Chapter 59: The Greedy Sheriff
The owner of Strawberry Town’s general store was a miserly man.
He spent his days cursing the town butcher, whose stall stood at the most prominent spot right at Strawberry’s entrance. Because of that, his own meat sales had plummeted—most folks preferred to buy their meat from the butcher.
Moonshine was only a side business for him, but thanks to Prohibition, it was far more profitable than the store itself.
Of course, his way of doing business was nothing like Davey’s, who had the local police in his pocket.
Even when he brewed a fresh batch of moonshine, he never sold it all at once. He only sold to a few trusted old friends.
Even so, it earned him a tidy profit each month.
“Those damn bastards—working hand in hand with the police. Do those officers all go blind at night?”
“They’ve got people selling moonshine all over town—hell, right outside my store!”
“They take the taxpayers’ money and don’t lift a finger!”
“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I have to do something to stop them!”
The grocer, Chip, soon came up with a plan.
Historically, the United States wouldn’t pass the official Prohibition Act for another twenty years, but temperance movements had already been spreading across the country for nearly half a century.
The earliest advocates were Puritans who had immigrated from England. They believed alcohol was the root of all sin and should be outlawed.
Later, the rise of the women’s movement gave the temperance campaign even greater momentum.
Rampant male drinking had led to widespread violence, and since most men spent their earnings on liquor, women came to despise alcohol altogether.
Strawberry Town had enacted its own Prohibition laws largely because many Puritans lived there. Mayor Timmins had been elected with their strong support.
And now, Chip decided to use that to his advantage.
Having lived in Strawberry for years, he had his share of Puritan friends. Gathering a few of them, he went to see Mayor Timmins, hoping the man would take action to drive the outsiders away.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Chip,” the mayor said, “but you know Strawberry is a tourist town. I don’t have the authority to expel anyone. If they’ve broken the law, that’s the police department’s responsibility.”
“Perhaps you should file a report with the sheriff.”
Although Timmins had spearheaded Strawberry’s Prohibition policy, he wasn’t a Puritan himself.
In fact, he had taken quite an interest in the new moonshine business—or rather, he was one of its best customers.
He’d bought ten bottles in one go, enough to qualify for the bulk-purchase discount.
So why would he want to chase off the moonshiners? That wasn’t in his interest—or his authority.
Chip was clearly unhappy with the response, but he had no argument against it.
“Maybe we could get federal prohibition agents to come in and arrest them,” one of the Puritans suggested.
Selling moonshine was, after all, illegal. But in a small place like Strawberry, there weren’t any such agents around.
Chip didn’t like that idea one bit—he feared that if federal agents showed up, he’d be caught up in the mess too.
Plenty of people in town already knew about his own moonshine operation.
Still, at this point, it was the only real option left.
So, Chip and a few of his Puritan friends wrote a letter to the federal authorities, reporting the illegal moonshine trade in Strawberry Town.
...
Donal knew nothing of this. He was busy dealing with another problem—the Strawberry Town Police Department.
Sheriff Hanley had grown greedy. After seeing how popular Davey’s moonshine had become, his monthly salary of three hundred dollars suddenly seemed pitiful.
Worse yet, he had to share a hundred of that with his officers. The thought made his blood boil.
So, he summoned Donal to his office and demanded a bigger monthly cut.
“Mr. Donal, you must understand,” Hanley began, “your business is having quite an impact on Strawberry Town.”
“Several residents have already filed complaints with the department—and I’ve personally suppressed every one of them.”
“But my men are under a lot of pressure, and so am I. If I keep turning a blind eye like this, when the election comes at the end of the year, I might not be re-elected.”
In small towns, sheriffs could either be appointed or elected. Elected sheriffs weren’t federal officials—they served at the will of the townsfolk.
Sheriff Hanley was the latter. He had to run for re-election every year, and keeping his seat meant keeping the voters happy.
“So, Sheriff Hanley,” Donal asked bluntly, “how much money do you think is appropriate?”
He knew perfectly well what all of Hanley’s talk really meant—money.
The sheriff didn’t hesitate. He spread his palm wide and held up five fingers.
“Five hundred dollars? Sheriff, have you lost your damn mind? Even Sheriff Malloy in Valentine doesn’t ask for that much!”
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