because they know where that boy was going and who he was to see."
Frank Long and Son Martin served together in the Big War. They're not exactly close friends. Son's sitting on a hundred and fifty barrels of primo corn whiskey that's been aging for at least eight years back home in Marletta, Kentucky.
It's worth more than 150 thousand dollars in Prohibition era money.
Everyone wants to know where Son's late father's whiskey horde is hidden but Son's not a guy given to casual conversation.
Except for just that one time, back in the war getting drunk with his then-good buddy Frank Long, Son was drunk and let slip the secret of the magic horde.
Since then, Son's sworn a vow of silence akin to "Frank Mansfield" in Charles Willeford's Cockfighter.
Frank Long wants that whiskey but makes a massive miscalculation and engages the services of a Dr. Taulbee - bootlegger from Louisville with connections to all the big, bad, wooly boys from big cities as far away as Cincinnati.
Everything goes to bloody hell.
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