Buster managed a wry smile. “Lucinda would have appreciated it. As she was so fond of saying, ‘Waste not, want not.’ ”
Day of the Moon
by William Jeffrey
Flagg leaned against the crowbar until the hasp broke and the lock dropped to the pine-needled ground. He waited, listening, but the only sounds were the faint rippling of the mountain stream a hundred yards to the west, and the distant call of an owl in the surrounding woods. It was almost four A.M.
After a long moment, Flagg kicked the lock away, put the crowbar against the wall, and edged the door open. The light from the three-quarter moon illuminated nothing more than vague shadows in the black interior. Once he had stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, he took a small pen-flash from the pocket of his deer hunter’s jacket and clicked it on.
He was in the rear storage room of Barney’s Oasis, a roadside tavern set into a conifer grove which was ringed by tourist cabins. It was a box-shaped, clapboard building with a slant-shingled roof and a falsely rustic facade. Flagg had seen dozens just like it in the past two weeks, and he had begun to wonder if they were all put out from some master mold.
He moved deeper into the storage room, playing the flash. Along the near wall were cases of liquor and beer and quinine water, and along the far wall cartons of peanuts, potato chips, pretzels, and assorted other light snacks. He checked the liquor cases, opening one or two at random, and then went to a bank of shelves near the entrance to the bar proper. Soap, disinfectant, cloth towels — there was no sign of what he was looking for. He opened the door and stepped into the bar.
The barnlike room was bathed in the eerie, reddish-tinged shine of the neon beer signs in the long front window. Flagg glanced curiously at the scattered wooden tables with their matching chairs, and at the glitter-decorated musicians’ dais. Then he turned and went behind the long polished bar on his left.
The planking squeaked beneath his canvas shoes as he moved slowly along the back-bar. When he reached the well where the house bourbon was located he picked up the bottle of Old Pilgrim from which he had been served just before the two A.M. closing. He removed the pour spout and sniffed briefly at the neck. Then, for reaffirmation, he tilted the bottle to his lips and allowed a small amount of the liquor to wet his tongue. It was the same: sour, yeasty, very young — not at all of the high quality for which the brand was widely renowned.
Flagg examined the bottle carefully. The glass had a few small flaws, but it was generally a skillful replica of the genuine Old Pilgrim decanter. Only an expert such as Flagg could have told the difference. The label had been well made, from good engraving plates, but the manufacturer’s code was incorrect and the paper was of a cheaper quality than the high rag content of the real ones; too, the green of the ink had a slight yellowish cast that should not have been present. The federal tax stamp had a set of perforations that revealed it to be an obvious forgery.
He replaced the bottle. Now, at least, he had something definite to go on. If he could only locate—
The overhead lights suddenly blazed on.
Flagg whirled, crouching, his hand flashing inside the deer hunter’s jacket. But he let it freeze there when he saw the tall blonde girl standing in the storage room doorway. She was dressed in a pair of bluejeans and a plaid jacket, and she had a small, light deer rifle cradled in her hands. The muzzle was pointed at his belly.
She said, “Oh, so it’s you,” as if she were very disappointed. “You’re the last person I would have figured for a night prowler.”
Flagg relaxed, straightening up. The girl worked at Barney’s Oasis as a waitress, and he had been making small talk with her only a couple of hours ago. Her name was Terry Kenyon. “I thought you’d be long gone home by this time,” he said.
“I live in one of the cabins out there,” she told him coldly. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk. And I saw you fooling around at the rear door.”
“So you went home and got your rifle,” Flagg said. “Well, all right, you can put it down now.”
“The hell I can.”
He took a couple of short, exploratory steps forward. “Take it easy,” he said. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“No?”
“No. I can explain.”
“You can do your explaining to the sheriff.”
Flag laughed. “That’s pretty funny.”
Her soft red mouth tightened. “I’m glad you think so.”
“You’re not going to call the sheriff.”
“And why not?”
“Because you don’t want him nosing around here,” Flagg said. “Not with this place pushing moon.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Moonshine. Bootleg liquor.”
“You’re crazy,” Terry said incredulously. “That kind of thing went out with Prohibition.”
“No,” Flagg said. “Illicit liquor traffic is heavier than ever, all across the country. It’s a multimillion dollar industry.”
“Well, I don’t—”
Flagg took two quick shuffling steps forward and jerked the rifle out of her hands. She made a small cry, her eyes widening. He backed off, holding the weapon crooked in his right arm.
She was frightened now. “What are you going to do?”
“That depends on you.”
“Meaning what?”
“I wasn’t kidding you about that moon,” Flagg said. “The Old Pilgrim that Barney uses for a house bourbon is pure shine.”
She brushed silklike strands of blonde hair back from her forehead. “I just can’t believe it.”
“You didn’t have any idea that’s what was going on?”
“No,” she said. “No, I didn’t.”
Flagg studied her for a long moment. He would have given odds that she was telling the truth. He decided to take a chance. “Look, Terry,” he said quietly, “I’m going to level with you. I’m probably putting my neck in a sling doing it, but I’m at a dead end otherwise.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m a Treasury agent,” he said, watching her face for a reaction.
Her eyebrows knitted, but that was all. No, she wasn’t in on it, he was certain now. He continued, “With the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax Unit for Northern California. Based in San Francisco. Somebody is manufacturing and distributing large amounts of contraband liquor in these mountains. It’s my job to find out who.”
She looked at him with a different expression, as if she were very glad he wasn’t a night prowler after all. “Why are you telling me all this?” she asked finally. “I told you, I don’t know anything about it.”
“You might be able to help me.”
“How?”
“By answering a few questions.”
“Well... all right.”
“How long have you worked for Barney?”
“About eight months.”
“Do you know where he gets his liquor? From which distributor?”
“From Kardin Wholesale, I think. In Eureka.”
“Just from there?”
“Yes, that’s the only one I know of.”
“Who else makes regular deliveries here?”
“Well, there’s the snack food company,” Terry said. “And the soft drink people. And Tru-Test Petroleum. That’s about all.”
Flagg said, “Tru-Test Petroleum?”
“Yes.”
“What’s that?”
“A fuel oil company.”
“How often do they deliver?”
“About once a week.”
“Drums, or what?”
“No, cases,” Terry said reflectively. “You know, it always did strike me as a little odd that Barney would use so many cases of oil every week...”
“Where does he store these cases?”