Flash Fiction+ Friday: Bootlegging

Illustration from Pixabay under CC0 Creative Commons license

Recently, some family members compiled a descriptive time line of family history of my great-grandparents, which I greatly enjoyed reading. While there weren't lengthy details, there were some interesting stories which I expanded using some imagination. Therefore, this is a semi-biographical tale in whole, but fine details, characters, and dialogue is not necessarily accurate. Also, I titled this Flash Fiction+ because the word count is 1454 words, not quite within 1000 that I aim for. I hope my readers have patience for an extra four hundred words or so. Enjoy. 

Bootlegging

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“Quick. Roll the barrel into the corner,” Vincent ordered.

A teenage boy and teenage girl did as they were told. In the cellar, they stashed it in a corner, covering it with blankets and other boxes. Vincent went around the room, pulling the cord on the light bulb, steadying its sway afterwards.

They huddled, crouched under the stairs. Behind them were bottles with corks.

Upstairs, the front door slammed, followed by angry footsteps. Caroline spat various expletives at the unwanted visitors.

“Where is it?” a man said. His voice was raspy and deep.

“Where is what?”

“You know what,” a second voice said. It sounded younger than the first voice.

“Go away,” Caroline said. “I no invite you here.”

“Bootlegging is against the law. You know it,” the young man said.

“Go pester another. I no welcome you.”

Footsteps continued and soon the raspy man said, “Here.”

The cellar door creaked opened. A flashlight illuminated the steps and shiny black boots with jangling buckles descended. The first man stopped at the bottom, the second followed. Walking across the room, they found the light bulb Vincent had just switched off, and pulled the cord.

Caroline shrieked from the top of the stairs, ordering them to get out. Two more children came running from a bedroom; a boy of about ten and a younger girl perhaps eight. She instructed the boy to fetch the neighbors.

The men searched the cellar, speaking to one another and they pointed to various items of interest. The older man poked around in the corner and found the barrel. With the younger man’s help they threw off the blankets, a dismal attempt at hiding a large object, and rolled it out. The barrel stood mid-thigh.

Using a side to side rocking motion they heaved the barrel to the foot of the stairs. Its contents sloshed with the movement. Motionless, Vincent and the teens held their breath.

“We need to note the time the contraband was discovered,” the older man said.

Whipping out a pocket notebook and pen, the younger man stuck his flashlight under his arm and scribbled some notes. When he finished he looked up; something glinted in the flashlight’s beam and he grinned.

“Sarg, over here,” he said.

He walked around to the back of stairs and ordered the three to stand by the barrel. Vincent saw their polished badges pinned to their uniforms.

“Caught ‘em, did we?” the Sarg said. His boots jangled over to them. “This your property?” he continued, pointing to the barrel.

Vincent stayed silent.

The younger officer asked the teens, “Yours, is it?”

The boy was about to answer but Vincent held up his hand.

“If you wish to take it, then take it,” Vincent said.

“Oh? You hide it but are now gonna give it to us?” the younger one said.

A toddler in pajamas screamed from the top of the stairs. Caroline scooped him up, scolding the men for upsetting her children near bedtime. Yet another child appeared and clung to her skirt.

Sarg shook his head. “All these kids. Too many.”

His comment made Vincent frown. Before his anger could grow, Sarg spoke again.

“You,” he pointed to Vincent, “and you,” pointed to the teenage boy, “get this barrel upstairs. Now.” Turning to the girl, “You just stay outta the way.”

Vincent instructed his daughter to go upstairs. She hurried up the steps.

Looking as his son, Vincent said, “Faustino, we do as this man says.”

The Sarg permitted their request to obtain a contraption with handles that wrapped around the top of the barrel, allowing for easier, quicker transport. One step at a time, they lugged it up the stairs. At the top, they were sweating; Caroline handed them handkerchiefs.

“Out the door with it,” Sarg instructed.

Tucking the cloths in away in their pockets, Vincent and Faustino obeyed. Once outside, they paused again and the officers spoke to one another.

“Where should it happen?” Sarg asked the younger man. He phrased it like an examination question. The younger man must be a trainee.

“Mmm. Sidewalk?” the trainee answered.

“Works for me.” Sarg turned toward Vincent and Faustino. “You heard him.”

Vincent nodded and the two moved the barrel to the sidewalk. By now the ten year old returned with the neighbor, a big burly Norwegian man. He was twice the height of Vincent and his chest equaled the width of the barrel.

“What is it you want with my friends?” he demanded.

“Stay back. This doesn’t concern you,” Sarg said.

The man’s wife shouted from down the street, gesturing for him to return as she pointed at something. The Norwegian told Vincent he’d be right back.

“Now what?” Vincent asked the officers.

“Drain it,” Sarg said.

Vincent wondered why the men didn’t take care of it themselves.

Caroline reappeared and spoke quickly in Italian as she dashed to the sidewalk standing with the ten year old. Vincent began answering, but was interrupted by commotion from the Norwegians. They spoke sternly to a man in a brimmed hat, telling him to go back; that there was nothing to see here. Ignoring them, he continued walking toward the scene.

“Christ,” said Sarg.

The stranger was holding a square box with a bulb on top. He was a newspaper reporter.

“How the hell do these guys know when and where to show up?” the trainee asked.

“Who knows,” Sarg answered. “Well, let’s give ‘em a show.”

Unsure and fearful of what Sarg meant, Vincent instructed Faustino back to the yard with his mother and brother.

“Hey fellas,” the reporter greeted.

“Ignore him,” Sarg said to Vincent. “Pour.”

Vincent stared at the barrel. He labored in secret making its contents, and it wasn’t easy. How the police found out, he didn’t know. With a twinge of sadness, he pulled the plug and in a steady stream, the red succulent wine splashed onto the concrete. The officers touched the flowing wine as the reporter flashed his camera once. Vincent looked up as the bulb recharged; the reporter snapped another.

Shamefully, Vincent watched his wine disappear as Caroline and the children watched in silence. His whole family was outside now.

“Plug it,” Sarg said.

This command confused Vincent, but he obliged.

“Should be light enough for you now. Throw it in the cruiser.”

“Sure thing,” the trainee said.

“But I only emptied it halfway; maybe a little more,” Vincent said.

“Gotta book some in for evidence,” the trainee said.

The reporter saw the scene dying and left.

Expecting to be arrested or at the very least, cited, Vincent stayed put on the sidewalk, but the officers got into their car and drove off.

Turning back toward his family, he motioned for everyone to go inside. He waved goodnight at the Norwegians and they all went inside.

***

“Of course, you will go to school today,” Vincent said to his children over breakfast.

“Pa, we’re too embarrassed,” Faustino said. “Ask Elnora and Giovanni.”

The teenage girl and ten year old boy nodded their heads in agreement.

“Bah. If anyone gives you trouble, hold your head high and ignore them.”

Faustino picked up the newspaper again and groaned. On the front page was the reporter’s photo of Vincent and the officers with wine pouring out of the barrel. The headline read: “Italian Vino Busted.” The article gave an accurate depiction of the events, making a mockery of the family’s good upstanding reputation.

“I’m too mortified to face my friends,” Elnora said.

“Me, too,” Giovanni said. “The whole town is laughing at us.”

“They shouldn’t; we were taken advantage of,” Vincent said.

“How?” Faustino asked.

“It’s against the law to drink alcohol, no?”

“That’s right, Pa,” confirmed Faustino.

“The police came and confiscated it from our home. They made me dispose of it. Wasted. In front our neighbors, no less.”

“Yeah, then the stupid reporter took a photo and now it’s there!” Giovanni said, gesturing to the paper.

“Did none of you notice that nothing happened to me?” Vincent said.

“The jail is probably full,” Elnora said.

“But they took the remaining wine,” said Vincent.

“Right. ‘Evidence,’” Faustino said, biting into a slice of bruschetta toast.

“No. They took it to the police station. And drank it themselves.”

The children were stupefied into silence.

“That’s right they took my wine, claimed to confiscate it for evidence, only to enjoy it themselves. That’s why I got no punishment.”

Elnora inhaled loudly. “Well, I’m still too embarrassed to face my friends. My father on the front page of the paper; in front of our home. What will they think? What will their families think?!”

“They will think, ‘I wish I had brought my glass.’ Now get ready for school.”

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller