SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) (21 page)

“I thought bootleggers knew how to move
fast,” Cy said, shaking his head after snubbing the scow. He looked
across the lock at Kevin who was swinging the gate closed. “Two
full days to get from Harpers Ferry to Swains. You fellas ain’t
exactly the Pony Express.”

Kevin chuckled. “I can’t speak for outlaws,
Cy. But we Emorys like to practice what we call smart boating. Not
fast boating.” He hopped back onto the scow. “Now if more
locktenders was as committed as you are, we might of got here a bit
sooner.”

“I ain’t no locktender,” Cy muttered,
crossing the scow back to the berm. “God help me if I ever sink
that low.” He limped across the grass and disappeared into the
lockhouse.

Tom helped Kevin remove hatch five and the
layer of firewood concealing the barrel. As they propped the
barrel, Cy reappeared and set a five-gallon cask on the deck. Tom
drew a sample from the tap into a tin cup, then handed it to Cy,
who knocked back the whiskey and grimaced. He nodded before turning
back toward the lockhouse.

Kevin smirked at Tom. “I guess he’s buying.”
They wedged Cy’s cask into position beneath the barrel and used
funnels to create a path from the tap to the cask head. Kevin
twisted the tap wide open and whiskey flowed through the funnels
into the cask. As Tom lifted the stoppered cask onto the hatch, Cy
laid down a second five-gallon cask.

“It’s always gratifying to find a customer
who appreciates a quality product,” Kevin said.

“Let’s hope I’m not the only one willing to
pay for it,” Cy said. He carried the first cask into the lockhouse
while Kevin and Tom filled the second and set it on the deck.

Kevin retreated to the cabin, where he knelt
near the bottom stair to pull a metal toolbox out from under the
drop-leaf table. The box had a clamshell top that was held shut by
two clasps and a keyed lock-plate. Kevin gripped the suitcase-style
handle. Heavy enough right now, he thought – at least fifteen
pounds. But it should weigh a lot more after we leave Georgetown.
Let’s give old Cyrus a chance to add his two bits.

He carried the box up to the deck and set it
down against the forward wall of the cabin. Cy had vanished with
the second cask, but he reappeared and limped back onto the
scow.

“Well you just relieved us of ten gallons of
fine whiskey,” Kevin said, removing his hat and running a hand
through sweat-streaked hair. “Tom and I will understand if you want
to keep it all for yourself, but if you was looking to sell, you
should be able to fetch twelve dollars a gallon.”

“That’s about what I reckoned,” Cy said. He
turned to face Kevin with watery eyes bordered by dark rings, and
Kevin noticed that his stubble was tinged with gray.

“Since you’re a repeat customer,” Kevin
said, “and we want to cultivate our relationship further, we’re
going to offer you a favorable price this year.” He paused for
effect and to insert an incremental pinch of tobacco.
“Nine-seventy-five a gallon,” he said.

“That’s no bargain,” Cy said. He glared at
Kevin for a moment. “But so be it. You can have thirty now and the
rest of it on your trip back upstream.”

Kevin stopped working his chaw and squinted
as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Tom let his knife plunge into the
wooden hatch and wobble as he trained his dark eyes on Cy. “You
might of told us you wasn’t prepared to pay cash before you carted
off our whiskey,” he said with a hint of menace to his voice.

Cy gave Tom a dismissive look. “I plan to
pay cash,” he said to Kevin. “But that means thirty now and the
rest on Saturday.” Kevin and Tom exchanged glances but said
nothing. “You don’t like it,” Cy said, “I can give you back your
ten gallons.”

Ten gallons of what, Kevin thought. For all
he knew, someone was already inside the lockhouse, replacing
whiskey with water. Maybe that girl. He walked over to the rail and
spat. “If you want credit, the price is ten-fifty per gallon,” he
said. “We’ll take your thirty now and seventy-five more when we see
you on Saturday.” Cy grunted his acceptance and handed over a small
wad of bills. Kevin confirmed the sum and they shook hands.

Pulling a key chain from his pocket, Kevin
knelt to unlock the toolbox. “Damn, I hate paper money,” he said to
himself, adding the bills to a clip in the main compartment. “And
here I was thinking I’d need the box to make change.” He closed the
latches and locked the box. Standing up, he saw Tom unwinding the
snub-line while Cy waited to open the wickets.

The lockhouse door opened and a figure
emerged. It was Katie, carrying an empty basket. She glanced at the
scow on her way to the side-yard, where she began to pull dry
clothes from a clothesline. Cy and Tom swung the lock-keys as she
passed, and the lock began to drain.

Kevin retrieved the feed bucket from the
hayhouse and carried it to the berm. “I’m glad we was able to work
out your purchase,” he said to Cy, who was watching the water
recede. “We try to keep our whiskey affordable, which means keeping
our costs down.” He smiled at Cy, who radiated indifference. “One
thing we hate to do is pay for coal. Especially since we know coal
is free, for anyone who works around a lock.” He turned and spat
into the lock. “In that spirit, we’d be much obliged if you could
spare us a bucket of canal-company coal from the lockhouse bin. We
picked some up yesterday, but not enough to make it to
Georgetown.”

Cy momentarily looked as if he might throw
the bucket in the canal, but instead took it without a word and
limped toward the lockhouse. Maybe he’s practicing his
salesmanship, Kevin thought, suppressing a chuckle. He watched Cy
enter the lockhouse, then headed for the side-yard. Katie’s back
was turned as she unpinned a blouse from the clothesline and folded
it over the basket. He walked up behind her quietly.

“That sure is a pretty shirt, Miss
Elgin!”

Katie spun like a startled rabbit and the
blouse came unfolded in her hands. Her eyes narrowed when she
recognized Kevin, but she didn’t reply. Kevin extended his hand and
lifted a dangling sleeve to the level of her waist. “I bet that
would look especially nice on you,” he said. He draped the sleeve
along her own and stroked it with his fingers. “I don’t suppose
you’d like to try it on for me and Tom right now, would you?” Katie
stepped backward and stared at him in silence, her hands holding
the blouse at waist level as he wiped the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said, “I’m sorry the three of
us was interrupted last summer while we was getting to know each
other. I think we may get a more favorable opportunity, since we
expect to make several runs down to Georgetown this year.” He
stared at her with narrowed, mirthful eyes as a grin spread across
his face. “We’ll be looking for you!” He winked and hurried to the
walkway as Cy reappeared with the bucket of coal.

Chapter 16
The Big Fish

Tuesday, March 25, 1924

The next morning Kevin piloted the scow down
through Widewater and the mules pulled easier with deeper water
under the hull. Two hundred feet to their left, towering sycamores
flared over the water from the steep pitch of the berm. As
Widewater narrowed, Tom drove the mules along the downstream
portion of the Log Wall, where the towpath crossed from Bear Island
back onto the Maryland shore of the Potomac. Fifty feet below them
the river glimmered through the trees as it drifted away from the
towpath. The canal regained its usual dimensions, running straight
for half a mile, and Kevin trained his eyes on the berm. When he
saw the dirt scar, he cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ho, Tommy! Whoa
now!”

Tom stopped the team and Kevin steered the
scow toward a landing on the berm. He looped a line over the
tiller, waited until the gap was right, and leapt with the coiled
snub line. The scar was a path leading away from the canal, and he
jogged a few steps along it as the bow nudged into the berm. He
tied the snub line to a tree and turned up the path.

For conviction, he spat out his chaw, pulled
the flask from his vest, and knocked back a sip. The whiskey
expanded in his mouth and burned away the residual tobacco juice.
He swallowed and issued an airy whistle of appreciation. “Taste of
money,” he muttered tentatively. “I hope our man agrees.”

The path climbed through the woods to the
macadamized surface of Conduit Road. Across it was a rambling
low-slung house with a dirt driveway and a signpost that read “Old
Angler’s Inn.” The driveway led to a deserted flagstone patio and
the entrance door.

The lobby of the inn was softly lit, with a
low ceiling and paneled walls anchored by a stone fireplace. When
Kevin was greeted by the attendant, he removed his hat and
introduced himself, asking that his name be passed along to a Mr.
Carruthers. Kevin was puzzling over the menu board when Carruthers
arrived, entering from a swinging door at the opposite end of the
room, a white chef’s apron girding his ample waist. Wisps of
receding dark hair were plastered back across his scalp and his
face was beefy and florid, his recessed eyes a leaden color that
reminded Kevin of musket balls. The eyes measured Kevin with a
glance that betrayed no recognition. Jerking his head for Kevin to
follow, Carruthers marched back through the swinging door and into
a hallway before turning abruptly into a small office. Bookcases
topped with mementos, a desk covered with open ledgers, and two
upholstered chairs were its principal contents. When Kevin entered,
Carruthers closed the door behind them.

“Why are you here, Mr. Emory?” He stared
blankly at Kevin with breathing that was audible and wet, like that
of a bulldog.

Kevin nodded in deference before answering.
“My brother and I are distillers. We were referred to you by an
important customer of ours, Mr. Finn Geary.”

Carruthers’ demeanor softened and the
musket-ball eyes reflected a few rays of light. Kevin ran a hand
through his matted hair. “We deliver along the canal, and late last
year Mr. Geary told us to arrange his future deliveries through
you.” He paused to let Carruthers digest the message. “He also said
that doing business would depend on your recommendations.”

Carruthers turned and sat down in one of the
chairs beside the desk. The swell of his belly pushed his thighs
apart, bestowing an aura of tribal authority. He gestured for Kevin
to take the other chair, so Kevin sat down with his hat on his
lap.

“You on your way to Georgetown now?”

Kevin nodded. “We’re tied up a stone’s throw
from here on the canal, on our third day down from Harpers Ferry.
We can offer Mr. Geary two barrels of Washington County whiskey.
Fifty-three gallons each.” He watched the corners of Carruthers’
mouth turn upward, lending a mischievous aspect to the bulldog
face. The wet breaths rose and fell as he studied Kevin.

“Well,” Carruthers said, “I’m no prophet.
Did you bring a sample?”

Kevin smiled warmly. “Of course.” He removed
the flask from his vest pocket and handed it to Carruthers, who
hoisted himself up and retrieved a shot-glass from one of his
bookcases. He dusted its interior with his apron, poured a shot,
and sat down again, swirling the glass and examining its contents.
Holding the glass beneath his nose, he sniffed twice, and Kevin
wondered whether the mouth-breathing was to spare his nose the
prosaic task of respiration. Maybe he needed to save it for
evaluating things that could be consumed. Then Carruthers flicked
his wrist with reptilian quickness and knocked back the shot. He
rubbed his nose and blinked and Kevin saw a watery film linger in
his eyes. Carruthers took a long breath to re-establish his wet and
shallow rhythm.

“It’s OK,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had
worse.” Clearing his throat, he poured himself another half-ounce.
He closed his eyes and drank it in a single sip, holding the
whiskey in his mouth before swallowing. “No aging,” he said.

“Oh, we aged it,” Kevin said with a chuckle.
“Maybe two, three weeks!”

“Geary don’t really need that for his
customers,” Carruthers said, ignoring the joke. “Working stiffs.
Little guys. Drunks. Now the clients we see here wouldn’t touch
your stuff.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Kevin said
softly.

Carruthers twisted the top back on and
handed the flask to Kevin. He fished a pocket watch out of his
pants pocket and examined it. “You know Fletcher’s boathouse?”

“On the four-mile level of Georgetown? About
a mile below Chain Bridge?”

Carruthers nodded and stood up. The film had
receded from his eyes and his bulldog aspect returned. Kevin stood
up as well. “Look for a message on the board at Fletcher’s later
today,” Carruthers said. “By four o’clock. The message will tell
you when and where you can make the delivery.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “What about the
terms?”

“The message will specify the terms as
well.” The bulldog turned mischievous for an instant. “What Mr.
Geary is willing to pay.” Carruthers walked to the swinging door in
the hallway and held it open. The door swung closed on Kevin’s
heels.

He left the inn and walked back across
Conduit Road and down to the canal. The scow was still snubbed
against the berm and Tom appeared to be napping on the edge of the
towpath, hat pulled down over his eyes with his back against a
tree. Kevin surveyed the sky over the river; streaks of low clouds
but enough blue sky that it didn’t look like rain. He dug his pouch
out of his vest pocket, pinched a wad, and inserted it against his
cheek. Four o’clock at Fletcher’s boathouse, he thought, prodding
the tobacco into shape with his tongue. That was somewhere around
mile 3. So they had seven hours to go nine miles and drop through
nine locks. Pretty damn leisurely, and there was nothing wrong with
that.

He was less sure about his visit with
Carruthers. The tasting must have been decent, or why send them to
Fletcher’s? Why not just kick him out of the office? Hell, it was
the same whiskey he and Tom had sold to Geary last year, so the man
should know what he was getting by now. It was definitely good
enough. But what price were they going to get? This system didn’t
seem to leave much room for negotiation. Last year Geary had paid
seven-fifty a gallon, and he probably cut it and sold it for
one-fifty a pint. But last year was only forty gallons – just a
test buy. For a hundred and six gallons, he might want a better
deal.