Whisky Money

1932

“The human spirit knows few bounds. It is capable of overcoming almost any adversity, no matter how bleak the circumstances become, as long as there is an end in sight. But in that summer of 1932, the end of the Great Depression was far from in sight for the millions of suffering people in a world that seemed to have been turned upside down.

The beginning of the decade of the 1930’s was certainly one of the bleakest periods in our nation’s history. There were few jobs and many ordinary Americans were forced into living on the streets, unable to afford even basic housing. Tens of thousands travelled the roads and rails across America looking for work. Many more just gave up and became part of an army of lost souls, traveling the rails to wherever it took them. And it wasn’t just the United States that was suffering. It seemed the whole planet was coming apart at the seams.

At the end of the 1920s, the United States boasted the largest economy in the world. She had proved her might upon entering the war in Europe and helped defeat the Axis powers. With the destruction wrought by World War I, Europeans struggled while Americans flourished. It was America’s decade, the “Roaring Twenties.” Then, in America’s moment of apparent triumph, everything fell apart. The stock market crash of 1929 helped touch off a chain of events that plunged the United States, and the rest of the world, into the longest, deepest economic crisis of its history.

For the farmers of Iowa and the heartland, however, the hard times began long before the crash of 29. During the war years of 1914 through 1918, the mighty agricultural engine of America fed a world that was too busy fighting to feed itself. But after the end of hostilities, Europe was able to again produce enough food for its people. The American farmers, whose innovation and ingenuity had created a revolution in farming methods and an ever-growing agricultural industry, found themselves with increasing surpluses and plunging prices.

With nearly one in four Americans unemployed, panic in the banking industry and a worsening drought in the mid-west that was turning even more land into dust bowls, hard times were now upon all of America.

The children that grew up in those hard times were strengthened by the adversity they suffered and blessed with strong character, passed on to them by their parents. They were the soldiers who would fight and win a world war, then return to America and become part of the greatest generation the world had ever known. This greatest generation also included the young women that kept the farms and factories producing while the men were away and all the others who served in many different ways. In the early years of the great depression, they were just getting a start in life. The two boys working in a dusty Iowa hay field on a hot summer day became part of that generation. And that is where this story begins.

“Better get Whisky headed for the barn,” Sean yelled. “That storm’s comin’ in fast. Sean could feel the storm approaching as he looked off to the west at the gathering clouds. The angry black thunderhead was roiling and churning, and the wind was picking up in gusts straight out of the west. A sudden flash of lightening, close enough to make the hair on his arms stand up, was followed by a clap of thunder so intense it caused the ground to shake and Sean’s ears to ring. Mother Nature had her dander up and she was about to throw a fit.

It had been another unbearably hot day in a long spell of unbearably hot days. The temperature had reached 80 degrees by the time the boys finished the chores and headed out to the hayfield. And it had been dry. So dry that crops were suffering from lack of moisture and the hay that the boys were loading was thin and sparse and covered with dust that had blown from the barren fields. The sudden drop of temperature from the high 90’s would have been welcome relief had it not been accompanied by such an ominous and threatening sky. All afternoon the humidity had been so high that it was impossible to cool off. The human body’s cooling system, the evaporation of the sweat that drenched the skin and soaked the shirt and hatband, could not occur as rapidly as it should. The air was already so wet it could not absorb the moisture, making the heat all the more unbearable. It was Iowa and it was August.

Sean Tierney, almost 15 years old, and his brother Finn, two years his junior, had been putting up hay in the field west of the red barn. Sean always liked the sweet smell of new-mowed hay. It was one of the few pleasures associated with this otherwise hard and dirty task. He had been pitching the loose hay onto the wagon while Finn, standing on the platform of the old steel-wheeled wagon, stacked the hay as tight as he could so it would stand the trip to the barn without sliding off. Finn was also minding the reins, loosely wrapped around the tee-shaped wooden hitching post on the front of the wagon. The black leather reins were attached, at the other end, to Whisky, the old Belgian draft horse that pulled the wagon. Whisky was chestnut in color, with a white star on his forehead and a white sock on his left hind leg. Standing almost 17 hands tall, Whisky was nearly 1800 lbs. of muscle. And he was an intelligent horse, mastering many tricks such as lifting someone’s cap from their head by its visor and then putting it back, or removing a handkerchief from a pocket while searching for a hidden treat. Whisky presented a good example of one of the benefits of farming with horses. He knew and responded to voice commands. Finn only needed to tell him to move forward and when to stop. At times, it seemed Whisky was almost smart enough to move the wagon as needed without being told.

The sudden clap of thunder frightened the normally docile horse. Finn grabbed the reins and struggled to keep him under control. “Whoa-there Big Fella!” Finn called out in the best imitation of his grandfather that he could do with his still youthful voice.

When he wasn’t frightened, Whisky seemed to enjoy the work, although it was unusual for a horse to be providing power in this age of tractors. He could usually be found in the pasture adjoining the barn, resting in the shade of a towering bur oak tree. After his lifelong team-mate, Gypsy, pulled his last load and succumbed to age, Whisky was retired from the heavy work he had done all his life. But sometimes he was used to do some of the easier tasks on the farm. Sean and Finn both felt a closeness to the old draft horse. He and Gypsy had been on the farm much longer than either of them, and they had learned to handle a team and farm implements behind the gentle pair.

By the 1930’s, handling horses was a skill not many boys had learned or would ever need. Tractors were quickly replacing the large draft horses that once were the source of power on the farm. Their grandfather had a tractor and modern implements, of course, but Gramps could never bring himself to sell his last team. Whisky was the younger of the two-horse team and still capable of light work, like pulling the hay wagon. Gramps figured the exercise did him good, and besides, a horse was a lot handier for the stop and go of loading hay than a tractor was. Whisky always seemed to enjoy being with the two boys.

Finn’s words soon had Whisky calmed enough to head towards the barn as the storm quickly approached. The boys barely managed to get the old wagon, with its load of fresh hay, backed into the shelter under the hay mow before the torrent struck. The sky had darkened to an eerie shade of black and green as the wind picked up and drove the rain almost sideways, bending the trees to the point where they seemed to almost moan. Streaks of lightening took turns lighting up the darkened sky and the thunder felt as if it were right on top of them as they breathed the damp-smelling air.

“Looks like we’re stuck in this damn barn for a while,” Finn complained as he began removing the collar and harness from Whisky. “Ain’t gonna try to get to the house till it lets up a bit.”

“It’ll let up before long,” Sean assured his brother as he peered up at the sky from the shelter of the roof. “Wouldn’t hurt ya ta get out in it and get a bath, though. Can’t tell which smells worse, this old barn or your sweaty butt.”

“You don’t exactly smell like a fresh daisy yourself,” Finn shot back.

“Well, when you work like a horse, I guess you’re gonna smell like one,” Sean retorted.

Although the two boys liked to tease each other, it was all in fun and their banter seldom got too mean or spiteful. Finn admired his older brother, although he seldom admitted it. And Sean felt a close bond with his younger sibling, protecting and guiding him at times when he needed it. Although only two years older than Finn, Sean almost was like a surrogate for the father that they never knew.

“At least we got most of the hay in before it hit,” Sean added. “Gramps ain’t gonna be too happy ’bout us not getting it all in, though.”

“Well we worked as hard as we could,” Finn retorted. “Gramps is always tellin’ us how we got to work hard to get what we want. Nobody is gonna give it to us.”

“Gramps would know,” Sean replied. “He’s sure worked hard all his life.”

“Yeah, like hard work ever did him any good though” Finn retorted. “Worked his butt off all his life and what’s he got to show for it? Nothin’ but a rundown farmhouse and 240 acres of rocks and weeds.”

“Take it easy there, Finn.” Sean shot back, somewhat surprised at Finn’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Gramps ain’t done half bad for a man with only one leg.”

“Yeh, you’re right, I guess,” Finn conceded. “But that’s another thing about Gramps, he never talks about stuff like that. Why don’t he ever talk about it? You ever want to know more about how he lost his leg? More than just what Ma told us? We know that he was once a policeman and he was trying to stop a robbery when he got shot? But who shot him? Where was the robbery happening? Is that why he became a farmer instead of a policeman?”

“Oh, I been curious at times,” Sean admitted. “But I figure if Gramps wanted us to know those things, he’d a told us by now. And I bet there’s lots a folks that would like to have this here 240 acres of rocks and weeds, as you call it. Gramps made it one of the best farms around. Bet my soul on that.”

Sean was right. The Tierney farm was actually one of the better farms in this part of south-central Iowa during these depression times. The fences were kept in good order and most of the rocks that had worked their way to the surface of the rich black crop land over the years, had been hauled off to the ditch. It was fairly level river bottom land and well drained by a system of underground tile and surface waterways. Aiden Tierney had seen to that, even though he couldn’t dig a tile trench himself. Using a spade was one of the few things that his prosthetic leg kept him from doing, except in an emergency.

Aiden and his wife Suzanne had bought the place with the help of money awarded to Aiden by the Des Moines Police Benevolent Society. Aiden was forced to retire from the police department after a bullet from a fleeing robber’s gun shattered the bone in his lower left leg, resulting in amputation. Aiden would sometimes quip that he didn’t give an arm and a leg for the farm, just a leg.

Farming was always in Aiden’s blood. He had spent his childhood on his family’s rented farm near Van Meter, Iowa. He, like his late wife Suzanne, was the child of immigrants. Aiden’s parents, Daniel and Emma, had come to America from County Antrim in Northern Ireland. Their relatives, who had already established homes and farms here, had loaned them money to help with the cost of the journey and rented them land to farm. Several of these relatives had come to Dallas County, Iowa soon after the Civil War, and established farms on the rich black soil along the Raccoon River. Never able to put together enough money to purchase land for themselves, Aiden’s parents could provide only a meager subsistence for their family. But they always managed to keep their family of eight well-fed and provided with the necessities of life.

There were three things that Daniel insisted all of his children take to heart. First was the value of honest labor and the satisfaction of finishing a task. Second was an adherence to the Christian faith and the principals of the Christian Church. And third was patriotism and loyalty to their new country. It was, no doubt, because of these principles that Aiden answered his calling to help others and serve his God and his country by joining the Des Moines Police Force.

Suzanne’s parents, Paul and Florence Marchand, had immigrated from the Alcase region of France in the late 1800’s. With what little money they could scrape together, they had set up a small French bakery on Des Moines’ east side near the new capital building. Suzanne worked at the bakery from the time she was old enough to learn the fine art of making baquettes and wrapping them in baker’s paper to sell. Dianne, her younger sister by a year, also learned the bakery trade and worked alongside Suzanne. By the time she was sixteen and Dianne was fifteen, customers began noticing the attractive brunette, blue eyed and always cheerful teens that worked behind the counter of the little French bakery and coffee shop. This was especially true of the younger men who came in to buy a French pastry and flirt with the girls. The business did well for the hard-working Marchand family and they were well-respected.

It wasn’t surprising that a young rookie police officer, whose beat included the business district east of the Des Moines river all the way to the new gold-domed capital building, soon noticed Suzanne Marchand. She had just turned eighteen when he first stopped at the French bakery, after noticing the sign advertising fresh baked goods. It wasn’t long before he was making the bakery and coffee bar a regular stop. He even learned to pronounce brioche and café noisette. A year after they first met, Aiden asked Suzanne to marry him.

Sean had guessed wrong about the storm blowing over quickly. Instead of letting up, its fury was intensifying. The water pouring off the barn roof, in front of the opening to their cave-like shelter under the hay mow, was cascading down like a waterfall. Sean and Finn lay on top of the load of hay waiting for the rain to let up as the darkened sky made it feel like late evening rather than late afternoon.

“Wadda you s’pose our pop would a been like?” Finn asked as he stared at the ceiling of the shed about two feet above him. “Think he would a been like Gramps?”

“Don’t reckon I know the answer to that,” Sean replied, after tossing the question around in his mind. “That picture Ma has of him in his uniform sure looks like the picture of Gramps in his police uniform. They were both handsome fellas in their day. Course, a uniform can make anyone look good. Might even make your ugly mug look better.”

“Seriously Sean, you ever wonder what woulda happened if our father hadn’t died?” What our lives would be like now?” Finn continued.

Sean stuck a stem of brome grass between his teeth and gazed up at a barn beam for a short time before answering, “Sure, I think about it at times. Can’t help but wonder ‘bout things like that. But it don’t do no good to wonder. Ma’s doing the best she can, and Gramps has been pretty good to us considerin’ we’re only his grandkids. And Granny was awful good to us too. I sure miss her and all those cookies and things she used to bake for us. But we ain’t had it so bad without a real dad.”

“Maybe our pa woulda been like Uncle Deklen,” Finn mused. “I sure hate to think of what it a done to Gramps if he had two Uncle Deklens to put up with. Probably woulda put him in his grave by now.”

“Don’t think our pa would ever be anything like Uncle Deklen. They were two different people,” Sean replied. “Ma wouldn’t have let him do the things Uncle Deklen does. I’ll tell you one thing ’bout Uncle Deklen, though. He has his own way of doing things, and they may not always be straight-up legal, but I swear he’d give you the shirt off his back. Hasn’t he always treated us pretty good?”

“Can’t say he hasn’t,” Finn agreed.

A couple beams of light suddenly penetrated the darkness of the barn and the ah-oooga sound of an electric horn could barely be heard above the noise of the storm. “You boys in here?” Gramps yelled as he rolled down the battered old truck’s window. “Come on and get in the truck. I’ll take you to the house.”

The sound of the shotgun blast was still ringing in his ears as the last of the shattered glass clinked to the floor. “Next time I’m aiming right fer your balls,” the man holding the shotgun angrily wailed. “Now git your ass down the road while you still got it!”

“Now take it easy there, Bill,” Deklen said in a low tone as he held his hands up and slowly started backing away. “I was just leaving.”

“Damn right you were. And don’t ever come back,” the man ordered, still pointing the shotgun at Deklen’s groin. “Go cheat someone else. That shit don’t go in my place.”

When Deklen, felt the opening for the old wooden door, he reached behind him for the knob to give it a quick turn. The knob refused to turn. He looked at the man with the shotgun and a puzzled look came over his face. “It’s locked,” he whispered.

“Well ain’t you a twit?” the man giggled. “Can’t even make a cowardly getaway without lookin’ like some kind a dumbass. Step aside and keep them hands up.”

Deklen Tierney probably wouldn’t have been a gambler and two-bit hustler had it been a different time. But the depression and hard times, that had gripped the country for almost three years now, caused many men to go down paths they might not have otherwise trod. In his early 30’s, Deklen’s youthful appearance and wavy hair were courtesy of genes passed on by his Irish and French parents. His confident smile and rugged swashbuckling appearance even put some in mind of that new movie screen sensation from Australia named Errol Flynn.

Deklen breathed a sigh of relief as he put the Hudson in gear and pushed the gas pedal down. The four-cylinder engine and three-speed transmission was not a combination that would snap your head back on take-off, but it was adequate to get him away from Sharp’s garage and Bill Sharp’s 12-gauge shotgun. What had gotten into Bill? he asked himself. Deklen was probably the only true friend that Bill Sharp had. He had worked for Sharp, from time to time, stripping parts and moving cars around the yard. They had never had a serious disagreement and Deklen had always been welcome at Sharps. No, this wasn’t like Bill Sharp at all. Something was up.

As he fought to control the steering wheel of the Hudson while roaring down the rutted back road that led towards the highway, he felt in his pocket for the wad of bills. Might be a couple hundred dollars in there, he thought to himself. Sure am glad I squirreled that back early in the game ’fore they caught me dealing heavy.

The regular Friday night card game in Sharp’s garage had started out like the hundreds of other games held in the cluttered auto salvage shop. Sharp had been holding the games for several years, not always on Friday night, however. That part was regularly changed, but not because Sharp had any fear of attention from the sheriff, or any local law-enforcement for that matter. Sheriff Harlan Smith was in on the take and had been for some time. Not so much in the usual sense where Sharp would discreetly pass over part of the illicit spoils to him, although that was certainly part of it. There was a different payoff that Sheriff Smith also collected. As long as he protected Sharp, Sheriff Smith could be assured of being reelected every four years. Sharp and his regular customers, many of them the fine law-abiding lawyers, bankers and merchants of the county, easily controlled enough votes to assure the election outcome the sheriff desired. The fact that Sharp’s garage did more than dismantle old hulks for their salvageable parts was one of the worst kept secrets in the County. But other than a few church ladies, who only added it to their long list of grievances with the county sheriff, nobody complained.

Sheriff Smith had no problem with the fact that Sharp also served as the local distributor for three stills operating in well hidden places around the county. The little wood-slab shed behind the garage, that Sharp carefully kept a big padlock on at all times, stored a supply of quart jars, the kind used to preserve fruits and vegetables. But these jars were filled, instead, with a clear liquid often called giggle juice or mule.

One consequence of turning his back on Sharp’s operation, as Sheriff Smith saw it, was the county supervisors did not get their share of the revenue generated by Sharp’s bootlegging. That didn’t bother Sheriff Smith one bit, however. In addition, Sheriff Smith never had to pay for his supply of the rotgut corn whisky that Sharp sold. And with most of the “edge-of-the-law” action concentrated in one place the sheriff could easily keep track of the shadier element in his county.

The one thing that might have caused the sheriff some concern, had he known about it, was the trade that occurred in the large red barn that sat just off the road that went by Sharp’s Salvage Yard. What went on there was way beyond the local sheriff’s wheelhouse. The old barn looked like all the other barns in the area, rundown and in need of paint. The hay mow, that once sheltered cats and raccoons and stored hay under its huge wooden beams, now served a different purpose. Two or three times a month, semi-trucks pulling long cargo vans, their sides adorned with large colorful signs like: “Twin Cities Auto Parts Rebuilding – Motors – Transmissions – Rear Ends” or “Kansas City Auto Parts Salvage,” would pull into the barn. It wasn’t grease-covered Chevy motors and Nash rear-ends that they were hauling, however. These trucks were picking up loads of Canadian Whisky to deliver to all the thirsty customers who wanted something better than the rotgut whisky and bathtub gin that was being sold in most speakeasys and prohibition-dodging establishments.

This wasn’t Sharp’s operation. It was way above his level of corruption too. He had simply leased the barn to some hoods from Chicago at a nice price, always paid in cash. Bill Sharp was small time and preferred to stay that way. He was happy peddling the local product, bad as it was, while selling cars and parts as a cover. The money was steady, and it was a relatively safe way to make money.

Sharp’s old red barn was a perfect location for the Chicago bootleggers. With Des Moines at the center, more or less, of the Twin Cities, Kansas City, Omaha and Chicago, the old barn on a seldom-used back road, served as a distribution point for a syndicate of bootleggers in the mid-west. Trucks would deliver their goods, all the way from Canada, where it was unloaded and stacked in the old barn. Other trucks would come in with their huge cargo boxes empty and leave with them packed full of fine Canadian whisky for the thirsty populace of the major cities of the mid-west.

For Canada, America’s federal Prohibition law, in effect from 1920 to 1933, was a miraculous economic benefit. Prohibition in Canada was mostly ended after WW 1 and Canadians were free to manufacture and export liquor. The American customers, who took possession of it, assumed all the risk. But it was usually a risk worth taking. A case of whisky, bought in Ontario for $15, could be sold in Kansas City or Omaha for $120. It was a profitable trade that attracted some big-time operators.

The Hudson bounced from one side of the road to the other as the tires fell in and out of the deep ruts created by the rain and the extra Friday night traffic. This was what the county considered a low maintenance road. No school bus had to make its way down it and the road did not connect any major thruways, so it mostly got ignored. The people living along it didn’t mind the lack of attention to their road. They were the type of people that preferred as little traffic as possible, especially during the daylight hours. Some Joe, just out for a ride, might notice several deer hanging behind a shed or might wonder why there was smoke rising from a spot that seemed to be in the middle of a patch of timber with no visible trail leading to it.

Unless you lived on that road, the only reason to venture down it, other than to buy a jug of booze or participate in Sharp’s evening hospitality, was Sharp’s auto salvage. The derelict vehicles in the weed-covered pasture that made up his salvage yard, were a variety or rusting and decrepit hulks. It included Model T and Model A Fords, Dodges, Chevys, Stars, Hudsons and a variety of other makes. They were all equal in this their final resting place, the Fords and Chevys and the Cadillacs and Lincolns. Sharp also dealt in used cars, acquired from various questionable sources. He was not always 100% in compliance with the vehicle transfer laws of the state but, with a depression going on, the state did not have the resources to bother with such a small-time and remote operation.

Deklen was getting tired of the miserable rutted road. “Another mile and I’ll hit the pavement,” he whispered to himself. At times like these, he wished he had one of those new car radios. He had always been fascinated by radios and other such electronic marvels, and with the money in his pocket, he intended to buy a car radio and install it in the Hudson. For now, he would just have to provide his own entertainment. Summoning his best baritone voice, he began singing the new Bing Crosby tune:

“Once I built a railroad, made it run,

Made it race against time,

Once I built a railroad, now it’s done, Brother can you spare me a dime”

Deklen was trying to remember the words to the next verse and certainly wasn’t expecting what happened next. It damn near caused him to crap his pants. A voice from behind him, a deep and slightly gravelly female voice, suddenly joined in the song:

“Once I built a tower up to the sun,

Brick and rivet and lime,

Once I built a tower, now it’s done

Brother, can you spare a dime?

“What the hell!” Deklen yelled as he slammed on the brakes, almost losing control of the Hudson. The car stopped just short of sliding off the road as Deklen, still clinging to the steering wheel, quickly turned around. “You scared the bejeebers outta me!” Deklen yelled at the woman. “What in the hell are you doing hidin’ in the back of my car?”

“Sorry ‘bout that, Mister. I needed a quick ride and you were in about as big a hurry to get outta there as I was. I slipped in this tin-can while you were playin’ shotguns and crapped pants with Mr. Sharp,” the woman explained as she eased her slender frame out of the floor well and into the back seat

Deklen yanked back on the emergency brake lever and then quickly reached behind him for the square chrome and plastic light in the middle of the Hudson’s taupe-colored headliner. He felt the little sliding switch and pushed it to on. Under the dim light he could make out a dame, probably in her late twenties, with mousy-blonde hair and brown eyes. She was wearing, near as he could tell, a couture dress of black silk with bands of gold lame. A plunging neckline revealed lots of cleavage. Deklen’s eyes were immediately drawn to her ample bosom, he couldn’t help it. She was a real dish. “You got some explainin’ to do, Kitten,” Deklen said, still looking her over. “And it better be good.”

“Can I get up front?” the woman asked. “Don’t exactly smell like a bed a roses back here. What do you haul in this old heap, anyhow? Smells like the worst rotgut hooch on the planet. Boy, you sure put a bur under that old man’s saddle back there. Heard the whole thing from out in the drive.”

“He just don’t seem to have much of a sense of humor these days,” Deklen replied. “You can get up front if you want but don’t try nothin’ funny. I got no problem with beltin’ a dame if I have to.”

“I bet you don’t,” the woman agreed sarcastically as she opened the door and climbed out of the back. “Name’s Georgia but most folks call me Georgy. You sure you want to hear my story? If you’d just drop me off at the nearest bus depot, we can both go about our business, just like we never met. Won’t have to feel sorry for each other or anything. You got a name, by the way?”

“Sure do,” Deklen replied without giving her his name. “I got nothin’ but time and I just love a good story, so start talkin’, Dollface.”

With the woman in the front seat, Deklen had a better chance of sneaking a few peeks at her. She wasn’t as movie star glamorous as he had thought at first. She had a more common, down-to-earth and deceivingly innocent look about her, almost schoolgirl like. And her smile was more genuine than any movie star’s. Her hair, which showed some brown roots under the blonde color, was bobbed in the flapper-girl style of the day. Her face, accented by a nice jaw line, would have been just as pretty, probably prettier, without all of the make-up she was wearing. The painted-on attempt to look the part of a vamp didn’t work. That just wasn’t her. She couldn’t hide that innocence and schoolgirl sweetness, no matter how much make-up she painted on her face.

“Okay Mister. You asked for it. But it’s a long sad tale so you might want to put the car in gear and start driving towards that bus depot while I tell it,” Georgy exclaimed. “This probably ain’t the best place to sit and flap our jaws.”

Deklen put the car in gear had headed back towards the highway. “You seem to be in a pretty big hurry to get away from there yourself,” Deklen observed as he glanced over at her again. “Somebody after you? Somebody with a buzzer pinned on their chest and a pair of handcuffs in their back pocket, maybe?”

“No coppers after me that I’m aware of. How about you? Anybody after you?” Georgy asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Deklen answered. “Now you gonna tell me your story or am I gonna have to take you back to Sharps?”

“Don’t blow your wig, Mister. I’m getting to it. By the way, what’d you say your name was?”

“Didn’t say,” Deklen replied. “Mister will do just fine. Now tell me what you was doin’ out at Sharp’s. Ain’t no place for a woman, unless you’re a hooker. Is that what you was doin’ out there?”

“I ain’t no hooker!” Georgy angrily screamed. “Don’t you ever call me a hooker!”

“Now whose got their panties in a wad?” Deklen laughed. “Okay, so you wasn’t turnin’ tricks and I sure didn’t notice you playin’ cards. And if you was there to buy car parts or rotgut liquor, you forgot to bring it with you.”

“You ever hear of Archie Williams?” Georgy asked, turning more somber.

“Sure, I heard of him,” Deklen replied. “Wouldn’t know him if I saw him, though. Archie owns a couple speakeasys in Des Moines, I hear tell. Word is, he has some pretty big-time connections with people that you don’t want to get on the bad side of. Always keeps a couple a Brunos close by. What’s Archie got to do with this? You mixed up with him? Maybe I ought to dump you right here. I don’t want nothin’ to do with Archie Williams.”

“Too late, Mister. I didn’t want nothin’ to do with Archie Williams, neither,” Georgy shot back. “That’s why I left him back there. Who do you think you was flim-flammin’ at the table at Sharp’s place? That man saved your ass when he pulled that shotgun and made a big ruckus. Archie woulda put a slug right in the middle of your forehead if he or one a his torpedoes had got the drop on you. You just got yourself on the bad side of Archie Williams without even knowin’ it, Bud. You really should pay more attention to who you’re cheating.”

“Well that’s just great!” Deklen cried out as he slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Look what you’ve done to me! First you tell me I cheated one of the baddest guys around these parts and now, to make it even worse, you’re tellin’ me I’m helpin’ his moll take a powder on him. You might as well just kick me in the balls while you’re at it?”

“Well, you got yourself into this mess,” Georgy shot back. “Can’t blame me for you being a cheap two-bit hustler, now can you? I’m just a sweet innocent girl tryin’ to hitch’ a ride to the bus depot.”

Joanne Tierney sat down her coffee cup and slipped the few bills and change from the day’s business into the small safe in the floor. The old Westminster desk clock next to her purse indicated it was nearly ten minutes past five. It was Friday and Joanne always liked to finish her work before starting the weekend. She was so busy that she hadn’t noticed that Becky had already put on her light jacket and tied a scarf over her hair. “Better put a coat on Jo,” Becky advised. “It’s still coming down pretty hard. Got plans for the weekend?”

“The boys and I are going shopping for school clothes tomorrow” Joanne replied. “They both been out at Aiden’s putting up hay this week. With this rain, they probably quit a little earlier than they had expected. Aiden offered to bring them home, but I told him I kinda enjoyed the drive out in the country. Sure hope the rain lets up, though.”

“How’s Aiden doing since Suzanne died? Becky asked, holding the door for her employer.

“Oh, he’s still adjusting but seems to be doing okay. That’s another reason why I like to pick up the boys. Gives me a chance to check up on him. Well, see you Monday,” Joanne shouted as she pulled the collar up on her jacket and hurried towards her car.

The rain had nearly stopped when Joanne pulled her Model A coupe into the driveway of her small 3-bedroom home. She climbed the two concrete steps to the porch while fishing her keys out of her purse. The keys weren’t needed, however. The unlocked door swung open as soon as she turned the knob. Making a mental note, as she stepped inside, to remind herself to lock the door when she left mornings, she tossed her jacket on a chair and hurried off towards her bedroom to change clothes. As she hurried by, she glanced, as she always did, at the framed picture on the living room wall. “Hello Sweetheart,” she whispered to the picture. “Wish you could see our two boys now. They’re growing up so fast. You would be so very proud of them.”

Joanne was usually more cheerful on Friday evenings. Maybe it was the gloominess after the rain, the lingering clouds, the dampness in the air and the headlights making shadows behind the trees along the road. Maybe it was just her mood. Whatever it was, those same old memories, that had haunted her so many times lately, were once again filling her head as she drove the mostly deserted muddy road that led out to the Aiden Tierney farm. Try as she might to concentrate on something else, her mind was taking her on a familiar journey back to that time. It had been 13 years now. Where had the time gone?

Joanne tried to think back on her childhood. Anything to stop those other memories. She had never travelled far from her hometown of Minburn while growing up. She was a preacher’s kid, and an only child. Her father, the Methodist minister in the little church, the only church in the town of 350 decent, hardworking people, had never had enough money to take the family on a real vacation. But she did have pleasant memories of the train rides to the state fair in Des Moines every year. And once they had all three boarded the train cars and rode all the way to Lake Okoboji, in the northwest corner of the state, for a week-long vacation.

Minburn’s school was better than many schools found in towns even twice its size. The townsfolk saw to that. Minburn Public School offered a curriculum that included more than just the usual vocational and homemaking courses found in small town Iowa schools. They went so far as to offer a few college preparatory classes, something not many other schools its size could do. Of the five girls in Joanne’s graduating class, she was not only the smartest but arguably the prettiest. She could probably have had her pick of the four boys in her class. But Joanne had greater things in mind than staying in Minburn and raising kids. After graduation, and with the support and encouragement of her family and most of the residents of Minburn, she enrolled at Drake University in Des Moines in the fall of 1915. Her dream was to become one of the first female pharmacists in the state.

Patrick Tierney had not had the advantages of a proper high school education like Joanne, although he availed himself of as much education as the country school in his neighborhood could provide. Unfortunately, that ended at about the eighth-grade level, but his ambition and desire to learn wouldn’t let him stop there. Under the dim light of a kerosene lantern, he would stay up late into the night reading everything he could get his hands on. He borrowed books like Howard’s End by E.M. Forster and The Extraordinary Cases of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. He also read newspapers, like “The Des Moines Register and Leader,” whenever he could get his hands on them. Patrick had always had a fascination with law and politics. His dream was to become a lawyer and then a senator or representative. After that, who knows, maybe even governor.

Patrick had not only endeavored to develop his mind but, growing up on the farm, he had developed a very muscular and toned body. Both Patrick and his younger brother Deklen had inherited the best features of their Irish father and French mother. They both had slightly curly amber hair, angular eyebrows and square chin. Deklen, three years younger than Patrick, was already as tall and muscular as his older brother. But unlike Patrick, Deklen hated going to school and had little desire to learn from books.

Since they were small, Deklen had always envied his older brother. It was an envy borne of the realization that he could never measure up to his older sibling. Patrick always seemed to do the right thing, always knew how to please the adults. Deklen, rather than try to measure-up to him, simply gave up it seems. Oh, he loved Patrick and was proud of him, but he also realized he would always be in his shadow, and he resented that.

Patrick had no trouble finding extra work with the farmers of the area when he wasn’t helping his father. One of the farmers who hired Patrick often, D.M. Flynn, raised show cattle on a large modern farm located on the fertile bottom grounds just south of the tiny settlement of Boonville. D.M. liked the young man and saw something more than just a farmhand in Patrick.

Daniel Marion Flynn was a successful farmer and cattleman. He had come to Iowa from his native Indiana a few years after the end of the Civil War. Land was cheap and, with the help of relatives, he managed to purchase some of the best farmground available. Through the years, he raised a family, added to his land holdings, built up a herd of cattle and built a comfortable two-story home overlooking the Raccoon River Valley. Along the way, he made friends with many of the influential people of the area. Now a widower in his 60’s, D.M., as he likes to be called, was in a position to enjoy the fruits of his success. After his children, two daughters and three sons, left the farm to pursue other fields, he rented most of his crop land to neighboring farmers and concentrated on his real love, breeding show cattle. His Hereford cattle were shown in states as far away as Texas and Colorado and many blue ribbons adorned the mantle above the large native stone fireplace in his parlor. Lately, D.M. had been working with Warren Gammon, a young Iowa Hereford breeder from Des Moines, on developing Polled Herefords. Gammon had seized upon the idea of producing the hornless cattle after seeing some on exhibition at the Trans-Mississippi World Fair in Omaha, Nebraska, in 1898.

D.M. enjoyed every part of raising cattle, even the hard labor. He had no problem picking up a pitchfork and working right alongside his hired help. Mucking out a barn together is an excellent way to get to know someone and D.M. and Patrick got to know each other pretty well. It was a hot and humid August day, the kind where a reasonable man would post-pone a job like pitchiing manure until it cooled down a bit. And D.M. Flynn was a reasonable man. “Patrick, my young friend,” he announced as he put down his pitchfork, “I think we shall unhitch these poor suffering horses and adjourn this task until Mother Nature is a bit more cooperative. What do you say?”

“It’s not for me to say,” Patrick replied. “I yield to your excellent judgement.”

“Spoken like a true politician,” D.M. replied with a friendly grin. “Perhaps you would join me in a glass of tea and some conversation. You will remain, as they say in those awful factories in the big cities, on the clock.”

“That being the case,” Patrick smilingly replied as he tried to imitate D.M.’s more learned way of phrasing things “I will allow you to steer the conversation wherever you so desire.”

D.M. led the way to the large farmhouse and invited Patrick into the kitchen. His housekeeper, a portly woman of African descent who went by the name of Salinda, smiled a “short-a-few-teeth” smile as she took the ice pick out of a drawer and chipped some ice off the block in the wooden icebox. Salinda dumped the ice into two glasses and poured some tea in each, then looked at D.M. and Patrick and shook her head. “You two got no business bein’ out in this heat, no business at all. Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t get overhet like that boy over at Ashta did last week. All red in the face and talkin’ senseless, he liked to die ’fore they got him cooled down.”

Patrick pulled a chair up to the table and took a sip of the cool sweet tea. D.M. took the chair opposite him and looked Patrick over for a second before speaking. “What are your plans, young man? A man as ambitious and smart as you must have some grand plans.”

“Sure, I got plans,” Patrick replied. “Well, not exactly plans. What I mean to say is I got dreams. Plans means that you think you might actually do them someday and dreams is what you would do if you could but ain’t got much chance of doing.”

“So, what are these dreams?” D.M. asked again, using Patrick’s phrase.

“Well, if I had the money and if I’d had the proper education, “Patrick replied, “I’d study the law and become a lawyer, like Abe Lincoln.”

“A noble calling,” D.M. agreed. “Do you think Abe Lincoln had the means and the education?”

“No, from what I’ve read, he had neither.” Patrick admitted.

“And he didn’t let that stop him,” D.M. shot back. “And neither should you. Now let’s talk about those two big “ifs” you just brought up. The money part is easy. There is always a way to garner the means. If you’ve got the will, the means will take care of itself. Now, are you as smart as someone with a high school diploma?”

“Well, I don’t…………”

“Of-course you are!” D.M. loudly answered before Patrick could finish. “Now there’s two things I have been thinking about in regard to your future. Number one, there’s a small university in Des Moines named after Francis Drake, a brave Iowa general in the rebellion. It is a general requirement to enter study there that you have a high school diploma. However, exceptions can be made. I believe that if you can pass a test of general knowledge, the diploma requirement might be set aside. As a donor to this institution, and a man who sent three sons there to study, I believe I have some influence. I could see to it that you are given an opportunity to be tested for entrance.”

“I’ve heard of Drake University and I know they have a course in law,” Patrick replied. “But why would they admit me when they probably turn down many more qualified prospective students than I am?”

“Well, there could be a good reason,” D.M. said as he appeared to be giving the question some thought. “I am acquainted with a gentleman named John L. Griffith, who is coach and director of athletics at Drake. Are you familiar with the game of football?”

“Sure,” Patrick replied, somewhat puzzled. “What’s football got to do with it?”

“If you subscribe to my plan, you’re going to learn the game of football,” D.M. replied with a big smile overtaking his face as if he just solved a puzzle. “You not only have the body frame and muscles, you’re smarter than most of the team members already. And, you also have the speed and dexterity for it. I’ve watched you work, and I know I can teach you the game. I’m somewhat of an expert on it, having played it myself in school. Once Coach Griffith becomes convinced that he needs you on his football team, and I’ll see to it that happens, entrance into Drake will be all but assured.”

“And what was the other thing that you had on your fertile mind, now that we’ve got me into the university without a high school diploma to play a game I’ve never played before?”

“Military,” D.M. declared with a degree of seriousness. “Uncle Sam’s Army. I have a brother who has attained the rank of colonel in Iowa’s National Guard unit at Camp Dodge, another place named after a great Iowa Civil War general by the way. Once you get into Drake, you could start training to be an officer, and it’s my understanding you would be getting paid the whole time.”

“Never thought about joining the military,” Patrick confessed. “I thought when you joined the army your time didn’t belong to you anymore. Ain’t bein’ in the army kind of a full-time thing?”

“This is the Guard, the state militia if you will,” D.M. explained. “You’d be a citizen soldier. You go to school during the week and train for a commission on weekends and during the summer break. And once you’ve earned your commission, you would have all the privileges and pay of an officer of the army.”

From that day on, D.M. and Patrick set about putting the plan in motion. D.M. had little trouble making a football player out of Patrick. He was almost a natural, quick, strong and able to think fast. It wasn’t long before Deklen and several neighborhood boys joined in the evening football lessons in the spacious front yard of the D.M. Flynn home. By fall, they had garnered enough eager players from the surrounding neighborhood to have two teams. Scrimmage games were played several evenings a week with D.M. coaching both sides and loving every minute of it. Even the harsh winds of winter did little to discourage the players from taking the field for a rousing game of full contact football. They just bundled up and played. And Salinda’s shortcake and hot chocolate was always waiting for the exhausted players while they sat around the big wood stove and discussed football after their games.

Just as D.M. had predicted, Patrick was allowed to take a written exam for entrance to Drake’s School of Law. He passed with one of the highest scores ever achieved for that test. And why wouldn’t he? From the time he and D.M. had formed their plan, if Patrick wasn’t working or practicing football, he was studying. The books that D.M. kept in his small library provided much of the knowledge he required. And D.M. was usually able to provide any tutoring that was needed. Patrick entered Drake University in the fall of 1913.

The other big part of D.M.’s plan, joining the Iowa National Guard and training to become an officer, was not quite as easy. It took some effort to convince Colonel Flynn that Patrick could complete the officer’s training course while attending classes at Drake and playing football, all at the same time. Camp Dodge did not have a regular officer training course at that time. Officers for the Iowa Militia were normally trained at Fort Snelling in Minnesota. Colonel Flynn had to get special permission to conduct training for Patrick and six other Drake students who had expressed interest in becoming officers. They would only be required to train for four weeks at Camp Snelling for each of the next two summers. After the satisfactory completion of their second summer of training at Fort Snelling, they would return to Camp Dodge and be awarded their commissions. Colonel Flynn’s initiative in training these needed officers would, very soon, prove to be very inciteful. The additional officers proved to be invaluable as Camp Dodge became a regional training center, preparing soldiers for service in a world war.

It wasn’t difficult to convince Coach Griffith he needed Patrick Tierney on his football team. And it proved to be a good decision. As a freshman, Patrick helped the Bulldogs to a 4-3-1 record, winning three of their four Missouri Valley Intercollegiate Athletic Association conference games. As second-string quarterback, Patrick passed for one touchdown and ran the ball a total of 32 yards. The next season, the Bulldogs won three games in their conference, lost none but tied four.

In spite of his busy schedule, Patrick somehow managed to make the dean’s list every semester. Entering his third year, in the fall of 1915, he was also now a second lieutenant in the Iowa Militia. With Coach Griffith leading the team for his final season, Patrick helped the team to one of its best seasons. The Bulldogs finished first in the Missouri Valley conference with four wins and no losses. Overall, for the season, they scored six wins, zero losses and two ties.

It wasn’t all football and study, however. Lieutenant Patrick Tierney had noticed the pretty brunette in his advanced chemistry class and had even thought of asking her if she would like to get a soda with him sometime. The class met at three o’clock in the afternoon and was probably her last class of the day. Wallace’s Drug Store and Soda Fountain was only a couple blocks away on University Avenue. The problem was time, however. Now in his third year at Drake, with studies and duties with the guard, time was something he had very little to spare. And she’s so pretty and smart, he told himself, she could probably have any guy on campus she wanted. She probably already has a guy.

But Joanne did not already have a guy. That first year at Drake was going well for her academically and she had little interest in a social life or finding a guy. She had taken a room in a girl’s boarding house close to the campus and was fortunate to have a roommate that she got along well with. Her grades were above average, thanks to the quality of her high school education in preparing her for further study. She had even managed to get into an advanced chemistry class normally reserved for juniors and seniors. Joanne had made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t date any boys her first year. It was a promise that disappointed many would-be suiters, but she stuck to it. At least until one Monday afternoon.

Friday was always a busy day for Patrick. Right after his three o’clock class, he had to hurry to his room, change into his militia uniform and rush to the train station on the east side of the Des Moines River to catch the five o’clock train to Camp Dodge. On this particular day, he decided he would take some of the rush out of the ordeal and simply wear his guard uniform to his last class. That way he could take his time getting to the train station.

Lieutenant Patrick Tierney already had several admirers, being a rather handsome and well-built football star. When he walked into class that day in his lieutenant’s uniform, some of these unspoken admirers almost swooned. One girl, who had been too busy to notice him before but certainly did this day, was Joanne Blain. She hadn’t intended for him to see her taking a quick glance at him. She also hadn’t expected him to smile at her the way he did when he caught her taking that quick glance at him.

The following Monday, Lieutenant Tierney made sure he sat close to Joanne in class. Although she tried her best not to look at him the way she had before, she did get caught giving him a quick glance and smile. And not once but twice. As the professor dismissed the class, Patrick maneuvered beside Joanne close enough to whisper, “Did you know you have one of the prettiest smiles I’ve ever seen?”

Joanne turned to him with her pretty smile and said, “Oh, you probably tell all the girls that. And why aren’t you wearing your uniform today?”

“I’d be happy to answer that question, but only if you do me the honor of accompanying me to Wallace’s for a soda,” Patrick replied.

“Well, I would have to know your name first,” Joanne replied, acting as if she didn’t already know Lieutenant Tierney’s name.

“Fair enough. It’s Patrick Tierney, and you are Joanne Blain. I already asked.” Patrick admitted.

“How’s the road, Ma?” Sean asked as Joanne stepped into the dimly lit living room of the old farmhouse. “That was some rain we got.”

“Roads aren’t too bad. Muddy but passable.” Joanne replied. “Where’s Gramps and Finn?”

“Finishing up the chores.” Sean responded. “Rain put us a little behind with the milking. They’ll be in purty soon. You have to stay for supper. We’re fixing pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon.”

“That’s not supper,” Joanne laughed. “That’s what I would call breakfast.”

“Well that’s what Finn wanted, and Gramps and I agreed.” Sean countered. “Besides, who says you can only have breakfast in the morning?”

“Well let’s go get started fixin’ this breakfast,” Joanne replied. “It’s past suppertime.”

The pancakes were splendid, of course. Made with farm fresh eggs and whole wheat flour, they couldn’t be otherwise. The homemade peach marmalade was a perfect topping for them. And the bacon and eggs were as good as the country offered. There is nothing better than a farm-fresh Iowa breakfast, no matter what time of day.

“How did the boys do this week, Aiden?” Joanne asked as she gathered up the dishes from the table. “Did you get enough work out of them to cover the cost of feeding them? With their appetites, that would have to be a lot of work.”

“Oh, they did just fine,” Aiden replied. “I got it figured out. Worked their young butts off and sent em to bed without supper.”

“Yeh, I just bet you did,” Joanne laughed. “That was quite a rain we got.”

“Nice rain,” Aiden agreed. “It should help the corn some. Too bad corn ain’t worth nothing. It’s down to 25 cents a bushel this week. At that price, might as well just burn it for heat this winter.”

“Have you heard any more from the bank on your loan?” Joanne asked. Like so many farmers in the difficult years of the twenties, Aiden had borrowed money to purchase a tractor and modern equipment to go along with it. He had also built more grain storage as yields increased and the machinery allowed him to farm more land. Like most other farmers, he did not see what was coming. When conditions failed to improve, Aiden’s borrowing put him in danger of losing the farm he had worked so hard on most of his life.

“Might let me by till end of next season,” Aiden replied. “If things don’t get a whole lot better by then, I’m afraid I’ll lose the place.”

“Wish I could help, but I’m barely able to pay the mortgage and keep the store open, myself,” Joanne lamented. “People got to have their medicine whether they can pay for it or not.”

“Well, long as I can keep a few acres, a milk cow and some chickens, I don’t reckon none of us is gonna starve,” Aiden assured her.

Later that night, after the boys had gone to bed, Joanne sat alone in the small living room of her home. A single small electric lamp provided a dim light, but that was all the illumination Joanne wanted. The dark room was fitting for her melancholy mood. Outside, the wind had picked up, as it usually did after a rainstorm, and with the darkness of the moonless night, it only added to the Poe-like atmosphere. She could almost feel the presence of a raven “sitting on a bust of Pallas just above her chamber door.”

Memories become more intense at times like these, painful memories that time has temporarily, but never completely, put aside. And like a recurring malady, these never-forgotten memories will show themselves, as if called up by one’s very soul. It was that picture on the wall that seemed to beckon her to, once again, sit and gaze at it as she had done for untold hours before. It was not a large picture and the narrow gold-tinted frame was neither showy nor expensive. The handsome soldier in the picture is wearing an olive-drab wool tunic with a standing collar, wool breeches and an Allied Expeditionary Forces campaign hat with a gold and black cord and chin strap. His pants are tucked into his high-top lace-up boots indicating, as did the bayonet scabbard appearing at an angle across his chest, that he was an infantryman. The two gold bars on his shoulders signified the rank of captain.

And, like a hundred or more nights before, Joanne’s eyes filled with tears. She wasn’t sobbing or even weeping. That time had long passed. It was just misty tears that welled up and ran slowly down her cheeks as her thoughts returned to that night, back in the fall of 1918, when she received that telegram. Her life, and the lives of her young son and the child she was carrying in her womb, were changed forever.

Deklen glanced in the rear-view-mirror as he cautiously pulled into the parking lot of the Greyhound Bus Depot. The clouds were slowly breaking up after the rain and the moon was starting to peek through, giving the atmosphere a strange color. He hadn’t said many words the last few miles as they sped west along highway 6. He couldn’t. Georgy had not given him much of a chance to, not that Deklen felt like talking, anyhow. Georgy talked with a nervous energy, as if something evil lurked somewhere, just waiting for a pause in the conversation, a brief silence, to strike at them. In all her talking she hadn’t told Deklen anything about what was going on and why she was running.

“Well, here’s the bus depot,” Deklen said as he opened the door. “You been bumpin’ your gums since we left Sharps and still ain’t told me your story. I guess I’ll have to go the rest of my life without knowin’ it. I see you don’t have any luggage. How you gonna get by with no clean underwear, doll face?”

“Oh, I got a bag right here,” Georgy replied as she reached for her leather clutch bag on the floor of the rear compartment where she had first placed it. “Got everything I’ll ever need right in here.”

“Well, I’ll be making tracks then,” Deklen said as he climbed back into the car. “Wish I could say it’s been nice meeting you but that would probably be a lie. Just the same though, you take care of yourself, Kitten.”

“Never did tell me your name,” Georgy said, giving it one last try.

“That’s right, I never did,” Deklen agreed as he glanced in the rear-view mirror. Something in the mirror suddenly caught his eye. A car had pulled in behind them and the two men in it appeared to be watching them. He was sure it was the same brown Packard that he had seen at Sharp’s Garage. The car was about 50 feet away and just sitting there. He was also sure he could make out, even in the dim light, that the two men were at Sharp’s earlier. They weren’t coppers, he was sure of that.

“Better get back in the car for a minute, Sweetheart,” Deklen whispered.

“What? Why you old crumb! I suppose you want a kiss or a little squeeze before I dangle on outta here? I already told you I ain’t that kind of girl. ’Sides, I don’t even know your name,” Georgy shouted over her shoulder as she headed towards the Texaco gas station that also served as the bus depot.

Deklen watched as the Packard suddenly came to life, screeching towards Georgy. Worse yet, Deklen could see that the man in the passenger seat was holding a pistol. “Uh-Oh!” he whispered as he leaped out of the car and ran towards Georgy. Just as he grabbed her arm and started pulling her back towards his car, a shot rang out, then another. He could feel Georgy’s body jerk at the sound of the gun. Hanging tight to her arm with one hand, he managed to open the car door with the other and shoved her into the front seat. Another bullet whizzed past his head and struck the roof of the Hudson. Dropping to the ground, he quickly crawled around to the back of the car and ducked under the bumper.

“Open the door, Georgy,” Deklen screamed as another bullet struck the ground behind him. “And don’t waste no time doin’ it!” The driver’s door popped open and Deklen dived up beside the running board and crawled in behind the wheel, being careful to keep his head below the dash. Yanking the gearshift lever into first, he put his right foot to the floor and let out on the clutch with his left foot. The Hudson screeched to life as Deklen aimed for the highway, making the turn out of the parking lot on two wheels. He glanced in the mirror and saw the brown Packard was right on their tail.

“Somebody’s got it in for you!” Deklen shouted as the Hudson sped east down highway 6. “I think you better tell me what’s going on.”

Georgy didn’t say anything, just clung to her purse and stared ahead. The white poles zooming by seemed to have a hypnotic effect on her. Fortunately, Deklen was familiar with these roads. More familiar than the goons behind him, he hoped. He had driven the back roads that led off this well-travelled section of highway 6, better known as The White Pole Road, many times.

“Hang on, Georgy! We’re going for a ride,” Deklen hollered. “You gonna tell me who those hatchetmen are and why they was sprayin’ lead at you?”

The rear glass of the Hudson suddenly shattered as a bullet went through it and exited through the roof just above the windshield. Deklen instinctively ducked his head and shoulders down. “Those bastards mean business!” He shouted as he cranked the wheel to the left onto a dirt road. “There’s a long hill comin’ up with a hidden driveway at the bottom that goes to an abandoned park. If we can lose them for a short time going down the hill, we just might get turned into that park and get the bulge on them. You Okay Doll?” Georgy still didn’t answer, just sat there clinging to the purse and staring ahead. “That’s alright Tomato,” Deklen said. “I’m scared speechless, too. Well, here goes!”

Deklen switched off the Hudson’s headlights and put the accelerator pedal to the floor. He could see the headlights of the other car getting further behind them as he picked up speed. At the bottom of the hill, the road turned gently to the right and the headlights behind them momentarily disappeared from the rearview mirror. “This is it,” he yelled to Georgy, who was still staring ahead and clinging to her purse. “Get ready to lean hard to the left, Kitten. And remember, nobody lives forever.” Deklen carefully chose the moment and then slammed his foot down on the brakes as hard as he could. The car slid along the road and, at what he hoped was the precise moment, he took his foot off the brakes and turned the wheel hard towards the weed-covered driveway. The car went careening on two wheels but miraculously stayed upright. When it landed back on all fours, Deklen shoved the transmission into second and sped into the darkness of the trees and brush, just as a pair of headlights sped by on the road behind them. They had managed to lose their pursuers, but for how long?

There were two entrances to the abandoned park and Deklen knew both of them. Carefully driving through the old park roadway, still afraid to turn on his headlights but instead relying on what little moonlight managed to peek through the clouds, he made his way past an abandoned merry-go-round and a dilapidated building to reach the other entrance. “Now, if those assholes do manage to find where we turned off, we can slip out the other way and give them the shake again,” Deklen proclaimed. Pulling into a small clearing on a bluff above the river, he shut off the engine and watched in the direction of the road for headlights. After watching for a few minutes and seeing nothing but darkness, he turned to Georgy, who had not said anything through the whole adventure but still clung tightly to the purse. “We’re safe for the time being, Kitten” Deklen said in a low voice. “Now let’s have us a little talk.”

“I been shot,” Georgy whispered as she fell against the door of the Hudson.

“Where?” Deklen shouted. “Oh God! I don’t know nothin’ ’bout first-aid. You just hang in there. I’ll get you some help. You just hang on.”

As she lay against the door, Deklen could see a spot of blood about the size of a grapefruit on Georgy’s left side near her waist. He quickly pulled out his pocket-knife and cut away her dress. Blood was still trickling out of the wound. He ripped off his shirt and placed it on the wound as Georgia winced in pain. “Here, put your hand right here and hold this. You’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna get you to a doctor.”

“No! Georgy shouted with what little energy she could still muster. “They’ll be watching every doctor’s office and hospital in the area. No doctor.”

“You must be some woman to have old Archie want you back that bad.” Deklen proclaimed.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Georgy whispered. “I’m sorry I got you into this. Just help me out of the car and leave me here. It’s me they’re after, not you. You don’t deserve this.”

“You’re right about that,” Deklen shot back. “But I seem to already be in this with both feet. Now just hang on. I got an idea.”

Joanne had not gone to bed. It was useless to try to sleep. It would only be another one of those nights when sleep would not come, and she could only lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. Along with the haunting memories and regrets for what her life could have been, should have been, if fate had not been so cruel, she had another problem keeping her awake. How would she be able to keep her small drug store going with a mortgage in arrears and mounting debt? It wasn’t just her that would be hurt. What would the people of this town do if she failed? What would become of her two boys? And to make things worse, Aiden, her father-in-law who had done so much for her and the boys, was about to lose his farm. That would be devastating to him after working so hard all those years. It was all too much for her. When she heard the car coming down her street, she looked at the clock on the table beside her. It was almost mid-night. As she had suspected, the car pulled into her driveway. Joanne almost felt relieved, however. “Well, somebody must need some medicine from the store,” she whispered to herself as she dabbed away the tears that had been running down her face. “It’s nice to be needed.”

She didn’t want a loud knock on the door to wake her boys, so she got up and looked out to see who it was. She recognized her brother-in-law right away and opened the door as he approached. “Jo, I need your help!” Deklen said in a loud whisper.

“What’s going on Deklen?” Joanne asked as she held the door open. “What’s wrong? Is it Aiden? Is he hurt or sick? I just left him.”

“No, it’s not Pa. I got somebody in the car that’s hurt pretty bad, though. I need some medicine and bandages.” Deklen excitedly explained.

“I’ll call Doc Felter,” Joanne said, turning back towards the living room.

“No” Deklen replied with a strained whisper. “Can’t have no doctors.”

“Are you in trouble, Deklen?” Who is this person in the car and how is he hurt?” Joanne asked.

“He’s a she and she’s been shot. It’s a long story and if I ever learn it, you’ll be the first I’ll tell.” Deklen replied. “Will you help us?”

“Bring her in,” Joanne said with a sigh of resignation. “But try not to wake the boys. “Put her on my bed.”

“Deklen, that’s a nice name,” Georgy whispered as Deklen reached in the car and put one arm under her knees and one around her neck. Georgy was almost delirious, but she still clung to her purse.

“You’ll have to let go of that,” Deklen gently whispered. “I’ll bring it to you after I get you inside.”

“No,” Georgy uttered, clinging to the purse. “I won’t let go of it.” Deklen was in no mood to argue with a woman who was half out of her mind, so he scooped Georgy and the purse up and carried them both into the house.

Joanne could see right away that the woman was in shock. She felt cold and sweaty at the same time and her skin was pale and gray. Taking her wrist to check her pulse, Joanne noted it was weak but rapid. Her eyes were dilated, and she appeared to be confused. “Get her legs elevated so the blood will flow to her head,” Joanne ordered. “Put some pillows under them.”

“Okay, now what?” Deklen asked after putting the pillows under Georgy’s ankles.

“Get me my scissors out of the dresser drawer over by the window,” Joanne said as she examined the small blood covered wound in Georgy’s side. As Deklen handed her the scissors she said to him, “now hold her shoulders up while I cut the rest of this dress off her.”

Once the dress was removed, Deklen gently lay Georgy down on the bed. “Go get me a pan of warm water, a sponge from under the sink and a towel,” Joanne ordered. “Make that a couple towels.”

After bringing Joanne the items she had asked for, Deklen waited outside the bedroom. He could hear Georgy’s muffled cries through the closed door as Joanne cleaned and dressed her wound with white cotton gauze. When Joanne finally came back out, gently closing the door behind her, Deklen was still pacing the floor. “How bad is it?” he anxiously asked. “Is she gonna be alright?”

“Coulda been a lot worse I ’spose,” Joanne dryly replied. “I’ve got to run over to the store and get some things. Just keep an eye on her for now. We’ll talk when I get back. That woman needs a doctor, you know.”

As soon as Joanne left, Deklen slowly opened the bedroom door and peered in. Georgy appeard to be sleeping so he quietly slipped into the room and looked around for the purse. He found it on the floor next to the bed and slowly moved towards it. When he reached down for it, Georgy suddenly spoke in a weak voice. “Deklen, is that you?” He silently stepped back from the purse.

“It’s me, Georgy. How ya feelin’?”

“Feel kinda like I been shot,” Georgy replied. “Joanne promised me some pain medicine. I hope it’s got some strength to it and she gets back here with it soon.”

“I think it’s about time I find out what’s in that purse you been clingin’ to.” Deklen whispered. “I don’t think it’s just your underwear.”

Deklen reached down and opened the purse. The sight of that much money almost took his breath away. “My God, Georgy! No wonder they were after you.” Deklen exclaimed. “Who belongs to this money?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m feeling better,” Georgy weakly replied as she closed her eyes and pretended to pass out. Deklen thought about shaking her awake and demanding answers. This woman had gotten him into something he had no idea was this big. And worse, he had gotten his sister-in-law and maybe even his two nephews in it too. He had to think what to do next. His first inclination was to take the money and get as far away as he could, maybe Mexico or some exotic beach somewhere. A fella could live pretty well on that much money, he thought. But what would become of Georgy? And Joanne and the boys would be involved in the whole affair and possibly face legal trouble. He couldn’t let that happen. Though he didn’t realize it yet, he was starting to have some feelings for this woman who had drug him into this mess. No, he had to come up with another plan besides just bugging out.

By the time Joanne got back with the medical supplies, Deklen had carefully hidden the money and backed the Hudson into Joanne’s garage. He figured they had maybe a day before whoever was after that money figured out where they were. There were several things he needed to get, and he didn’t have much time to get them. First thing they would need was another car. It would be too easy to recognize the Hudson, with the windows shot out and a couple bullet holes in it. He would have to dispose of it somewhere besides Joanne’s garage. And they would need a gun.

“Okay now Deklen, you’re going to be my nurse, and don’t you dare pass out on me.” Joanne instructed as she handed Deklen the sack of supplies she had brought back with her. “Some men faint at the site of blood, like they were little schoolkids. But you ain’t gonna do that, are you?”

“I can handle it,” Deklen assured her. “What do I have to do?”

“First thing we got to do is clean that wound again. She was lucky. The bullet went clean through and I don’t think it touched any vital organs.” Joanne explained. “So, all you got to do is hand me the things I need when I ask for em and make sure she don’t move when I’m working on her. Think you Can you do that?”

“Piece a cake,” Deklen replied, doing his best to show confidence, in spite of the fact he was scared out of his wits. “How soon can we move her? I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.”

“That’s my sentiments, too,” Joanne agreed. “Maybe a day or two if things go right. Where are you going to take her? It had better be to a hospital. And there’s one other thing you need to know.”

“What’s that?” Deklen asked.

“Nobody should ever find out I helped you patch up that woman! Anybody asks, it was you that did the doctoring. I’m not about to lose my pharmacy license because you drug some tomato in here with a bullet hole in her side.” Joanne admonished him. “You understand me, Deklen Tierney?”

“Loud and clear,” Deklen replied. “Let’s get this over with.”

The operation in Joanne’s makeshift hospital went as well as she had hoped. After carefully probing for any cloth or bullet remnants that might cause infection in the wound, she carefully cleaned it and then stitched both wounds, where the bullet had entered and exited, and dressed them with sterile gauze again. Deklen did his job, holding Georgy still and muffling her screams. And he did it without fainting.

“I gave her something to knock her out for a while,” Joanne whispered to Deklen as she closed the bedroom door behind her. “Now let’s you and I go have a little talk.”

The next morning, Deklen was fixing pancakes in the kitchen when Sean wondered in, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and not bothering to look up. “Breakfast smells good, Ma. I was hoping you’d make some of your world-famous pancakes this morning.”

“Well let’s just see who makes the best pancakes, your ma or your uncle.” Deklen replied as he poured more batter on the griddle.

“Uncle Deklen! What are you doing here?” Sean almost shouted in surprise. “I thought I heard someone come in last night. Where’s Ma?”

“She’s sleeping in the spare bedroom,” Deklen replied. “That left me the couch to sleep on. It was better than the back seat of my car.”

“Why didn’t Ma sleep in her room?” Sean asked.

“There’s a guest in your Ma’s room,” Deklen answered. “Somebody I brought here last night. And you must not tell anybody ’bout her. Tell your little brother not to say anything, either.”

“All right Uncle Deklen,” Sean replied suspiciously. “So, you brought a woman here. Why did you bring her here and when can I meet her?”

“Not for a while yet. She ain’t feelin’ too good,” Deklen replied with a slight smile on his face. “Besides, you and me got some things we got to do this morning. You do know how to drive. Don’t you?”

“Sure, I know how to drive,” Sean assured him. “I’m almost 15. Ma lets me drive out to Gramp’s farm all the time.”

“Keep your voice down,” Deklen whispered. “Is Burkett’s Garage got any new Fords in?”

“Sure do. They’ve got three of the new Ford V8’s in,” Sean excitedly whispered. “Finn and I went down and looked at them the other day. They got a coupe, a sedan and a snazzy brown roadster. You’d look good in that roadster. You thinking of buying a new car?”

After breakfast, Deklen asked Joanne to go about her business and act like there was nothing out of the ordinary going on. “I’ll be back to get the boys in about an hour,” he told her. “I’ve got seme things to tend to.”

“You aren’t taking my boys anywhere, Deklen,” Joanne shot back. “You leave the boys out of this.”

“Oh Ma!” Sean retorted. “Uncle Deklen’s just going to give Finn and me some driving lessons. We made an agreement. You know Uncle Deklen wouldn’t hurt us.”

It was just over an hour later that Deklen drove up in a shiny new Washington Blue 1932 Ford V8 two-door sedan. “You boys ready to go?” he asked as Sean and Finn came running out the door.

“Why didn’t you get that snazzy brown roadster, Uncle Deklen,” Finn asked.

“I really don’t need “snazzy” right now,” Deklen replied. “If they’d had a plain old black sedan I woulda got that instead of this blue one.

Deklen looked up and down the street before opening the garage door. “You sure you can drive this here new Ford?” he asked Sean again. “Finn, you better ride with Sean in case he needs some help. Now you boys just follow me and don’t get too far behind.”

It was about 15 miles to the turn-off for Sharp’s Garage. Deklen figured nobody would think that he would return there, at least not this soon. He watched in the mirror as the bright new Ford made the same turn and followed him down the still rutted road. Just past Sharp’s driveway there is an entrance to some pasture ground that Sharp uses as a final resting place for the remains of cars that have given up all of their useable parts and have no more value. These rusting remains are just over a hill and out of sight of the road. It was a perfect place to leave the old Hudson. Nobody would look for it there, Deklen thought. He parked it as far out of sight as he could and tossed the keys in a nearby creek as he returned to the Ford.

“Okay boys,” Deklen said as he climbed into the back seat of the new car. “Let’s get back to the highway and see what this new Ford V8 will do. And by the way, you got no idea where that old Hudson ended up. Right?”

When they got back to the house, Deklen had Finn, who was taking his turn at driving, back the car into the driveway, making the excuse that Finn needed to learn how to back up as well as go forward.

“Georgy is awake and talking like a crazy woman,” Joanne told Deklen when he stepped into the living room. “You better go see her before she gets up out of bed and comes looking for you. I don’t want her to mess up the handy-work that I did on her last night.”

“How you doing lady?” Deklen asked, giving Georgy a sympathetic smile as she lay in the bed, still a bit woozy from the medicine. “Next time someone’s spraying lead at you, remember to duck.”

“Did you see those two bullet holes in me?” Georgy asked. “That’s gonna leave a couple ugly scars. There goes my dream of being a stripper.”

“I’d still pay to see you strip,” Deklen teased. “Probably wouldn’t even notice the scars.”

“I’m sure you’ve already seen more than you should of my body,” Georgy replied. “So, what happens next? You going to take the money and leave me here?”

“Oh, I thought about it,” Deklen replied. “But I’m just not that mean. Lord knows I try. I guess it’s a personality failure that I’ll just have to learn to live with.”

“Poor Deklen,” Georgy weakly replied. “I could tell right away that you were a kind person.”

Georgia considered herself a good judge of character, and in her 26 years she had met a lot of characters to judge. Georgia Mae Milosovic was born in a Lower East Side Manhattan Neighborhood in New York in 1906. Her mother, Bonnie Milosovic, was predominately Irish and her father, a drunkard who abandoned Georgia and Bonnie when Georgia was only two years old, was of Serbian descent. Life was not easy for Georgia and Bonnie, but they managed to survive living in a rundown tenement on the west side of Orchard Street near Chinatown. Bonnie worked as a dressmaker during the day and, from the time Georgia was old enough to be left on her own, took courses at night to learn clerical skills. She hoped to someday become a clerk or secretary and, by doing so, make at least double her annual salary of $260.

Bonnie had completed her clerical courses by the summer of 1917, but with her sewing skills badly needed by the war effort at that time, she remained at her sewing machine helping produce military uniforms. By the fall of 1918, as the war was winding down, Bonnie had plans to finally pursue her new career. She quit her job at the garment factory. But as she was walking home from her last day of work on a Friday evening, she started to feel weak and her throat felt raspy. Then her head and joints began throbbing. New York had been in the grip of the dreaded Spanish Flu pandemic for the last few weeks and catching it was Bonnie’s worst nightmare. One of her co-workers had just fell ill and gone home that day with what they suspected was the dreaded flu. Though extremely weak, Bonnie made her way home and went immediately to bed. By the time Georgia got home from her babysitting job, later that evening, her mother was having nosebleeds and coughing up blood. Georgia summoned a neighbor lady who immediately sent her husband after the doctor. There was little the doctor could do, however. By the next morning, Bonnie Milosovic joined the 30,000 other New Yorkers who died in the Spanish Flu pandemic.

12 years old, scared and alone, Georgia Milosovic became one of New York’s thousands of orphaned children. She was first put in The Roman Catholic Orphan Asylum, a children’s home run by the Archdiocese of New York. A few months later, Georgia and seven other girls from the asylum were sent to The Children’s Aid Society.

The Children’s Aid Society was founded in the 1850s by a young Protestant minister named Charles Loring Brace. Brace became concerned by the condition of the street children he observed in New York City. Something must be done, he told himself. He soon came up with a plan. Brace felt these children had a better chance at a good life by being placed in a new home “out west” than they did if they remained in the big cities. “The best of all asylums for the outcast child is the farmer’s home. The great duty is to get these children of unhappy fortune utterly out of their surroundings and to send them away to kind Christian homes in the country,” Brace wrote. He envisioned families in the west who would provide the orphans with the same food, clothing, education and spiritual training they would give their biological children. He organized trains to transport these children to new homes out west, a movement that became known as “The Orphan Trains.”

Before 12-year-old Georgia boarded the train, she was dressed in new clothing, given a bible and placed in the care of a Children’s Aid Society agent who would accompany her and the other children west. The orphan train that Georgia boarded was to travel to Iowa and planned to make stops at Davenport, Iowa City, Newton, Des Moines and Council Bluffs. At each stop, the seven girls would be sent to a local church or some other organization to be viewed by prospective adoptive parents. It was at the Des Moines stop that a couple from Indianola, Iowa first met Georgia Milosovic.

David and Ella Farlow were both in their 30′s and had been married for over ten years. They rented 120 acres of land west of Indianola, Iowa and were known as hard-working farmers and devout Quakers. After Ella’s second miscarriage and a diagnosis of unacceptable risk for another pregnancy, they had talked often of adopting a child. When Ella saw the notice in The Des Moines Register that the Orphan Train would be stopping in Des Moines, she told David, “Here’s our chance to adopt a girl to help me with housework and assist you with the chores.” Georgia must have appeared the hardiest of the girls on the train as that was what the Farlow’s were seeking, a hard worker. Arrangements were made for Georgia to go home with the Farlows on a trial basis.

The Farlows, as it turned out, were much more interested in finding cheap labor than in giving and receiving love and affection from a child. They viewed Georgia with the suspicion held by many mid-westerners for children from New York, as if she were the incorrigible offspring of drunkards and prostitutes. At first, she was given a room to sleep in and some cheap but serviceable work clothing. She took her meals with David and Ella but, other than the Quaker prayers repeated over every meal, she was seldom allowed to speak. After meals, she would be left to clean up and do the dishes. She was also given a list of daily chores and if these chores were not done to satisfaction, she was punished with extra work or missed meals. The promised followup visit, by the Children’s Aid Society, for some reason, never occurred and Georgia was not allowed to send letters or communicate in any way outside the home.

The one thing Georgia did receive from the Farlows was education, but under the strictest of rules. David and Ella did not believe in public schooling. Ella, however, was intelligent, selfeducated and anxious to pass on her knowledge to her student through lessons at home. But she was a strict disciplinarian and tolerated few mistakes.

By the time Georgia was 16, she had become a withdrawn, shy and timid young lady. She might have spent the rest of her childhood in the environment her adoptive parents had created for her if not for Amanda Towne. Amanda Towne was the closest neighbor to the Farlows and the only one in the neighborhood they would sometimes talk to, although begrudgingly. Recently widowed, she had farmed with her husband for the last 42 of her 65 years on earth. If any woman was capable of running a farm on her own, it was Amanda Towne. Brash, bold and straightforward, she feared little and seldom backed down from anyone when she felt she was right. And, as much as she tried to hide it with her gruff manner, Amanda had a heart of gold.

Amanda was one of the few people that was even aware that the Farlows had adopted an orphan train child. She was also aware of the way Georgia was treated. And with her husband no longer around to tell her to mind her own business, she was determined to do something about it. She was aware that David and Ella attended church at Spring Hill Friend’s Church every Sunday morning and never returned home before noon. She wasn’t aware that Georgia was locked in her room every Sunday morning while they were away, however. Not until she made a visit to their house shortly after they left for church one Sunday morning. After knocking on the door and hearing no answer, Amanda cautiously opened the front door and let herself in. As she entered the living room, she called out “Georgia, are you in here?”

“I’m up here. Who’s there?” Georgia answered from her upstairs bedroom.

“It’s Amanda, the woman from down the road. Can you come down and talk?”

“I’m locked in. David and Ella are at church. They told me

I’m not to ever leave my room when they aren’t here.”

“We have to talk about this, Sweetheart. I’m coming up.”

Amanda and Georgia had a long talk that Sunday morning. This is what Georgia had been praying for the last few months. She had thought many times about leaving, but with not knowing where to go and having no one to help her, she was afraid to even try.

Plans were made for the following Sunday. All week Georgia secretly prepared for her great escape. She made sure her few articles of clothing were washed and folded and the few belongings she had were where she could find them. Amanda made arrangements with her younger sister, Pearl, who owned a small home on Des Moines’ west side and was currently between husbands, to meet her and go to the Farlow home to pick up Georgia.

Pearl had the same high spirits and desire to right the world’s wrongs as Amanda, maybe even more. Saving this poor child from a bad situation was just her game. She insisted that this girl they were about to spring stay with her in Des Moines, even before meeting her. She would be safe at her home she insisted.

The plan was carried out without a hitch. The two sisters must have done a good job of making it look like Georgia simply ran away as that is what the Farlows still believe to this day.

Georgia found true friends in Amanda Towne and Pearl Conklin. She was happy to be out of the Farlow home and living with Pearl. Pearl had led an interesting life and enjoyed sharing stories of it with Georgia. She had been a night-club singer and bartender in the days before prohibition and had three exhusbands and too many former suitors to count. Street wise and educated in the school of hard knocks, she also had a good sense of humor, a love of adventure and, like her big sister, a heart of gold. There could have been no better mentor and friend for Georgia. Georgia soon went from a shy and timid girl to a beautiful and savvy young lady. And with Pearl’s guidance she avoided most of the mistakes that young ladies sometimes make along the way.

“Now here’s the deal, Georgy” Deklen continued as he pulled a chair beside her and sat down. “I used $600 of that money to buy a new car. I figured, after my poor old Hudson got shot up like that, you, or whoever owns that moolah, owed me that. And I’m going to give Joanne $500 for her trouble. That still leaves a pile of suds. I figure it’s about twenty-five-grand, give or take. And if that pile of cabbage is sourdough, it’s the best damn counterfeit I’ve ever seen.”

“It ain’t counterfeit,” Georgy protested. “And it belongs to me.”

“Sure, Kitten,” Deklen sarcastically agreed. “Now, soon as you’re able I’ll take you to a bus depot, train station or even an airport, your choice. With all that money, I don’t know why you’d want to travel by bus but if you do then we damn sure ain’t going back to the bus depot in Stuart. Not that it wasn’t loads of fun getting chased by a couple hoods with 38 caliber heaters, but once is enough. Now, Joanne said she had some clothes she thought would fit you. Maybe not the kind of duds you’re used to, but better than what you’re wearing now. Besides Dollface, you’d look good in anything. You think it over, but don’t get too comfortable. We ain’t that welcome, here. And if Joanne knew what was in that purse, we would a been bounced out on our keesters already.”

“I’ve thought it over,” Georgy said in a weak voice. “And I know what I want.”

“That was quick. And what is it that you already know you want?” Deklen asked.

“I want us to get in that dandy new car you just bought and drive as far away from here as we can.” Georgy whispered. “You can have the money. Just don’t leave me, Deklen. Please. I want to stay with you.”

Deklen wasn’t expecting this and it took him a minute to think of what to say next. Not knowing what to say was a situation Deklen seldom found himself in. “You don’t even know me,” he finally replied. “And I can assure you, I ain’t much of a prize. With all that money, why would you want to hang around with a two-bit hustler like me?”

“Because you’re the kindest two-bit hustler I’ve ever met,” Georgy answered as her eyes began to tear up. “I’ve never known anyone like you. Any other man would have been long gone by now, along with that money.”

“Now ain’t that a ring-a-ding-ding,” Deklen managed to utter. “Well, if that’s the way it’s going to be, Georgy girl, we got some things to talk about then, don’t we? Let’s hear that story you was going to tell me before your friends in the Packard so rudely interrupted. I want the complete low-down.” Deklen said as he pulled a chair beside her and gently brushed a tear off her cheek. “And don’t leave out a single detail.”