“I’d say there’s at least twenty-five slips there—enough for a judge to lock you up, boy.”
“But those aren’t mine!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Memphis realized how stupid they were, how futile his protestations. The word of two white cops against a Negro numbers runner? It was a fixed fight.
“Call Papa Charles,” Memphis said. “He’ll give you whatever you need.”
“We don’t work for Papa Charles,” one cop sneered, and Memphis knew the cop was dirty for Dutch Schultz. “You’re going downtown, friend.”
The policemen tugged him roughly toward a waiting car that had pulled up alongside the curb. Behind him, Memphis could see the tall points of the Bennington floating behind a scrim of passing clouds, like a mirage.
A GOODLY HERITAGE
It was nearly four o’clock and the day’s shadows stretched long over the curved backs of the Catskills as Uncle Will took the turnoff from the main road, just beyond the weather-beaten sign for Brethren. The road wound its way toward the valley, past a small farm whose barn bore a white hex sign on its side. The leaves had slipped into autumnal reds, golds, and oranges. Down below, the small town rolled out like a postcard photo, all gabled roofs, gas street lamps, and church steeples. There was a quaintness to the town, as if it had been stopped in time around the turn of the century. It was the sort of place about which politicians liked to wax nostalgic and hold up as a symbol of all that was American, everything the country was in danger of losing.
Then they’d driven north. The roads were muddy and now they were considerably later than they’d meant to be. They checked into a motel on the edge of town. It was a rustic, cabinlike place with a large lot for cars and wagons. Uncle Will rang the bell. The proprietor, a man with a handlebar mustache but a more modern cut of jacket, greeted them. Will signed the register as Mr. John Smith and family, from Albany, and secured two rooms—one for Evie alone and one for him to share with Jericho.
“Come for the county fair?” the innkeeper asked.
“Why, yes. We hear it’s the finest in New York,” Will answered with a tight smile. “My son and daughter can’t wait to attend.”
Evie flashed Will a look of surprise. Still smiling, he gave her a small head shake of warning: Play along.
“Oh, it is at that,” the innkeeper said proudly. “I recommend the First Methodist Church’s peach jam. Now that’s something special.”
“Evangeline does love peach jam, don’t you, dear?”
“Can’t get enough of it,” Evie answered.
Will took the keys and hurried them to their rooms.
“Why do we have to stay here?” Evie asked in dismay as she took in the dark, cedar-lined room with its lumpy bed. She’d seen a perfectly lovely old inn when they’d driven into town. This one didn’t even have a telephone.
“We’ll attract less interest,” Will said. He spread out a crude map on the chipped desk. “Now. According to this, the old camp is up the mountain, about here. John Hobbes’s grave should be in the woods somewhere beyond the old meetinghouse. There’s only one road leading up there—if one can call it a road. It’ll probably be rough going, especially if the weather turns nasty. And unfortunately, we’ll need to go close to dark….”
“According to the Farmers’ Almanac, the sun sets at six twenty-five,” Jericho said.
“Then we’ll need to meet back here by quarter to six at the latest.”
“Back here? Where are we going?”
“Where are you going,” Will corrected. “You and Jericho will attend the fair.”
“Oh, Unc. I thought you were only being polite!”
“It will be good. Make us seem like friendly tourists. Throw anyone off the scent of our true purpose.”
Evie had a particular memory of attending the Ohio State Fair and getting sick from the smell of farm animals and eating too much cotton candy. State fairs were a far cry from Manhattan nightclubs; she and Jericho would probably die of boredom before they even got to the old Brethren site. But she could tell from Will’s tone that he was resolute about this.
Evie’s sigh was long. “Okay, Unc. I’ll go eat peach jam with the yokels. But you owe me.”
Will drove Evie and Jericho to the fair before heading to the town hall to see if he could gather additional supplies for their expedition. Evie and Jericho bought their tickets and pushed into the fairgrounds with the rest of the crowd. Several long white tents had been set up, giving the whole fair the feel of some medieval encampment. An Araby of imagined delights awaited them inside: Flimsy wooden vegetable stands were stacked deep and high with fat pumpkins. Hand-painted signs promised THE BEST APPLE PIE IN THE COUNTY and SCHROBSDORFF’S LYE SOAP—NO FINER CLEANING AGENT! as well as sweet pickles, plum preserves, caramel corn in newspaper cones, and lace doilies stitched so fine you could scarcely tell they’d been stitched at all. A jovial din filled the marketplace: “Ferber’s Horse Equipment—right this way!” “A game of checkers, only one penny!” “Come to the automobile display and see the motorcars of the future!”
They passed through the long, wide livestock pavilion, where pens teemed with animals groomed to perfection while sober-faced farmers stood nearby, arms crossed, nervously awaiting the verdict of the men judging their worthiness.
They emerged from the pavilion to find that an old-fashioned brass band occupied a center bandstand. The band played “Abide with Me” while gray-haired couples sat in slatted chairs, singing along to the old hymn. Children in their Sunday best ran through smiling and wonder-eyed, their pinwheels spinning madly in the breeze. Despite her earlier grumblings, Evie was enchanted. For a brief moment, she could forget that they had come for a terrible purpose. They stood in line for the hayrides, laughing as the cart’s wheels bumped over the rutted field, and then laughing again as they shook the itchy hay from their hair and clothes like dogs shaking off water. At a small wooden counter, they drizzled honey on slabs of fresh bread drenched in melted butter and gobbled it down. Evie laughed as a big drop of honey slid off the side of Jericho’s bread and he tried to catch it with his tongue.
“You missed a spot,” she said. Without thinking, she wiped her thumb over his mouth. His lips parted slightly, as if he meant to take her thumb in his mouth. He backed away, substituting his hand for hers.
“Thank you, Evie.”