"Here you go Pop," greets the teenager sliding a small cake wrapped in cellophane across the wooden visitation desk as a big black bird alights on the ledge of a barred window.
"That's my boy!" beams Oil reaching for what he thinks will be the key to his prison prosperity. "Was it hard to find?"
"Nah, that Magoffin clerk had his kin meet me on the side of the road down on Cow Creek," grins the son with as much cheer as he'll ever have.
"He's a good ol' boy when he gets a whiff of corn...," begins Oil, pausing as the corvid starts pecking on the glass.
The guards hadn't batted an eye at the yeast cake during check-in at the new visitation hall because the pasty confection had been a fad food for more than a decade. Dried yeast packs would soon replace fresh mash patties for baking, but that change wouldn't come to eastern Kentucky until after the war.
The clandestine distillery was wizening right along with the year's corn. Waters out tending the fields would soon grind the dried kernels with a hammerstone behind the hanging tree. Hillbilly had an old stockpot tucked behind the dishwashing supplies in the kitchen closet. Oil would be ready to load mason jars from the basement butcher shop that doubled as the shipping bay for prison products. They just needed someone on the receiving end, and an eager eighteen-year-old would be just the ticket.
"... and now I just need you to..." Oil begins again until halted by a huge hand landing on his shoulder.
"The warden wants to see you," smirks a goodly-sized guard standing over father and son and dangling a set of handcuffs.
"What's this all about?" the startled inmate pleads, offering up his wrists.
"Waters went missing."
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