Taking an opportunity this afternoon to revisit the first chapter of Still Life. Hope you’ll enjoy it.

Quarter to Three

Horsepower, torque, elapsed times, tires, gasoline.

            The bragging began shortly after midnight, lasting until a quarter to three. Chester O’Reilly, Ray Wheeler, and Roy Thomas were holding court in the parking lot of the Buffalo Gulch public library talking about a variety of subjects; most of the talk centering around Chester’s ancient Chrysler 300.

            It was his pride and joy. That and a dozen cases of white lighting hidden underneath piles of old periodicals leaving room for no one other than the driver.

            The car was potent enough. Back in the day, it would have had a glorious career, sneaking around the “Revenoors” from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms to deliver the dozen or more cases of white lightning hidden underneath piles of old periodicals leaving room for no one but the driver.

            That was back in the day.

            On this early Monday morning in the first week of October, the car, the white lighting, and Chester himself was part of a ruse. There were no “Revenoors” chasing after Chester O’Reilly and his cargo of white lightning. His operation was quite legal – in fact, ATF agents were aware of Chester’s distillery, or, “Still” he was running out of a large garage behind his house on his property between Buffalo Gulch and Cottonflower.

            It should be noted at this point that Ray Wheeler was attached to the county sheriff’s office as a duly sworn deputy, assigned specifically to the portion of the county which included Buffalo Gulch and Cottonflower. His side gig, of which the county sheriff was well aware, was helping Chester O’Reilly brew, distill and bottle the white lightning made on Chester’s property.

            “When should we get started on the next batch?” deputy Wheeler asked Chester after spitting out what remained of the toothpick he had been chewing.

            “I’ll get the grain we’ll need when I take Tabasco up to Paris tomorrow afternoon,” Chester answered. “We can get started on that next batch before I have to go into the hospital Friday.”

            “Will your ticker make it till then?”

            “Hell, Ray, he’s been overdue for the operation since last year this time,” Roy Thomas chimed in. “A few more days ain’t goin’ to hurt him.”

            Roy took one last drag of the cigarette he’d been smoking and tossed it so it landed in the hollow of a root of a tree ten feet away.

            “The way you been puttin’ away them cancer sticks, it’s a wonder you’re still alive,” deputy Wheeler remarked as he pulled another toothpick out of his front pocket so he could start chewing on it. Something he didn’t note was one of his business cards falling on the ground next to Chester’s car.

            “I suppose I’ll be givin’ them up the day I die,” Thomas mused.

            He lit up another and the subject drifted in another direction.

            “When are you gonna tell that colored gal what you really been doing?” Wheeler asked.

            “Before I go to the hospital,” Chester promised. “And quit calling her a colored gal. She’s smarter than the three of us put together.”

            The trio laughed. Deep down they knew Chester was right.

            “What do you see in her, anyway?” Wheeler asked. “You pushed awful damn hard to have the library hire her when Ms. Swisher resigned.”

            “I have my reasons,” Chester told him. “You’ll find out in due time.”

            “Before or after the anesthesia wears off?” Thomas laughed.

            “When the time is right.”

            Chester wore a knowing smile as his mind drifted off to an incident over sixty years ago.

            “And Ray, if you don’t quit talking about her as “that colored gal,” I might take a notion to cut you out of the business.”

            Ray Wheeler grumbled for a few moments before changing the subject again.

            “What’s this I hear about you going and making a new will?”

            “I needed to update it before the operation,” Chester explained. “Standard stuff. Things change. People go out of your life, new people come in. My daddy changed his will every five years until he died.”

            “That’s good thinking,” Roy Thomas chimed in. “I damn near lost the business when my daddy died. He left half to my brother Joey, but Joey had been gone for ten years by the time daddy kicked the bucket.”

            “Joey was nowhere near the mechanic you are,” Chester complimented him.

            “Had he lived, he would have run the business into the ground. Took about a year for the probate court to find in my favor. Well, that and a few thousand dollars to that shyster Benjamin.”

            “I wasn’t too confident of him, either,” Chester revealed. That’s why I hired that new kid, Greg Barclay, and set him up with an office in Buffalo Gulch.”

            “Ain’t heard of him,” Wheeler harumphed.

            “He specializes in probate law; although I believe he could defend a DUI if worse came to worse.”

            The three men laughed. Each of them knew that they had evaded getting DUIs by the skin of their teeth on more than one occasion.

            The conversation made the rounds for a couple more hours, until Roy and Ray excused themselves so that they would be ready to roll in the morning.

            At a quarter to three, Chester O’Reilly sat in the driver’s seat of his ancient Chrysler, awash in memories of a time when he was young and in love. He was going to marry that woman, no matter what anyone said. The Korean War and the U.S. Army had other ideas and his love was lost to him.

            “I’ll take good care of our grandchild,” he promised to the memory of the woman he would never have.

            Chester laid his head back and closed his eyes.

            He fell asleep, never to wake up again.