The Bootlegger’s Errand

by David Portyanskiy (October 2025)

 

The fence, constructed of old elm beams fashioned from the trees that have not grown in these woods for many years, stood as time bequeathed to them the phase of dilapidation. From where the vegetable patch ended, a foot of grass terrain bordered the barrier. He avoided the grasp of his hands on the splintered and mildewed wood as he leaned slightly on the connector poles. His jacket covered his skin from the brewing dust and wood ash.

—Morning Clara, is George home?

—Morning? It’s damn near two in the afternoon. No, he ain’t home.

—I see. Do you know when he’ll be back?

—No. He hasn’t told me. He could be back in ten minutes. Or he could be back at ten this evening. He’s out on a job.

Damn, he mumbled. He spoke in constant softness. He kept his eyes active as a sentry. He avoided the racketeer’s path in fear of reprieve.

—Why? Is there something you…

—Clara! I need your help!

The screech of the old man’s voice echoed inside the house. The shuffle of feet on the wood accompanied out the open door.

—Yes Dad, what is it?

—Have you seen my reading glasses?

—Reading? She said with her voice consternated and diminished.

She rose and dusted off her skirt and left the bucket and returned to the house. To the house that has stood witness to these many years and that stands longer than the span of time of the father and the daughter, even further back to the father’s father.

—Reading glasses? Dad, you only have one pair and they’re on the living room table.

—Well, I only use them for reading. By the way, have you seen my newspaper?

—It’s on the couch on the corner.

—Thanks.

The old man staggered to the couch where the table rested on the right side. He moved his hand and felt for them but despite his gentle hovers his search yielded no result.

—They’re not there.

She picked them off the floor where they landed after he initiated his search. Luckily no damage was garnered from the fall.

—Here they are, they fell.

He took them from her outstretched arm and put them on and through the oily spots and white skin flakes which he blew away he saw the guest that waited outside. The guest moved anxiously. His face was possessed with worry.

—Who’s that outside?

—That’s Reginald. Don’t you remember him?

—George’s friend?

—That’s right.

—Well, what brings him here?

—I don’t know but let me ask. Can’t leave him out there for too long.

She departed the living room and returned outside. By now the solar rays fused in the lower atmosphere at maximum intensity and the wind from the geological rotations blew gently and infrequently. She approached him and she looked at his eyes as she asked why he wanted to see her husband.

—It’s more of a private matter. I just need help with something.

—I see. Well, you can wait a bit if you want.

—Thanks.

The episodic interlude ended as she returned to the cultivation of the crops. She bent down to her knees and resumed her labor while Reginald paced to the nearby tree and patiently waited as the branches and the leaves cast him in shade.

The speckles of dirt compacted under her nails as the strokes of the sun ricocheted off her head. Beads of sweat dripped from her brow under the Tennessee heat. She ripped the weeds and kept the soil flat and unjagged around the wooden spikes that impaled the fertile earth. Her agitation was audible through her tight-lipped obscenities as she continued for fifteen to twenty minutes.

But as he stood, his presence, unbeknownst to him, placed discomfort to her due to his idleness and the resembled position of an overseer. He smoked his cigarette as he impatiently gazed towards the main road for a sign of civility. No evidence was offered except for the chirping of the sparrows and her strained and exhausted voice.

—Well, if you’re just going to stand there, maybe you can help me out. There’s a bunch of weeds near the lettuce and spinach plots. You can go and uproot them.

—Huh? Um, sure.

He walked to the entrance gate and unlatched the lock and entered but as he approached the varying lines of agriculture, he thought it over and said that he’ll be back later, hopefully when George is home.

—Suit yourself.

He latched the fence door shut and said goodbye. She faintly perceived his exit as she fell into her many daydreams of the autumnal months. Though the seasons are in between, the crops are growing with vitality. In time of four to six weeks the carrots will be ready for harvest and after their cleanse from the rudiments of their inauguration, they will be sliced and boiled for their culinary assimilation. But George better bring back a good and fat hare for the pot, she thought, why else do I let him keep that Remington rifle then?

And she worked for two hours Reginald moved onward. He checked his beaten old pocket watch and slipped it back into his worn trousers.

I still have time, he thought, I can’t wait for George anymore or else there will no longer be a reason to wait. I must hurry.

He traversed down the road in steady contemplation in the veneer of self-preservation.

His list of friends was small, but any would suffice if he reached one on time.

In the sun’s decline and the night’s reign, Reginald exited a pub with his newly assorted papers. Successful in his endeavor to procure the necessary documentation he required one more harbor to visit before he achieved his absolute salvation.

He walked the freshly paved block over, as he was dimly cast by the electric light, and he felt an arm placed itself over his shoulders as if in friendly acquaintance.

—There you are. I was looking all over for you.

The two shadows glided in the dark.

And in the darkness, evening engulfed the encompassing sky with only the cosmic lights of distant stars to illuminate all the town’s passengers. The solar light has long abated with only the kerosene veneer present to replace it. And with man’s invention of temporal tracking the clock struck nine as George returned home with his briefcase and a handful of books. Clara, upon his return, set the dining table as he unloaded his cargo and prepared his writing desk for his nightly accounting. His meal was set, and he went forth and feasted as Clara cleaned the kitchen. She ate hours prior. The old man was upstairs in his room asleep.

—Reginald showed up here today looking for you.

—What brought him here?

—He didn’t say.

Silence was broken through the spurts of uneven dialogue that grew less spaced out until that was all that consumed the air while he ate and drank.

—I’m going back to Memphis later this Thursday. I have a new client.

—Ok, but be careful with them.

—Don’t worry. They’re just one—time visits. It always works out and we never see them again. The cops haven’t looked after me since Samuelson struck a deal and placed them on his bankroll.

—You might get a bad name for yourself.

—Nobody speaks of it. Now even the guys I deal with. This is, what do you call freelance.

—What did this guy do?

—He’s wanted for killing a whitey. Dumbass got drunk and started a fight with a guy and the sheriff is looking for him. The sheriff wants to make an example out of him.

—Then why are you helping him out?

—Heard around the bar that the guy killed whitey in self-defense. You know how this town is, it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not, they’ll still hang us. But the guy he killed was a pain in the ass to a lot of people and it’s not right for a man to be lynched just because he was protecting his own skin, no matter what color that skin is.

—So, the sheriff knows he’s hunting an innocent man?

—I don’t think so, but he hasn’t had the time to get all the facts. My client wasn’t willing to wait and see.

—I see.

—Honestly, I don’t care what shade a man is or nothing but if he needs some papers and is willing to pay for them then I’ll help him out. And he’s willing to pay.

—Nobody is going to cause a stir?

—Nobody cares. Not over this. Maybe over the whiskey but if Uncle Sam decides it’s time to stop drinking it doesn’t mean we town folks have to listen. He might’ve banned booze, but he can’t call us sinful just because we still find a way to drink it.

—Don’t store it here or daddy will finish it off.

—Don’t worry.

He ate his dinner and later in the evening they retired to their quarters where, thankfully the old man is near deaf, they engaged in matrimonial affiliation.

The day after, George sat in the armchair in his living room and read a novel while his wife mended her stockings while the old man sat by the desk and read his newspaper. The desk stood near the window and the sun greatly enhanced the visibility of the print. A few hours prior, George met his client and the exchange was finalized. If everything plays out perfectly the distinguished gentleman will be on a train due west by nightfall. George accrued a decent income from this, but the quantity was always hidden from retribution. The authorities and the rival gangs he interacted with kept their eyes closed. Of course, because his separate employment was granted operation in the worst case where they themselves would require it.

The old man coughed in hacked staccatos. Their off rhythms are tuned out to the other inhabitants until he lifted his head from the paper and spoke.

—Oh my, you wouldn’t believe this.

—What happened?

—They found Reginald in the river.

—What? What do you mean? Said George.

—He drowned, fish damn near nibbled his face off.

—Oh my, Clara quivered.

—It was difficult to identify him.

—That’s horrible, she said.

George closed the book and said somberly.

—Guess we’ll never know what he wanted.

 

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David Portyanskiy resides in New York City. He has a degree in finance and works in real estate management. Two of his short stories have been published in New English Review and has had economic essays on cryptocurrencies published in Nexus Magazine. David also a composer and a pianist and is on YouTube and Instagram.

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