No Promises in the Wind (13 page)

When Joey handed the letter back to me, I folded it and put it in one of the compartments in my wallet.

 

 

We
struck out late in the afternoon and caught two rides before dark, short ones, the two of them getting us only about twenty miles from Baton Rouge. Then a truck driver picked us up and drove us nearly fifty miles farther north. This driver, unlike Lonnie, talked almost constantly, sometimes addressing us directly, sometimes seeming to pour out the words without caring whether anyone listened or not. Over and over he talked about the rising mood of anger among the people, the feeling among the jobless and the starving that they must rise against men in high office who could so mismanage a country's economy as to bring us to what we were living through.

“There's going to be a turning point—there's got to be a turning in the history of this country,” he said, his voice growing louder and louder. “God didn't create this unemployment and hunger—throw it in their teeth if they tell you that. This misery has been created by men. And the men who made this are going to be faced with their work—you wait—they're going to be faced with their evil.”

 

 

His
voice suddenly broke. We listened in embarrassed silence as he tried to talk in a voice that choked over his words. “There's going to be a change, I tell you, or the men that created these times are not going to be around to see the change that comes after them.”

When he stopped his truck and told us he could carry us no farther, he put his hand heavily on my shoulder. “Don't forget,” he said harshly, “never forget what the system has done to you and thousands more like you. You are the kids with life in front of you. Don't forget for one minute that the system has sacrificed the kids of your generation, you and my kids, and starving kids all over the nation. Don't forget it. Think about it, and when you can, do something about it.”

He looked feverish and wild. I was deeply troubled when we left him. There was an urgency in his voice and manner that left me wondering.

A few days later we happened upon a group of men who were cooking at a campfire along a railroad track. They invited us to share the rabbit stew that bubbled above the fire in an old lard can—excellent stew, in need of salt, but hot and nourishing. One man stood like a preacher before his congregation and spoke to the others; he talked in a loud, angry voice, and the gist of his words matched the words of the truck driver.

“They call it a democracy, don't they? People starve, people freeze, people tear their hearts out. But they're living in a democracy. And that's enough, isn't it? It's unthinkable, isn't it, to want anything more than a democracy even if under a democracy you're starved and frozen and beaten into the ground? It's unthinkable, is it? Well, I tell you men and you two boys, if a democracy doesn't work, it's got to be junked for something else. And I ask you—you that would work at any job if you could get a chance, you that don't ask for rib roasts but would settle for a little bread, you that somehow got the idea that this was a land of opportunity, I ask you: Is democracy enough? Is it helping to fill the bellies of your hungry children, is it allowing you to hold your head up like a man, is it making you proud of your country? I ask you, is democracy working for
you?”

The men yelled back. “No, it ain't workin', Tom. You're right. Democracy ain't doin' a damn thing for us that are down and out.”

“Enough of you say that together loud enough and there'll be a change. There'll be a change that will make men in high places run for cover.”

He talked on and on. When the meal was finished and the men went their several ways, one man walked with Joey and me for a little distance.

“There's a great anger growing among people,” he said as if he were thinking aloud. “People can't take one year of starvation after another with patience. They become angered, and once angered, they begin to question, to think, to demand. This man, Roosevelt, that the people elected in November had better have some answers. He'd better do some hard thinkin' before he takes office next month.”

 

 

But
whether democracy tottered or fell or lifted its head, we had to trudge on. We walked on at times when I wondered if it was possible for two pairs of legs ever to cover the miles before us. There were moments when I asked myself what demon inside me had made it seem sensible to leave a spot where we had a chance of finding comparative comfort and to feel that finding Lonnie was the all-important goal to be followed. I didn't mention my doubts to Joey, though. Instinctively, I knew that as long as he believed I was firm of purpose and confident of being right, he would be firm and confident too. He strode along beside me without a whimper, and I wouldn't take the chance of shattering the resolve that kept his thin shoulders erect even when fatigue made his feet stumble occasionally.

The long trek had gone on for several days when we saw a car such as I hadn't seen since a time when Howie and I watched the funeral procession of a big gangster in Chicago. It was a Cadillac, black and shining, with wooden spoke wheels and lots of polished nickel. It sounded contented and well cared for as it sped along the highway. Joey and I were amazed when the driver stopped and offered us a lift. Quickly, before he could change his mind, we stepped onto the broad running board and into the car. Joey settled in the back, and I sat on the huge front seat, which was upholstered with fabric as soft as a rich woman's dress.

The driver was a very young man, not more than three or four years older than I was. He was a pink, rather fat fellow with a face that looked somewhat like that of an overgrown baby. He introduced himself as “Charley” and added that we were not to bother about his last name. He told us slyly that the car was a “special job,” that it cost a cool seven thousand dollars—after it had been fitted with certain little gadgets.

It didn't take long to discover that Charley needed an audience for his boasts. However, he was kind enough in his way, and the comfort of his car made our tired legs tingle with relief.

“Guys in my job can't talk too much,” he told us with an important set of his shoulders. “Maybe you've heard of gents ending up stuffed into the trunk of some standard automobile? Well, that could be me, little brothers, so don't ask me any questions because I won't answer them. I know my job too well to run off at the mouth.”

We hadn't really intended to ask him any questions; we only wanted a ride, and were delighted by the luxury and comfort we had suddenly found. We were quite willing to sit quietly and enjoy the powerful feel of the big car and to watch the many miles of our journey unfold before us. But Charley was not willing to be quiet; it was plain that he rather intensely wanted to impress us and that the dangers involved in loose talk, which he had just pointed out, became less vivid in his eyes as the urge to brag overcame his fears.

“You have any idea what's in this car?” he asked me finally. The question came out of one side of his mouth at a moment when Joey was curled up in the back seat absorbed in a comic book he had found there.

“No,” I said, “not an idea.”

He drove several miles without saying anything, but with a little smirk on his mouth. I pretty well knew that he was going to take a hair-raising risk and tell me some professional secret. It was evident that he was like some little kid—getting stuffed into the trunk of a car by unhappy employers could happen to some other fellow; certainly it couldn't possibly happen to him.

Finally he could bear his secret no longer. “Look,” he said, “I wouldn't tell you this except I know you're just a kid with no important connections. I'm plenty careful who I talk to, but I reckon I can trust you. Right?”

“Sure,” I said, “you can trust me. But use your own judgment. I'm not asking you anything.”

“I know you're not. And you had just better not because I've got a way of brushing off people whose noses stretch out too far into my affairs.”

We drove on in silence. I watched the mileage meter and made a private bet that he'd tell me his important news before we'd gone ten miles. I was right. It was seven and a half.

“Well, look, little brother, there's a tank under the body of this car, a great big tank that holds over one hundred gallons, liquid measure. Would you have a guess as to what's in it?”

I shook my head. I knew well enough what was in his mysterious tank, but I played the simple peasant.

“Milk?” I asked. “Is this a kind of fancy milk truck?”

That made him laugh pretty hard. It was obvious that his feeling of superiority over a dumb little yokel was making him feel good.

“No, it's not milk, my young friend. It's hooch. The finest, most expensive hooch to make its way into the States down at New Orleans. And you want to know something else? Under that upholstery on the doors there are flat containers—nice big flat containers-and they don't hold milk either.” He winked at me and chuckled again. His face was very pink and had a self-satisfied look.

“I run a big risk, of course. That's the reason they pay me the kind of wages I get.” He glanced from his good-looking suit and polished shoes to the outlandish clothes that Pete Harris had given me when I started to work in the carnival. “If I named you the money I'll get for this trip, your mouth would fall open. But it's the risk that gets me the big money.”

“The risk of government agents stopping you I suppose?” He didn't seem to realize that I was asking a question; he was feeling too good.

“That's it, little brother; that's the risk. The dirty Feds. But they start chasing me and you know what I do? Any idea?”

“No,” I said, knowing that the whole affair was about to be made clear for me.

“Well, sir I get this old Cad up to ninety miles per hour—there ain't a car in the whole government that can match that speed—well, I get it up to ninety, and then I do just one simple thing that makes me innocent like a little idiot lamb.” He reached down under the dashboard and drew out a length of cable, very strong and competent looking. “I just give this cable a quick pull and every drop of hooch in the big tank and in the side ones spills out on the road. Every drop. Nothing left but empty tanks. It's not against the law to have empty tanks in your car if all the hooch is out on the road.”

I glanced at the rearview mirror and tried to. imagine what it would be like to see a Federal car bearing down upon us.

“Have they chased you often?” I asked, feeling pretty sure that Charley was no longer sensitive to questioning.

“Matter of fact, no. But there's always a first time. I'm expecting it any day. And believe me, little brother, I'm ready for 'em.”

“How will you recognize them?” I asked, genuinely interested.

“Hell, you can smell 'em,” Charley answered airily.

I felt that answer needed some explanation, but I didn't care to seem too curious. “Must be a pretty exciting job,” I said, trying to look envious.

Charley was pleased with me. “It is, my friend. Pretty exciting and pretty dangerous. But then, you want to make big money, you got to take big chances. That's me. I'm not in this game for peanuts. I give you the right to believe that or not.”

“Oh, I believe you,” I said. I felt I could afford a little buttering up for Charley. After all, Joey and I were getting a wonderful ride, a ride we were enjoying immensely. Once when I glanced back at Joey, he met my look above the top of his comic book and gave me a wink that contorted half his face. It gave me a feeling of satisfaction; Joey and I were nobodies, but we were still able to feel superior to the shallowness of a well-dressed minor hoodlum. We leaned back in the luxury Charley was affording us, relaxed, amused, and complacent.

He drove us the rest of the afternoon, and boasted every mile of the way. He could name us some big names, could Charley, and he did, some of the most notorious names of the liquor transport business in dry America. His watch was a little gift from an uncle whose name was famous; his job had been handed to him on a silver platter by another underworld relative whose name was capable of spreading terror in the hearts of his rivals. Charley had names enough at his command to have carried his stories well into the night, but fortunately when night came, he had to stop at a hotel that had been selected for some reasons of security by his superiors. I would gladly have thanked him and said good-bye when we climbed out of his car, but Charley wouldn't have that; he was taking us to supper.

He left the big car at the hotel, and then the three of us went to a small cafe down the street where Joey and I, with the caution of people who have gone hungry, ordered the cheapest item on the menu and Charley had a sizable steak. I knew I couldn't affort it, but a certain pride, maybe a slight spiritual kinship with Charley, made me feel that since my wallet was stocked with the twenty dollars earned at the carnival, I should pay for his supper in return for the lift he'd given us. But Charley would have none of that. “Not on your life, little brother,” he told me. “I got plenty of this folding stuff and more on its way. This two-bit supper is on old Charley.”

And so that was settled. After eating we sat at the table for a long time, Joey and I paying for our supper by listening attentively to Charley and being dutifully impressed.

Then Charley drew out his wallet to pay for our meal, and he was put out that he had nothing smaller than a twenty dollar bill. “I hate to give her a twenty for this chicken-feed bill,” he said. “but it's the smallest I have.” He began searching through all his pockets with some irritation.