Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Maybe, but we need them.”

“What about that Hutton fella?”

“What about him?”

“How was it he brought Irv home from Lefty’s?”

“It’s a long story.” She didn’t want to mention the deputy’s badge.

“Irv thinks—”

“I know what Irv thinks.” Her brittle tone stopped him from taking that subject any further. Be careful you don’t dare me.

“Well,” Ernie said, “somebody found out where we’re at. If it’d been lawmen, they’d’ve poured out the hooch and busted up the stills.”

“Unless it was corrupt lawmen.”

“Could be. But…”

“But what, Ernie?”

“You don’t need this on top of Irv.”

“Don’t spare me bad news. I hate surprises. Recent ones have been calamities.”

“Well then, what I think? Whoever stole the ’shine was giving us a warnin’. It was somebody’s way of saying we know who you are and where you’re at, and you got off light with us just taking off ten crates instead of ten fingers and toes.”

“The Johnsons?”

“So long as we’re small timers, they’ll leave us be. But if we start horning in on their profit…”

Again he didn’t finish, but she got the message. “Maybe I shouldn’t involve Corrine after all. What if they come back?”

“I’ve got two rifles, a side-by-side shotgun, a six-shooter, and a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Jaw spring. Big enough to trap a bear. If some sorry sumbitch sticks his hand in that hidey-hole again, he’ll come up with a stump.”

Corrine reappeared. Both observed her as she walked toward them. When she got nearer to them, she stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Why are y’all lookin’ at me like that?”

“Can you shoot a rifle?” Ernie asked.

“Damn good. Back home, I helped keep food on the table.”

“You ain’t back home, and you got only one good eye.”

“Then I might have to use you for target practice.”

Looking at Laurel, he mumbled, “I’ll give her the shotgun. Tell Irv to take it easy and not worry about things. That mash needs stirrin’.” He skulked off.

Laurel and Corrine watched him go. Laurel said, “Are you comfortable with me leaving you here?”

“Sure.”

“Will you have trouble finding your way back to the shack?”

“I made note of things along the way. With my one good eye,” she added with a scowl aimed at Ernie.

“Irv and I are counting on you to make yourself useful. Do you think you can do that without picking silly fights with him?”

Corrine looked over at Ernie as he dipped the stir-stick into the barrel. “One thing I can do is put some meat on his bones,” she said. “I never saw a man who needed feedin’ more’n him.”

* * *



When Laurel came upon the road sign, she slowed down then rolled to a full stop. She stared at the sign’s uneven, hand-painted lettering, which was familiar because she’d passed it many times before. But the sign now had new, and more personal, significance.

She calculated how long she’d been away from the house, leaving her infirm father-in-law alone. She thought about the deal he had failed to cement with Lefty before the raid. She thought about Corrine and the abuse she’d suffered.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she made the turn. Earlier today, she’d been told she had sass. This would be a test of just how much.

The road was as corrugated as a washboard. Her tires kicked up dust as fine and white as talcum powder. It swirled around the Model T when she brought it to a stop. As the dust settled, she studied the uninviting structure. It looked deserted.

She hesitated, thinking that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea at all. She patted her pocket and, after feeling the reassuring weight of the Derringer, pushed open the car door and got out.

Warped steps led up to an equally uneven porch. The heels of her shoes tapped loudly on the planks and echoed in the crawl space beneath. The screen on the outer door was rusty and jaggedly torn in places, as though someone had taken a dull can opener to it. The wooden frame supporting it was splintery. It slapped against the solid door behind it when she knocked.

She heard muffled voices from within, and then a thudding tread as someone came to answer.

The individual who opened the door had to be Gert, because she was the female counterpart of an ogre. A cigarette was anchored in the corner of her lips, the smoke from it curling up around her face. She squinted against it, making her eyes appear even more hostile.

“We’re closed.”

“Not closed. Shut down.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“To discuss business with Lefty.”

Gert took away the cigarette and barked a sound that was half laugh, half phlegmy cough. “I think your business is with me. You must’ve heard about the girl I lost to the raid. You figuring on taking her place?” She looked Laurel up and down. “There’s men who don’t mind small ones. What’s your name?”

“Laurel.”

“Pretty.”

“Plummer. And my business isn’t with you. It’s with your husband. Is he here? Or in jail?”