Bill Tolliver's Last Run

“You’re figuring on going out on a run tonight, aren’t you?”
Bill Tolliver stood up from the boat engine he had been working on and saw his wife looming above him on the rickety gray pier. The long sleek white hull of the boat rocked slightly with the shift in his weight. The name of the boat, painted in black letters on the stern, was Gerty. A calendar hanging on the attached shed showed the date as 1927.
“Sam has some stuff he needs to get to the Western Shore tonight. It shouldn’t take long.”
Helen sniffed. “Sam again; out on the point cooking up his bootleg corn liquor as if the Prohibition law doesn’t exist. It’s bad enough he’s going to end up in jail, but now he wants to take you with him. I’ll wind up the youngest widow in Cambridge.”
Bill wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Now, Helen. I know how you feel about running….er…product at night, but the work is easy and it pays a lot better than ‘arsterin’. Besides, we could use the money.”
“We don’t need the money that bad. Bill, please promise me this will be your last run.”
“Now, Helen…”
“I mean it, Bill. What good does money do us with you sittin’ in a jail in Baltimore?”
Bill shrugged. “Look; I’ll tell you what. Sam said he had a big shipment. Maybe if I make enough, I can hold off for a while”
Helen softened somewhat. “Bill, Prohibition is a bad law, but that doesn’t mean you can just ignore it. I worry about you.”
Bill stepped on to the dock and put his arm around her. “Now, don’t you worry. I’ll be back before the Coast Guard gets away from the dock.”
“Oh yes,” she whispered. “The Coast Guard.”
After some more reassurances to Helen, Bill Tolliver eased Gerty away from the pier and out towards the Choptank and the inlet where Sam would be waiting. As he left, he looked back and saw the diminishing figure of his wife still watching him go.
The sky was streaked with red as Bill made his way through the marshes to the wooded island that Sam called home. The air was close, hot and smelled of rotting vegetation and mudflats. Bill slapped a mosquito. How Sam stood the place was anyone’s guess, but it kept the Prohibition agents away. Finally, Sam’s pier came into view, a surprisingly sturdy construction by a sun blistered house and several barns. Bill cut the engine and drifted Gerty up to the pier.
“Hey, Bill,” came the voice of Sam, emerging from a shed. “Right on time. Let me get that stern line for you.”
Sam looked Gerty up and down. “Bill, I always say you just can’t beat these Hooper Island Draketails for running bootleg. They’re pretty fast and they’re low to the water so they’re hard to spot at night.”
“Yeah, well, I also use it for arsterin’. What have you got for me?”
Sam motioned towards a shed. “Thirty five cases of my finest. Biggest payday yet. I got this speakeasy in D.C. that can’t get enough of it. They got lots of local ‘shiners, but they prefer the Eastern Shore variety. Maybe it’s the corn we make it from.”
“Hold a minute, Sam. I’m not running Gerty up the Potomac into D.C.”
“No; of course not. Your drop off point is a pier on Carr’s Creek on the north side of Deal, just across the bay. I got a chart here. Here’s the pier. It will have a small blue light on it. They’ll have three guys waiting to unload so you’ll be out of there in five minutes. You just have to get it there. They got a couple of boys with fast cars to get it the rest of the way.”
Bill frowned at the chart. “Looks like a run of twenty miles or so each way. Sounds simple enough, I suppose.”
Sam grinned. “That’s the spirit. Well, come on, Bill. These cases ain’t gonna load themselves.”

At the Coast Guard station south of Baltimore, Chief Warren Vorhees drew himself another mug of coffee from the station pot. The chief always had a mug of coffee in his hand, but few could remember actually seeing him drink it. He strolled towards the dock and the long gray form of the patrol boat with CG-22 painted in large white letters near the bow. Several crew members were on the boat preparing for the night’s patrol. The radioman appeared.
“Hey, chief. The 22’s all set to go; gassed up and running like a top. Where are we patrolling tonight? Maybe around Annapolis?”
“Oh, I thought we’d take a little look-see down around the Choptank.”
The CG-22’s engines idled with a deep throated rumble. Stepping on to the bridge, Chief Vorhees felt the vibration beneath his feet and smiled.
“Everything on board and properly stowed?” he asked the watch officer.
“Everything, chief,” came the answer. “Including extra ammunition for the .50 caliber. We’re ready for anything. I feel sorry for anyone running bootleg on the bay tonight.”
The chief looked at his watch. “Prepare to get under way.”