Buttercup Read Online Free PDF Page B

open to chase away the sweat beading over her brow.
    Della’s smile faded.
    “Come here. All I want is to make sure you’re safe.”
    Della moved closer. Lady Joyce patted the lumpy mattress on the bed for her to sit. She did. Her surrogate mother gave a sad sigh.
    Della tried to comfort her. “I knows that. But I can help. Folk’s ain’t payin’ and comin’ like we need them to. We can’t afford to not have a show,” she sighed. “If you don’t like it, then fine. Tell me what to do and what it’s about other than what I do out there with you.”
    “It’s about sellin’ yo'self, Della, and not just the physical. Sellin’ it all. They call it hooch dancin’ because you got to get them boys all liquored up so they thinking a peek and sniff is better than bread and potatoes on their family tables. They dangerous, Della, and mean. You know how mean they can get. Get ‘em all riled up and… you need me on that stage to handle them.”
    “I hears you. I won’t do it. I trust you. Always have. We make the scratch how we can. I can play the shill and draw them marks over to Lone Wolf and Ed’s tables or sumthin’.”
    “A colored gal in these times actin’ as an outside-man . It’ll clue in every one of them townies that you makin’ a play for their pockets.” Joyce shook her head, sinking back into her pout. Della knew the truth. They were living in the days of the soup kitchens and bread lines. Sober, these townies were looking for a fortune, not trying to spend it. Drunk, they all stumble into a hooch tent. These shows were the Carnival’s lifeblood.
    Regular cons were only turning over pennies.
    “Be careful is all. Jus’ be careful. Get Trixie up there tonight. Get a dress for you both.”
    Della squealed. Leaping to her feet, she threw her arms around Lady Joyce’s neck. Her surrogate mother grimaced in a tight breath through her teeth. “Sorry!” Della laughed. “Okay then!” She turned to the stringed up line of costumes and snatched dresses before Joyce could speak. Then she ran for the door. Her tent was just beyond it. She couldn’t wait to get dressed.

    ***
Silvio spun the wheel hard left, not bothering with the brake. If he’d hit the brake, they’d be seen for sure. Silent prayers tumbled off his lips.
    Speed was his guide. The 1932 Hudson took a nosedive into the ravine, slamming into a tree. His forehead smacked the steering wheel. Impact gave him a nosebleed.
    “Fuck!” he grunted, slinking down in the seat. “Fuck!”
    Sheriff Tuck and his boys raced down Dixie, sirens wailing, several hanging off the back of pickups with shotguns in hand and a rope for his or Jelly’s neck. They hadn’t seen him veer off. At least he didn’t think they had. He slipped even lower. The steering column pressed into his chest.
    His knees were cramped up under the dash. He pulled down the front of his cap over his bruised forehead; his breathing came out in short quick pants.
    “Did we make it?” Jelly asked in a loud whisper.
    “Shut your trap, Jelly!” Silvio barked.
    Together they waited.
    They listened.

    Nothing.
    Silvio inched up. He squinted hard to see through the thicket out to the road. “I’ll be damn. I think they’re gone.”
    “Applesauce! They out there. Told you this was a deadman’s run.
    We need to get the shine out of the trunk and buried before they double back.”
    “Yeah, yeah. I know. Give it a sec.”
    In truth, neither of them wanted to get out. Sheriff Tuck was no one to meddle with. And running shine through his county without the proper tariff guaranteed jail or worse. Problem with this rule was it didn’t apply to the Sheriff’s nephew. Silvio was tired of pennies on the jar. He was aiming for a bigger payday.
    Silvio threw open his door. Jelly hissed a warning, but he went ahead and eased out from under the steering column. He landed knees first in the moist dirt and leaves. Half of him expected to look up and find the sheriff standing over