The Whiskey Baron by Jon Sealy Read Free Book Online

one.” Willie eyed Quinn, who hunched over with his hands in his pockets. Joe waved his hand at the neighbor, who went on, “It was Ernest Jones and Lee Evans that got killed. Depot said Mary Jane walked in, dragged them to the street, and shot them.”
    “Mary Jane’s not a killer,” Joe said. “Those were his friends.” He trailed off as though finally allowing himself to consider the possibility.
    “That’s just what I heard,” Mink said.
    “It must have been Larthan.”
    “You might want to go talk to Sheriff Chambers then. He’s hunting Mary Jane right now.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    Abel grabbed a wooden fence stake in the front yard, wiggled it to see how sturdy it was, and said, “Anyone seen Larthan?”
    “Evelyn was in church this morning,” Joe looked at Quinn. “She say anything?”
    “Not to me.”
    “You do know who her father is?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Well. I doubt she knows more than the rest of us do.”
    Abel said, “Such a shame, a father like that. At least he raised her in church.”
    “Passed her off, is what he did. Those church ladies did as much to raise Evelyn Tull as Larthan ever did.”
    “Strange he never brought her into one of those downtown churches,” Mink said.
    “He knows his clientele. Get to know more farmers and whiskey drinkers out here in the country than he ever would at some town church.”
    “You think he’ll shut down for a while? Lay low?”
    Joe spat. “He won’t be closing down, long as he’s got a line of customers. So you’re trying to tell me that the sheriff is honestly considering Mary Jane to do that.”
    “He’s already gone out to see Widow Coleman this morning. Paid his respects and asked for Mary Jane.”
    “He didn’t do it, I’m telling you right now.”
    “I know Mary Jane,” Mink said. “I know it don’t sound like him.”
    “It wasn’t him.”
    From the front porch, Susannah called to them, “Quit your gossiping. Come in and get your dinner.”
    “All right, fellas,” Mink said, and tipped his hat.
    The inside of their house was small, two rooms and a kitchen. Willie, Quinn, and Abel slept in the front room, three metal beds,a shelf, and a dresser, and the bedroom to the right belonged to Joe and Susannah. In the kitchen, where Susannah served green bean casserole with biscuits and gravy, the men sat around the table like disciples. The mid-afternoon light slanted in from the window and the door at the back of the room, glared on the counters and floor so that the grime and dust that Susannah could never clear away seemed almost swollen with life, as though nature herself were reminding them that this house, this life they’d been living since they sold the farm, was somehow rotten, somehow wrong for them. All through the meal, Willie kept trying to make eye contact with his brother, hoping Quinn would be the one to bring up Mary Jane, but he kept his head down, focused on the clank and scrape of his fork on the plate. Maybe he was too busy thinking about Evelyn Tull to wonder about their uncle.
    Willie said, “Do you believe Mink?”
    His father set his fork on the plate and rubbed his tongue in his cheek to rid his mouth of food. “Your uncle’s not that kind of man. He’ll get into some mischief, but he ain’t a killer.”
    “What’d Mink say?” Susannah said.
    “The sheriff’s looking for Mary Jane. Thinks my brother shot those boys.”
    “They Lord,” she said.
    “He didn’t do it,” Joe said. “You know Mary Jane.”
    “He could have,” Willie said, and everyone looked at him. “Couldn’t he?”
    “Son, there’s different kinds of men out there, all of em capable of different things. I know you’ve heard us arguing about your uncle, how he drinks too much and runs with the wrong crowd. Things I don’t want you messed up in. But there’s a big difference between causing some trouble and killing someone.”
    “Didn’t you kill men, in the war?”
    “Willie,” his mother said.
    “That was