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"How much of this have you sold?" I eyed the industrial-sized cooler from which they'd dispatched my share.
"Only one jug. " The kid pulled out an equally mammoth cooler from beneath the table.
"You're going to have to pack this in," I said.
"What?" they shouted. "Why?"
I didn't want to explain that their granny was a moonshiner and their lemonade about 150 proof, but I couldn't let them keep selling the stuff.
"Did you sell more than one glass to a single person?"
Solemnly they shook their heads. Well, that was good news. I doubted anyone would get sick from one glass. The way it tasted, I doubted anyone but a local would be able to finish the stuff. And locals were used to the effects.
"It's getting too crowded out here for you to take up the corner," I improvised.
"Aw, what're you givin' them a rough time for?" said a man with a thick Boston accent. "They're cute. "
"Yeah, that's local color," added a woman whose hands were full of shopping bags with logos from nearly every store in town.
The kids beamed. "Want a glass, mister?" one asked.
"No!" I exclaimed. "I - uh - I'm buying the whole jug. I mean cooler. I need it for. . . the police. "
Three little faces went white.
"They're thirsty," I continued. "Been out in the sun all day directing traffic. "
"Good idea," the man said. "Gotta keep our men and women on the force hydrated. "
The tourists moved on - thank God - and I pulled a twenty out of my pocket. The kids snatched the cash and began to pack their stuff. I took the cooler and poured it down a storm drain in a nearby alley. The scent that wafted up could have peeled paint from a barn.
When I returned, they were gone. I should tell Grace what had happened, but I figured by the time she got out to the McGinty place, Granny would have moved her still. Again.
This might be the twenty-first century, but in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the southernmost section of Appalachia, old habits died hard.
The Scotch-Irish were double immigrants who'd traveled from their native Scotland in the 1600s to settle Ulster in Northern Ireland. When things began to suck there, long before the potato famine, they'd traveled across the sea. At the time of the Revolution 10 to 15 percent of the population of the Colonies had been Scotch-Irish, which had contributed in no small amount to the uprising against the English.
"Mayor Kennedy. " Balthazar's cool, slick voice made me tense. I was tempted to just keep walking and pretend I hadn't heard him in the noise of the crowd. Unfortunately, he'd just follow me back to the office and then I'd never get rid of him.
I plastered on a smile, turned, and nearly got a faceful of camera. I reared back as he clicked the shutter.
Asshole.
"That'll make a lovely shot for our front page. " He smirked.
I could imagine how lovely I'd look this close. "Knock it off. "
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "A public figure like yourself is fair game. "
He hit the button again, and the camera fired like a machine gun. I was tempted to hold my hand in front of my face or shove my fist into his nose. Instead, I spun on my heel and headed for town hall.
"What do you think of this caption?" he called. " 'Mayor Kennedy allows moonshine lemonade to be sold on Center Street. '"
I stopped, turned, and stared him down. "I don't plan to give up, Balthazar. I will fight for this job. "
He covered the few feet separating us, crowding too close as usual. "Why? You didn't want it in the first place. You should quit. "
My hands curled into fists. "I'm done quitting. "
