Bootleg

[Ciabatta]

Hey guys, it's been awhile since I've been on and I have been cooking up this story for the past week. Thought I could share it and get some reviews.

 

 

Bootleg

 

Episode 1

 

Northern Georgia

April 2, 1924

 

 

The ragged truck made its way down the dusty trail which ran through what seemed like miles and miles of Georgia evergreens and maples. The Southern sun glared off of the hood as the truck edged around the turns and bends. The engine roared and wailed like an angry beast, trying to gnash and claw its way out from underneath the hood. The truck bounced as the thin white-wall tires bumped against the uneven mounds of sand and dirt.

 

The wildlife of the forest stirred as the truck made its way along the path. Deer, squirrels, and rabbits all scattered at the sound of the man-made beast. Birds stopped singing and flew away from their perches as the thundering cacophony of steel and chrome drove deeper and deeper into the forest.

 

The noise of the monstrous truck quieted as the brake pads edged up against the wheels. The miles of forestry now seemed to become sparse as the truck slowed. The scene transformed in the blink of an eye to a bustling forest full of temperate trees and underbrush to a quiet clearing with lush, green grass and a huge, white colonial-style plantation nestled in the middle.

 

Men dressed in light, sweat-stained oxford shirts sat on the front porch staring at the incoming truck, which interrupted their game of poker.

 

“Is this them?” One of the poker players asked as the brakes squealed to a slow stop.

 

One man in a cabbie hat threw his cards on the table and got up from his wicker chair.

 

“I believe these are our boys,” The cabbie said as he walked off of the porch towards the truck.

 

The driver-side door of the truck swung open and a man dressed in a khaki suit with a crimson and gold bow-tie stepped out. The passenger side door opened and a man dressed in a dark suit with a white pocket square poking out of the left pocket exited the ragged truck. Both of the men stood in front of the truck, their clean, crisp suits juxtaposed to the dirty jalopy of a truck.

 

“Gentlemen,” The cabbie yelled boisterously in a Southern twang as he approached the two suits. “How are we on this wonderful, gracious day in the presence of Gah almighty?”

 

“Johnnie Levans…right?” The driver-side suit asked. The suit’s accent was more of a drawl, slow and deep compared to Johnnie’s.

“Damn straight, now ya’ll are-lemme guess-Marcus Betchman,” Johnnie pointed at the passenger suit first. “And Hugh Skinner.”

 

“That’s correct, how could you tell,” Hugh’s voice was Southern but not like Johnnie or Marcus’. It was refined and crisp. There was only one place an accent like that could come from, Johnnie thought, Atlanta.

 

“I couldn’t. Ya both are city boys, ta me. Sorry if I’m offendin’ either one of you…fine gentlemen,” Johnnie slowed down his voice and imitated the Atlanta air that was in Hugh’s voice.

 

“Mistah Levans, I don’t mind a lil’ banter but can we just get this done?” Marcus asked, sweat beads rolled down his forehead from underneath the swath of blonde hair.

 

“Get what done, Mr. Betchman? I got all damn day to spen’ out here, you two don’t. But you need me from what I hear, so do ya’ll wanna sit around and try to light my fire or did ya’ll come to strike a deal?”

 

Marcus and Hugh looked at each other and stayed silent as they slowly turned back towards Johnnie.

 

“Tha’s what I thought. Now before we go wheelin’ and dealin’, you boys mind if I finish a small game of poker?”

 

“That’s fine, Mr. Levans.” Hugh said, trying to please the riled up host.

 

“Well c’mon boys, this is a perfect time to meet some of my associates and, well maybe, your new business partners.” Johnnie turned away from the two and headed back to the porch of the large plantation home.

 

The crew on the front porch measured up the two finely dressed men, as they made their way up the porch stairs. Their leather shoes clunked along the wooden steps. They noticed Marcus’ white pocket square, poking out far enough to where the naked eye from a distance could read the periwinkle blue monogram on it: MBQ. They noticed Hugh’s crimson and gold bowtie which seemed to exhibit a form of arrogance.

 

“Boys, these are my two new frens. This son bitch with the pocket square is Mistah Marcus Betchman, while the man with the bowtie is Atlanta’s very own, Hugh Skinner.” The crew grumbled in unison something that sounded like, ‘hi’ as they stared at their cards. Johnnie took his seat and picked his deck up.

 

“Now this hoss of a man to my right is Wit Yarbrough,” Johnnie pointed to the man on his left while keeping his cards together with his right hand. Wit was larger than all of the men sitting around the table; he seemed to be made up of more muscle than fat. His shape was that of a railroad worker, bulky strong arms with a barrel chest which stuck out for miles. He nodded at the two city boys before he went back to looking at his hand.

 

“The sorry son bitch across from me is another good buddy, Bobby Gillam.”

 

“Pleased to meet ya,” Bobby said from underneath a boater hat, his focus completely on the cards making his introduction less sincere. He was the skinniest out of the whole group. His demeanor gave off of an intimidating quality, a feeling of discomfort.

 

“And the low-country man to my right c’here, and I will raise you Wit, is Skip Pederson.”

 

“Nice to see ya,” Skip addressed the two city slickers as he folded his hand before the other card players. Skip was the least intimidating out of all of them. His demeanor seemed friendlier than either Bobby or Wit.

 

“Oh c’mon, Skip! Where are ya balls, boy?” Bobby yelled at Skip.

 

“Lay off it, Bobby. Hell I done beat you nine out of the last god damn ten.”

 

“Can it, both of you!” Johnnie yelled at his two lackeys. He took another look at his hand and then threw his cards on the table, following in Skip’s decision. “I guess that does me in too. Alright boys, ya’ll have fun I’m gonna tend to our future business partners for awhile.”

 

Johnnie got up and walked past Hugh and Marcus who just tipped their heads to the rest of the crew. They then proceeded to follow Johnnie as he made his way to the other end of the wrap-around porch. As they turned the corner of the porch, the forestry scene opened up and revealed a calm, wide river. The sun sparkled off of the crests of the flowing muddy water. A small wooden boat sat at the edge of a muddy shore which was only about a hundred yards away from the back porch of the plantation.

 

“And that there gentlemen is what ya’ll refer to as the Chattahoochee River,” Johnnie continued to walk on, the porch led to a large back deck with wicker chairs randomly scattered throughout.

 

“So how does your operation work, Mr. Levans?” Hugh asked, looking up and down the river spotting small cottages and houses along the body of water.

 

“Well the Chattahoochee flows all the way down Georgia, all along the way I got boys who make some of the finest rut-gut you’ve evah tasted. Yes suh, this is the gateway for drink,” Johnnie stopped at the edge of the back porch, as he reveled in the sound of the river as if it was his tour de force.

 

“So where will we get our supply?” Marcus asked.

 

“Anywhere and everywhere I got men firing up stills. Hell this river goes damn near all the way to Thomasville. Most of my stuff comes from right near here in Gainesville. More of it is in Norcross but that’s close enough to some of my finest customers in Atlanta. On second thought you boys might get yer stuff from Norcross, I reckon.”

 

“And how much is it gonna cost us?” Hugh turned away from the river and looked at Johnnie, squinting through the glare of the sun.

 

“I reckon about $5,000 for the first load and $10,000 for the second. Now those are fren prices.” Johnnie told the two.

 

“Friend prices? Really? Sounds like we’re gettin’ screwed by a bumpkin, Hugh.”

 

“I reckon.”

 

“Now boys, this ain’t the time to bash the seller of milk and honey. Let’s make a deal here. I mean damn, I jus’ don’t understand why you boys haven’t even gone to Vernon Poteat yet.”

 

Both of the men glared at Johnnie, the name seemed to invoke anger and hatred.

 

“’Cause Vernon Poteat is a thug. His operation is full of ni**er-loving sons of bitches. And we don’t want to end up in the paper next to Vernon Poteat.” Hugh lashed out.

 

“Hell then, more reason for us to talk then, huh?” Johnnie tried to ease the situation.

 

“I guess so.” Marcus said, the tension started to relax.

 

“How about $3,000 for the first and every other is $8,000?” Johnnie held his hand out for the two men to shake.

 

Marcus nodded at Hugh and then Hugh gave Johnnie a firm handshake. Johnnie smiled his grin devilish from ear-to-ear. As he tried to pull his arm away from the handshake, he noticed Hugh was not letting go. Marcus laughed and pulled a gun out from his waistband. Johnnie’s smile faded quickly as his expression contorted into a face full of fear and cowardice.

 

Marcus aimed the gun at Johnnie’s head.

 

“Boys!” Johnnie cried out before Marcus clenched the trigger.

 

The blast was heard from everywhere, scaring birds out of the trees echoing along the river. The loud clunking of footsteps from the other side of the porch was heard as Johnnie’s men scrambled to see what happened.

Then, out of nowhere two blasts from a pistol rang out and two thuds against the porch sounded before Hugh and Marcus could take cover from the oncoming posse. Hugh and Marcus looked down the porch and saw Skip Pederson approaching them, the cold steel of a pistol clenched in his left hand.

 

“Good save, Skip.” Hugh said as Skip put his pistol back in the waistband of his slacks.

 

“Are we done here?” Skip asked the two.

 

“Yes sir and on the way back can you tell me and Hugh how the River system works, I think ol’ Johnnie left us out on the details.”

Edited April 3, 2010 by Ciabatta

[Canofceleri]

I started reading this and was like, wow. You write well, the opening paragraphs really drew me in as it seemed like you really took care with your descriptions. For me though, it goes downhill after you introduce the characters and start letting them talk, which is pretty integral to the story I take it. The dialogue just didn't ring true to me, the characterizations and way you described the men in suits seemed clunky. The accents came off oddly too. However, I'd like to see where it goes, it certainly opened up well and you seem to be pretty darn capable of some good writing.

[Ciabatta]

Thanks for the feedback. I had the idea for this story earlier in the week. I wanted to write about prohibition and its effects on the South. Not necessarily the South that Johnnie lives in (i.e. backwoods, hillbillies, rednecks, Klan members, etc.). I wanted it to be more about the 'refined Southerner'. I'm talking about people living in places like Atlanta, Nashville, Louisville, Greensboro, Birmingham, and so forth.

 

The only problem was while in the midst of writing I had all these ideas of where I wanted to take the story. I think that's why my dialogue and characterizations seemed a little off-kilter. But I will take your comments into consideration for the next chapter.

[Ciabatta]

Episode 2

 

Atlanta, Georgia

April 12

 

The light inside of the apartment room was overshadowed by the frequent flashes of the rainstorm outside. The trickle of rain on the windows around the living room seemed to fit in with the boastful trumpet wails of “It Had to Be You” by Isham Jones & his Orchestra coming from the phonograph in the far right corner of the furnished living room. The drum was made louder by the sound of leather tapping against the hardwood floors of the apartment as a gentlemen sitting on a large, Victorian chair read the Atlanta Journal, with his one leg crossed over the other.

 

His face was buried in the paper, the only thing visible if one walked into the room would be his body and the smoke from his corn cob pipe emitting from behind the print. Then, the music ended and the only that was heard was the phonograph needle playing the dirty hiss of the last few filler lines of the record. The gentleman got up, the corn cob pipe still hanging from the left side of his square mouth. He walked over to the phonograph, his slick, black hair glistening underneath the light of the apartment building.

 

He picked up the needle of the phonograph and placed it on top of its cradle and then turned the player off. He took another few puffs of his corn cob pipe and headed back over to the newspaper. As he sat down, another streak of lightning ripped through the night sky closely followed by the boom of thunder. The gentleman picked the Journal back up and flipped back to his page, not paying any mind to the thunderous spring storm.

 

Before he could get back into reading there was a rap on the door, the gentleman ignored it at first, his attention paid solely on the paper. After a few seconds, the raps got louder. The gentleman finally got out of the chair, throwing his paper behind him. He straightened his brown suit jacket out and buttoned the top button before moving. After doing so, he headed for the door irritated.

 

Who could be knocking at a time like this, he thought.

 

He took the corn cob pipe out of his mouth with his left hand, he unlocked all of the locks and bolts with his left. He opened the door and standing in the door way was a man dressed in a sopping wet trench coat and derby hat.

 

“Oh Mr. Gaithers,” The gentleman sighed. “What a pleasant surprise. What’s it this time? You wanna check for booze again? I can assure you sir, I ain’t got nothin’ you want.”

 

“You look glad to see me,” Mr. Gaithers said as rain dripped from his clothes onto the carpeted floor of the outside apartment hall.

 

“Ecstatic,” The gentleman smirked.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“As long as you’re not tryin’ to serve me with a subpoena,”

 

“No,” The gentleman in the brown suit got out of the doorway immediately after Mr. Gaithers spoke. The gentleman made his way back to the chair while Mr. Gaithers closed the door and hung his trench coat on the wooden valet stand. “I actually came to talk about a proposition for you.”

 

The gentleman threw the Journal onto the floor and sat in his cushioned chair. “Proposition, huh? Well if it’s about givin’ any of my investments away, I just can’t do it.”

 

“This is an investment, Vernon.” Mr. Gaithers walked over to a Victorian-styled couch which sat across from Vernon’s cushioned seat in the left corner of the living space.

 

“Oh really? Then, speak on it Frank.”

 

“As you might have heard Jim Doolen is stepping down from his seat in the Georgia Senate. You may also know that I am going after his seat this year.”

 

“I read it in the Journal, a few days ago. But I wanna tell you Frank if you come to talk politics, you’re coming to the wrong building.” Vernon took the pipe out of his mouth and tipped the ash into a glass tray on the small wooden stand next to his chair. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small brown bag of tobacco.

 

“Who said anything about politics? Consider this as an opportunity to protect your interests.” Frank said as Vernon carefully placed his tobacco inside the small opening of the pipe.

 

“So what’s the opportunity?” Vernon closed his bag of tobacco and placed it on the stand next to the ash tray.

 

“I’m going in on the prohibition ticket, many people like it. I got a long list of family men and women lined up to vote Francis Lamar Gaithers. Yet due to my noble position as district attorney of Atlanta for the past-“

 

“Noble? You’re blowin’ smoke up my ass first off if you considered what you were doin’ as the D.A. noble. You put a lot a people who had a decent livin’ outta work.” Vernon interrupted; the cynical tone made Frank bat an eye.

 

“What they did was illegal, Vernon. What you’re doing is illegal.”

 

“Says who? The men in Washington who think they’re fulfillin’ some kind of moral and social imperative? It’s bullsh*t, Frank and you know it.” Vernon took out a box of matches from the same pocket he took his bag of tobacco from. He slid the cardboard box open and struck the wax tip against the flint on the box. The match sparked and then caught flame in the blink of an eye. Vernon took the tiny flame and put it into the tobacco bowl and inhaled a few times until the tobacco became lit.

 

“Frank, we grew up together. Went to the same school and years later I was in court defendin’ myself from you. All that went to your head, Frank.”

 

“I’m sorry Vernon if you’re career choice turned out to be illegal a few years down the line but I did what I had to do. I came here with an opportunity to right some wrongs. Do you wanna hear me out or bitch about the past?”

 

Vernon paused; taking a few drags from the blended tobacco he then blew the smoke out into the air of his luxury apartment.

 

“Let’s hear it,”

 

“Like I said, Vernon, I got families lining up to vote for me but Atlanta’s minority voter is family men and women. The people who love you in this town, the restaurateurs, the juke joint owners, the socialites, they are the majority. And you know as well as I do that every goddamn one o’ them is gonna try to vote for Harlan Walker. Hell I put more than half your friends in jail.”

 

“I know.” Vernon said distastefully.

 

“Anyway, I want you to help me out. I want you to win some votes for me.”

 

Vernon sat in his chair stunned his pipe halfway hanging from the right side of his mouth. All he managed to muster in response was chuckling laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Frank asked dumbfounded.

 

“You expect me to just walk into one of my buddies’ bars and say, ‘Hey everybody vote for Frank Gaithers’. I’ll get laughed out of Atlanta.”

 

“I haven’t even told you the good part of all this, Vernon.”

 

“And what might that be, besides the fact that people will want me to be in a picture show with Charlie Chaplin?”

 

“If I get voted in, you and your friends will have nothing to worry about. The D.A., the judges, everything will be taken care of. You will have all of Atlanta, hell all of Georgia to operate in, without a worry in the world. Anything you do will be looked down upon but turned away from. Do you understand?”

 

“This sounds like a deal with the devil. I feel like I’m sellin’ my soul to you.” Vernon laughed.

 

“Like I said, I’m just tryin’ to right some wrongs.” Frank stared at Vernon; his face was sincere making his words actually sound genuine. Another streak of lightning flashed across the window, illuminating Vernon’s confused look.

 

“But why, Frank? Why now? After five years of getting everyone you know locked away.” The thunder rolled as Vernon questioned Frank’s motives.

 

“Because Vernon I had to do what was best for my career and my future. I wasn’t puttin’ everyone away for sh*ts and giggles. I did it to come to this point. I want a career in Washington and gettin’ my foot in the door as D.A. was the route. I am truly sorry for what happened between you and me in the past. But I promise you, in the next four years you will be golden. You will have Judge Redmond in your corner, Shea, Goss, and even this kid I have been training for the past two years to be my successor. You’ll have it all. I just need the votes.”

 

Vernon puffed the last bits of tobacco and then knocked the ashes out of his pipe. He placed the pipe on the wooden stand. He looked at Frank and huffed. Five years of sh*t, Vernon thought. You want to forgive him for five years? It just makes no sense. None of it does. Why the hell should I help him? But if I got everyone in my pocket, I will be set. That means more breathing room, more money. Oh hell with it.

 

“Frank, I’ll get you the votes. I want a promise from you that you will not turn on me, no matter what happens.”

 

“Oh absolutely,”

 

“Frank,” Vernon quipped; the seriousness in his face was accentuated by another flash of lightning. “this is serious. No matter what happens, I do not want any of ya government buddies on me.”

 

“Just get me the votes,”

 

“Then it looks like we have a deal.”

 

Frank got up from his seat, Vernon followed. The two men approached each other and shook hands. Frank turned towards the door. Vernon walked right behind.

 

“Now Frank, I’d say in order to commemorate this deal you should come with me to Louisville.”

 

“To the Derby? I’m not a gamblin’ man, Vernon.” Frank put his wet trench coat and derby back on, the coat still drenched in spring rain.

 

“You don’t have to gamble, Frank. A lot of pretty belles there lookin’ for a beau like yourself. You’re not engaged are you?”

 

“I’m afraid not, all my affairs with the D.A.’s office have kept me wrapped up in work rather than women.”

 

“You mean Frank Gaithers hasn’t had time for women? You have changed, Frank. I figured as the D.A. you’d have all sorts of pretty little thangs all over you.”

 

“Yeah, I know. It’s a shame, I missed the old days before Volstead. There was a lot more to do and see rather than just bust people for a little bit of wine and drink.”

 

“So you wanna come?”

 

“You know what, Vernon, I’d love to.” Vernon held his hand out to Frank and they shook once more before Frank exited out of the apartment. Another flash of lightning filled the room as the door shut behind Frank.

Edited April 13, 2010 by Ciabatta

[Nicholas.]

I was bored, so I went on here and looking for something interesting. Well, I found it. Your writing technique is pretty good, for some reason it reminds me of a mix between "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Pulp Fiction". It really is nice. I hope to see the rest soon.

[Tyler]

I did indeed like you descriptions. Though rhedundant, they were very well placed compared to narrative.

 

 

That said, you could touch up the dialouge a bit my friend. It's shaunty at times, and hard to picture someone from atlanta with a clear concise accent for me, but apart from that I say this is very good yeh?