Clare Vanderpool - Moon Over Manifest

“Not quite.” Jinx frowned, looking at the scale.

Shady rubbed his whiskers. “What time is it?”

“I went fishing at sunup. It’s probably around eight by now.”

“Well, you caught this feller before he could even have breakfast.” Shady shoved a half-eaten apple into the fish’s mouth, sending the arrow over the ten-pound mark. “Even a condemned man gets a last meal. I’d say that fish deserves nothing less.”

Jinx grinned. “I’m pretty hungry myself.”

“You’d better get to scaling if we’re going to have us some fish for breakfast.”

A voice called from the front, “Anybody here?”

Shady peeked out from behind the curtain. “It’s Sheriff Dean,” he whispered to Jinx.

Jinx looked toward the back door, ready to bolt. He’d been able to avoid Sheriff Dean all these months, and even though he seemed to have evaded his past, he didn’t want a face-to-face encounter now. Jinx’s reaction did not slip past Shady. “Be right with you,” Shady called. Then he whispered to Jinx, “He’s coming for his complimentary libations.” That meant his illegal alcohol.

Jinx stood still. Shady had never asked any questions about Jinx’s dealings before he’d come to Manifest. But Shady wasn’t blind and it was painfully obvious that Jinx got nervous anytime Sheriff Dean was within a stone’s throw.

“Son, if I was you, I’d stay here and keep that catfish out of sight or he’s liable to requisition all ten pounds of it.”

Jinx nodded. He stayed behind the curtain and peeked out.

“How do, Sheriff Dean?” Shady hoisted up four jugs full of whiskey and placed them on the bar. “There you go. Your twice-monthly requisition, right on schedule.”

“That it?” Sheriff Dean inquired skeptically.

“Every last drop,” Shady answered, his eyes not meeting the sheriff’s.

Jinx had seen Shady play enough poker hands to know that his friend had no knack for bluffing. There was more alcohol somewhere.

Sheriff Dean poured himself a shot and took a drink. It hit him like a fireball and he gave a wheezy cough. “What’d you put in that? Gasoline?”

“The corn was a little green,” Shady said apologetically.

“Truth is,” Sheriff Dean said, his eyes still watering from the whiskey, “I already got a fire in my belly. There was some trouble over at the Missionary Baptist Tent Revival in Joplin back in October. One fellow ended up dead.”

Jinx caught his breath and felt his knees get weak.

“That must’ve been some revival,” Shady said over his shoulder as he took the jugs two at a time out to the sheriff’s truck.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t die of praying,” Sheriff Dean said when Shady resumed his place at the bar. “He was stabbed. There’s two fellas they’re looking for. One older, one younger.”

“Is that right? Well, October was some time ago. I’m sure those fellas are long gone. I’ll bet you’re relieved that’s out of your jurisdiction.” Shady took up his rag and wiped the bar top to a shine. “I guess the Missouri boys’ll have to deal with it.”

The sheriff hoisted his belly sideways to show off his gun. “If only that were true, Shady. Thing is, one of those Missouri boys, the one that’s sheriff in Joplin, also happens to be my wife’s brother, Leonard Nagelman. Seems as though the whole affair had died down but now he’s got it in his head those fugitives stayed around here. Somebody thinks he saw the older one a few miles from here, near Scammon or Weir. Recognized him from the revival. ‘Keep an eye out,’ he says. Knowing Leonard, he’ll be sniffing around here till he finds someone he can string up, if you know what I mean.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d prefer that he stay on his side of the state line.”

The sheriff started opening cabinets. “Man like yourself, with such a fine establishment, I bet you hear a lot of talk in a place like this,” he said, stepping past the curtain into the back room. His gaze went past the coat hook holding Shady’s raincoat, not noticing the two bare feet sticking out below.

He poked and prodded a bit around the back room, looking in the cookstove and under the table. Just as he was leaving, his foot bumped against the washtub, which gave a not-so-hollow sound. He kicked it over, revealing a jug of whiskey.

Sheriff Dean heaved a sigh. “You been holding out on me, Shady. And I thought we had an agreement. Now, I’m going to need double the amount by tomorrow, or I’ll shut you down.”

“Be reasonable, Sheriff. I can’t make that kind of liquor by tomorrow. It takes over a week to make a quality batch of deep shaft.”

Sheriff Dean caught sight of Jinx’s trout still tipping the scale at ten pounds. He yanked the apple from the fish’s mouth and tossed it to Shady. The scale pointer sagged below the ten-pound mark. “Looks like liquor’s not the only thing you been cheating on.” He slapped the fish onto the table and, in one clean stroke of the hatchet, lopped off its head. “There’s one thing I’d think you’d know about me by now, Shady.” He wrapped the catfish in a piece of newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “I always find what I’m looking for.” He hefted up the jug in the crook of his finger. “I’ll be by tomorrow. And you’ll keep an ear out for any news on those two runaways?”

“Will do.”

Sheriff Dean lumbered out of the place, leaving the screen door open. He cranked up his automobile and sped off, sending a plume of dust to settle on Shady’s clean bar top.

Jinx came out from his hiding spot, still a bit shaken. “Shady, I—”

Shady held up his hand and for a moment said nothing. Then he began again mopping off the dusty bar top. “Some fish get caught for biting and some fish just get caught for being in the wrong part of the pond.” Shady studied Jinx, letting his words find their mark. Then he leaned over the bar top, staring into the sheriff’s half-empty glass of whiskey. “I’m no diviner, but having been in the wrong part of the pond most of my life, I can usually tell which fish bite and which fish don’t. I suspect you may have found yourself in the wrong part of the pond a time or two.”

Jinx felt himself relax a little. “That man’s got you over a barrel,” he sighed.

Shady peered questioningly into the whiskey glass, seeming to look for an answer. “We’re living in drastic times, Jinx. War’s going on and a man trying to make a living gets his legs knocked out from under him by a crooked lawman. Where’s the justice?” Shady’s hand shook as he swallowed the last of the liquor. “Hand me that cork,” he said. “At least I can smell the stuff.”

Jinx picked up the damp cork and sniffed the strong whiskey aroma. He rolled it back and forth in his fingers and sniffed it again. There was something familiar about that smell.

“Give it here. A boy your age has better things to do than sniff hooch. I’d offer you breakfast, but seeing’s how all that’s left of it is an apple core …”

Jinx eyed the cork as if it was gold, then slipped it into his pocket. He hopped off the stool. “Drastic times call for drastic measures, Shady.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means meet me in the alley behind Velma T.’s tonight at midnight,” Jinx called over his shoulder as he let the screen door slam behind him.

The night was dark, lit only by a quarter moon. Shady looked around but could barely see the shed behind Velma T.’s house. He heard a twig snap.

“Hooo, hooo,” he called out, sounding like an owl who’d smoked a few too many stogies.

“Shady, over here, in the shed.”

Shady banged his head on the low doorway. He held his forehead, letting loose a string of oaths. “What’s this all about, Jinx? I’m surprised Velma T. lets you near her place after that explosion in her chemistry class.” Shady stooped to step inside, accidentally kicking one five-gallon jug against another. A dog barked.