It was not even ten in the morning but the day was already hot.

As usual for August, the heat had seemed to start in the humid miasma of the swamps at the northern end of O'Connor County, radiating outwards and triumphing in an all too brief struggle against the cool breeze blowing off the Gulf. And now it had settled over it all, pressing down like a thick, soaking blanket. All over the county, men were already opening shirt collars, stains forming at the necks and armpits. Children were hastily scarfing down the rapidly melting candy bars they had planned to save for later. Glasses of lemonade and iced tea and Dr. Pepper were being poured, for those who didn't seek another form of liquid relief.

The heat was especially oppressive on the back loading dock of Hawkins Spirits, the concrete walls trapping it in but admitting no shade. The back door was shut, a refusal to let any of the air conditioned air inside the liquor store escape. Mrs. Amelia Hawkins didn't mind. The heat was nothing to her after  living in a tarpaper shack with fourteen other people or working ten hour shifts in a factory churning out Sherman tanks. Her white blouse and dark slacks remained crisp and dry. The same couldn't be said of Jody's stained chinos and white James Dean T-shirt. The young man was sweating, his slicked-back hair beginning to be plastered down against his scalp.

She preferred it that way. She liked to do negotiations with heat, both literal and metaphorical.

[color=00aeef]“I'll give you 20 cents on the dollar for them.”[/color]

[color=fff200]“No, Mrs. Hawkins. I don't mean no disrespect but that just ain't gonna cut it,”[/color] Jody said with a vigorous shake of the head. He reached down to the cardboad box at his feet, pulled out a brightly labeled bottle. The brown liquid within sloshed gently. [color=fff200]“See, unopened and untouched. Some guys will try to cheat you and water this stuff down, sell you bottles of tea or water with brown sugar. I don't play you that way. You check the other nineteen case I got in my truck and you'll see they're all sealed shut, straight from the distillery.”[/color]

Mrs. Hawkins flicked an errant blond lock out of her face. [color=00aeef]“Well, Jody, I'd pay you top dollar if you had brought me some Old Crow or Jim Beam or IW Harper. You know, the more popular bourbons. But Old Charter? I can't do anything with Old Charter. Nobody round here comes in asking for it. And you showed up with twenty cases! I'm lucky if I sell five bottles of Old Charter a week and you're expecting me to take 240 off you.”[/color]

Jody's face twisted up with momentary anger before he remembered just who he was speaking with and he forced a look of calm indignation to take its place.[color=fff200] “Look, me and the boys boosted this shipment up in Frankfort. Now, we could've gone to Memphis or Louisville to try and offload but we wanted to be respectful, you having gotten us our start and all. Hell, we nearly got busted by state troopers passing through Tennessee. And now you're telling us you'll only pay 20 cents? That ain't no way to do us. Nah, we want 50.”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“Alright, in light of the trouble you boys had and the distance you came, I'll give you 30 and that's cutting my own throat,”[/color] she countered. She easily recognized the young thief's last-ditch effort to play hardball- the kid was sweating and just wanted to get out of the sun already. Almost too easy. 

[color=fff200]“I'll take 30,”[/color] Jody said, letting a little too much relief into his voice. Perfect. Right where she wanted him. 

They shook, and Mrs. Hawkins took out her billfold and began counting out twenties for Jody. [color=00aeef]“Unload them here onto the dock, then drive away. Pleasure as always, Jody,”[/color] she said as she slipped the stack of bills into his hand. Without even a goodbye, she spun on her heel and walked back inside, even as Jody enthusiastically signaled to his partners to begin unloading.

[center][url=https://youtu.be/RmXRQ3vfzcA]All the time they want to take your place
The back stabbers (back stabbers)
(They smilin' in your face)
All the time, they want to take your place
The back stabbers (back stabbers) [/url][/center]

The air conditioning and radio made a welcome change to the sweltering heat outside. Such luxuries were almost unheard of for any shop in O'Connor County. It gave her a brief swell of pride as she waved over one of her stockboys, a lanky tow-headed kid. 

[color=00aeef]“Ronnie, right?”[/color] The youth nodded, eager to please. “[color=00aeef]There's twenty cases of bourbon out back, but before we stock it I want a few cases delivered.”[/color] She grabbed a legal pad from behind the counter, began to scratch down a few names and addresses.[color=00aeef] “First one is going to Judge Sinclair. If people see him pouring Old Charter at one of his little Saturday cocktail parties, they're gonna start thinking it's fancy and they need to get a bottle themselves. Then a case each for a few friends of mine- Sheriff Dawkins, Pastor MacMillan over at the Baptist church, and one for Black Jack Rawlins up in Buck Nelly. Come on, they know you're with me, they won't bite,”[/color] she said as she saw the apprehensive look on the kid's face when he was asked to travel to Buck Nelly. [color=00aeef]“Just want to let community leaders to know I'm thinking about them.”[/color] She handed the sheet to the stockboy, watched him eagerly run out to bring his pickup around the back to load up. The other sixteen cases of Old Charter could stay out there. No one would dare steal from her.

And besides, she would need Ronnie out of the shop for a few hours. It would be better to have no witnesses.

It was collection day.

As the stockboy roared off excitedly down the road, a trail of dust behind him, she made doubly sure the “Closed” sign was up and door locked. Walking into the small office, she opened the safe. A stranger would be surprised by the safe itself- specially made by Chubb in Great Britain, thick and fireproof, the kind favored by banks and millionaires. She retrieved a thick brown envelope and a single key from inside the safe.

That same stranger would doubtlessly be even more surprised when Mrs. Hawkins moved aside a crowded bookcase to reveal a hidden door, which she unlocked and opened. Only she and Harold knew about this storeroom, what they called “Eden” because of the forbidden fruit inside. Without a moment's hesitation, she selected two items, a bottle and a Mason jar. The door was promptly shut and locked, the bookcase moved to conceal it once again, and the key deposited back in the safe with the cash and documents and more than one pistol. 

She placed the envelope, the bottle, and the jar in a neat row on the sales counter, then sat down to wait, leafing through a magazine. The DJ on the radio chattered away, the air conditioner hummed.

Mrs. Hawkins didn't have long to wait. A quiet but commanding tap came on the glass door. A man was outside, in a light but well-cut tailored suit. She got immediately to let him in- any hesitation might be seen as disrespect. She undid the lock, quickly ushered him in, shut and locked the door once more. [color=00aeef]“It's good to see you again. I hope you had a pleasant flight down,”[/color] she said deferentially. 

The man from Chicago sighed. [color=39b54a]“Oh, it's always some bullshit, let me tell you. They're worried about hijacking to Cuba so couldn't even bring a pocketknife along with me. Had to keep it in my suitcase.”[/color] He looked around the shop, his eyes carelessly flicking around and taking it all in. [color=39b54a]“Business been good? You get set up with those boys from Fort Worth we told you about?”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“Yes, thank you for that. The Coors they bring me goes for $15 a case here. Must be the novelty.”[/color] 

[color=39b54a]“Shall we get down to it?”[/color] the man from Chicago said, his flat Northern accent stentorian over the radio. It was not a question. 

She nodded in agreement and led him over the counter. [color=00aeef]“As usual, a couple small tokens for you,”[/color] she said smoothly. She handed him the Mason jar full of clear liquid. [color=00aeef]“The best moonshine in O'Connor County. I'm surprised you Northern boys have a taste for it,”[/color] she said with just a hint of playfulness, before mentally kicking herself for being too familiar with him. 

The man from Chicago didn't seem to notice as he undid the lid and had a cautious sniff, before letting out a mild snort at the harsh odor. [color=39b54a]“Makes a fun conversation piece, at least. Some of the guys back home have never been further south than Pilsen, like you said it's a novelty for them. Local color. Ah, now here we go, that's the good stuff,”[/color] he said as he reached for the bottle with an appreciative smile. [color=39b54a]“Havana Club rum. Every month when I come back from the South I get people dropping round my place hoping for a glass of this. Hell, even the don sometimes, and he was down there working in Cuba before Castro kicked us out.”[/color] For the first time, he smiled genuinely. [color=39b54a]“How much do you get for this, anyways?”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“$100 a bottle. It's a lot, sure, but given the penalties for breaking the embargo it's worth it.” [/color]

[color=39b54a]“Speaking of which,”[/color] the man from Chicago interjected as he picked up the envelope. [color=39b54a]“Not that I don't enjoy the company, but you're only the first stop today. Got to see your business partners and grab envelopes from all of them.”[/color] He opened it and began to leaf through the thick stack of crisp $50 bills fresh from the First County Bank, counting quickly and dexterously. She knew better than to interrupt and stood there silently, until he nodded to himself.

[color=00aeef]“Everything in order?”[/color]

[color=39b54a]“Quite. We had our doubts, but you rednecks have really built something up the last few years. Which is why next month the tax is going up to 20%.”[/color]

Mrs. Hawkins could hardly believe her ears. [color=00aeef]“Come again?”[/color] she asked incredulously.

[color=39b54a]“You heard me. Next month all these fifties need to be hundreds. Same goes for all your business partners, I'll be telling them today.”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“The tax has always been 10%!”[/color]

[color=39b54a]“That was probationary. We were helping you find your feet. But now that you've proven you can run a capable and profitable enterprise we want a good return on our investment.”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“That's gonna cut into my income badly.”[/color]

The man from Chicago shrugged. [color=39b54a]“So figure out how to make more money. That benefits both of us.”[/color]

“You can't do us like this,” she protested in spite of herself, her face flushing with ire. 

[color=39b54a]“Lady, if you keep complaining it's going up to 25%.”[/color] He glared, his eyes daring her to meet the challenge. She knew he was serious and kept silent. [color=39b54a]"That's what I thought. If you don't double this payment next time then Chicago will revoke your franchise rights. To put it another way, someone else is going to take over this territory. You're a smart broad, you'll figure it out. Now if you don't mind I'm headed out. Gotta have this same conversation ten more times today and it gets old quick.”[/color] The friendly jingling of bells mounted on the door signaled the man from Chicago's departure, and Mrs. Hawkins was left stewing behind the counter.

Where was she going to get that kind of money?

____________________________________

[center][url=https://youtu.be/DVx8L7a3MuE]He came on a summer's day
Bringin' gifts from far away
But he made it clear he couldn't stay
No harbor was his home
The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"[/url][/center]

[color=00aeef]“Harold, would you be a dear and hand me a beer, please?”[/color] Mrs. Hawkins asked pleasantly, turning down the volume on the little transistor radio. 

Harold Cokeley, rawboned and wiry, obediently dug into the tin basin filled with ice and pulled out a bottle of Schaefer, the humidity immediately beading on the brown glass even as sunset drew near. [color=ed1c24]“I thought he'd be here by now,”[/color] he grumbled as he popped off the cap and passed it to her. 

Eyes still on the small charcoal grill they had brought along, Mrs. Hawkins reached up and took it from him without looking. [color=00aeef]“Patience, hon. Mr. Rookwood is a man of his word,”[/color] she promised. 

To any passersby, it would seem like an innocent quiet tailgate cookout on the stone jetty by the old Sutton place. The dock had long since ceased to launch any pleasure craft and the last Sutton had moved away during the Depression. The house up the beach was crumbling but the jetty was solid as ever and a popular place to watch the sunset over the Gulf. Indeed, it was far from uncommon to see a pickup pull up to the end of the dock and the passengers to get out with a bucket of cold drinks and a grill, much as they had done. A closer examination would reveal the M3 submachine gun at the ready on the hood of the Chevy truck, though, which was generally a little more unusual for an evening get together.

Harold opened a Royal Crown cola for himself and leaned back against the Chevy, grease gun in easy reach should the need arise. [color=ed1c24]“We're gonna need to sell all that rum and then some. We've got a lot of people working for us, we really can't afford this increase unless we somehow expand our business in the next month.”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“Well, I'm open to suggestions. How do you like your burger, hon?”[/color]

[color=ed1c24]“Medium. Maybe we could ask him to bring us some Cuban cigars, too? We could try selling those.”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“It's a thought. Won't throw it out immediately, but that's not quite as profitable. You want cheese on there?”[/color]

[color=ed1c24]“No thanks. I see lights, I think that's them.”[/color] Harold pointed to the horizon. Highlighted against the pink and orange of the setting sun was an approaching craft. 

The twilight deepened as the craft drew nearer, as Mrs. Hawkins worried over the burgers and Harold checked his grease gun- ever paranoid, he was prepared for an ambush by the Coast Guard or rival syndicates or the Tonton Macoute, Mrs. Hawkins couldn't really be certain but she appreciated the effort. 

Finally the Chloe was upon them, the thick rubber tires tied to the sides butting up against the old Sutton jetty. Mrs. Hawkins grinned broadly as Harold tied them off at the cleat- she was rather fond of the old sailors. [color=00aeef]“Fellows! Good to see you both,”[/color] she greeted Rookwood and Blackthorne. [color=00aeef]“After all that time at sea I thought you might like a good old fashioned American hamburger. I'll fix you both a plate, and we've got beer and soft drinks on ice. Help yourselves!”[/color]

As the two came onto the jetty, she allowed them a moment to stretch their legs and look over the refreshments before continuing. [color=00aeef]“Now, some business. Harold and I find we're in a position to expand our business. So, I wanted to know-”[/color]

She was about to ask about the possibility of picking up Cuban cigars to go with the rum when something seized her. An impulse born of ambition, of frustration. A desire to reach higher.

Mrs. Hawkins pulled out the news magazine rolled up in her back pocket, flipped through to the photo spread she had spied earlier in the day when waiting for the man from Chicago. Two pages on the weapons being used in Vietnam. Color photographs of the American M16, the L1 used by the Australians, the HK33 wielded by Thai troops. And of course the ubiquitous AK-47 used by the North Vietnamese.

Mrs. Hawkins held out the diagrams of automatic weapons for Rookwood to see. [color=00aeef]“Do you think you can get us anything like that?”[/color]