Death of a Rainmaker Read online

  This is a work of historical fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2018 Laurie Loewenstein

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61775-665-8

  Hardcocver ISBN: 978-1-61775-679-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931312

  All rights reserved

  First printing

  Kaylie Jones Books

  www.kayliejonesbooks.com

  Akashic Books

  Brooklyn, New York, USA

  Ballydehob, Co. Cork, Ireland

  Twitter: @AkashicBooks

  Facebook: AkashicBooks

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Website: www.akashicbooks.com

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  Bonus Excerpt: Unmentionables, by Laurie Loewenstein

  About Laurie Loewenstein

  About Kaylie Jones Books

  Copyright & Credits

  About Akashic Books

  For Nathaniel, my greatest joy,

  and for Steve, the love of my life

  Chapter one

  There is no man more hopeful than a farmer, who wakes each morning to the vagaries of a heifer gone off her feed, seed that doesn’t take, a late spring, an early autumn, too much rain, or, worst of all, no rain at all, and still climbs out of bed and pulls up his overalls. And so it would seem that a fellow who swears he can cure this agrarian heartache, who swears he can make it rain, would be clinched to the bosom of every farm family from here to kingdom come.

  And that was pretty much the case in the county of Jackson, in the state of Oklahoma, in the bull’s-eye of the Dust Bowl, on August 2nd in the heart of the 1930s. As evening fell, farm and townsfolk loaded up their children and climbed into their jalopies. Strung out in a gap-toothed cortege, they motored a ways outside of town. The procession then turned sharply off the road and into a field. This particular field had once been fertile soil, etched into deep furrows. Now it was nothing more than hardpan—as impenetrable and unforgiving as granite. The last speck of loamy topsoil had blown across Oklahoma’s borders into Arkansas years back, leaving behind compacted dirt, its individual particles bound together so tightly that even a drop of water couldn’t wiggle through. But that made no matter because there was no water. Not an iota of rain had dribbled into the parched mouth of Jackson County for 240 days.

  In silent choreography, the folk parked alongside one another and debarked. As they gathered, billowing dust settled wherever it chose. Pastor Coxey stepped into the semicircle to bless the crowd and the rainmaker’s efforts. A woman commenced coughing but quieted when a stranger with rolled shirtsleeves stepped into the headlights’ silver shafts. Roland Coombs was tall, with an open, easy face. He grinned and a bit of dental work glinted far back. He’d driven into Vermillion, the county seat of Jackson, just that morning with wooden crates of TNT and blasting powder roped down in the back of an open truck. Tucked within the pocket of his store-bought jacket had been a sheaf of testimonials from drought-stricken towns across four states. Vermillion’s Commercial Club had hired him on the spot.

  Now Roland was studying the ground, cupping his fist to his chest, as if a pitcher contemplating an opening throw. When he spoke, the words sluiced easily over his lips: “Thank you, Reverend. We are surely in need of the good Lord’s blessing.”

  Several amens resonated from the crowd.

  “I am here to tell you that He has placed in my hands the tools with which to bring rain to your parched fields. Nothing complicated. Just this little old matchstick and a load of TNT.”

  A skiff of dirt blew up, skimming the hardpan and whipping against the bare legs of little girls in short dresses. Several of them set to bawling and had to be comforted.

  Roland didn’t pause. “You see, I was a munitions man during the war. Shoveling shells into howitzers and blowing the Huns to kingdom come. One afternoon it came to me that every time we’d deliver a good old dose of TNT, we’d get a thunderstorm sure as shootin’. Seemed like the explosions would give the skies a healthy kick in the drawers and down came the rain. Blam if I know why, but it happened all the same.”

  Roland grinned wide. A good number of the crowd chuckled, relaxing into his river of words. Some, mostly farmers and their wives, retained a stiff reserve. Their hearts had been broken too many times. Yet still they wanted to hope.

  Roland cocked a finger at the crowd. “But I recognize some doubters out there. And that’s for the good. Because seeing is believing. Tonight I’m going to pepper your skies with TNT and see if you don’t get rain by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe not a soaker, but at least a shower to prime the pump. How about that for a guarantee? And I’ll keep at it for the next three weeks to make sure the heavier rains follow.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “So, let’s get the ball rolling. Mamas, hold your little ones tight.” Switching on a heavy flashlight, he trotted to the launch area he’d set up earlier that day. Twenty shells packed with TNT were pointed nose up toward the stars. Roland squatted to inspect the charges, then began delicately linking each fuse to the detonator. He inhaled. Nothing sweeter than the scent of explosives. For this launch, he’d arranged the shells in two concentric circles. The same pattern had produced rain before and it was worth trying again. It was all about the timing and the pattern. If he found the right combination and summoned up a healthy dousing, the whole Oklahoma Panhandle—hell, the entire High Plains—would be his gravy train. He’d had a couple of miffs. Been escorted to several county lines. But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that he was close to nailing it down. Striking the match, he studied the blue flame. It jiggled like that girlie show dancer he’d seen in Kansas City, who’d shimmied while he and the rest of the audience panted—thumping away under the newspapers covering their unbuttoned flies. He lit the fuse and hustled back to the gathered crowd.

  “Ladies, cover your ears. It’s a-coming!” he shouted as the rockets shot upward with high-pitched screams. A series of thudding concussions shook the sky and shot vibrations deep into the hardpan. It was as if the millions of buffalo, slaughtered sixty years back, had risen from the dead and were stampeding again. And with the concussions came explosions of harsh white light. Flashes revealing all, then plunging the spectators into darkness, then stripping them naked again. Over and over. The loose blankets of dust on the road, on the fence posts, on the cars, and on the people, rippled and settled time and again.

  Some of the folks, including Reverend Coxey, fled to their vehicles. But most, like Jess Fuller whose farm was scheduled for foreclosure the next day, stayed put, with heads cocked back and hands keeping their hats in place. As each explosion burst, Jess pumped his fist, shouting, “You go, you go!” as if cheering on Dizzy Dean rounding the bases. Despite years of toil in the sun and wind, Jess still had a smooth b
oyish face. Beneath the brim of his woven hat, his eyes were as blue as penny marbles. Hours before, ever since he’d heard about the rainmaker, Jess’s ruminations had spun around one thought: Just one good soaking. Justa one. He figured a single cloudburst could salvage the kitchen garden and the remaining cattle, at least enough to hold off foreclosure. Justa one, Lordie.

  His wife Hazel stood alongside him in her old-fashioned hat, under which her thoughts spun in a different direction. She was wrung dry. She couldn’t squeeze out any more tears for the plot they’d dreamed about as newlyweds in Indiana, the plot they’d scrimped for and bought and tilled and sweet-talked for the past eight years. For the house, in whose single window she’d hung lace curtains. Tomorrow it was all going on the auction block and good riddance. The sooner they got back to Indiana, the sooner they’d get back on their feet. If this rainmaker brought down just a single drop, she knew that Jess would dig in his heels. He’d take it as a sign that the rains would be back, that the green sea of sprouting wheat would again lap at their doorstep. But she understood that the life they’d had in the good years had withered and blown away. With each explosion, she watched mournfully as Jess’s face brightened in the white light. The smell of explosives thickened the air. Hazel felt a sprinkling across her hat and for a second she froze. Rain? Already? But when she held out her hand only grains of dirt, tossed by the explosions, spattered into her palm. She smiled.

  Then, as suddenly as the clamor had begun, it broke off, leaving behind only an echoing hum that beat against the eardrums of those gathered like moths. Soon, a few jalopies started up, lights from their headlamps thick with swirling soil.

  “Show’s over!” Roland shouted. “But I’ll be here every night for three weeks, so stop on by. I could use the company.”

  That got a few laughs.

  “And set those washtubs out when you get home. The rain’s coming, sure as shooting.”

  Most of the crowd cleared out. A few lingered, including John Hodge, Vermillion’s most prominent attorney, and, trailing two steps behind, his wife Florence.

  “Impressive show,” Hodge said, extending his palm.

  Roland pumped the man’s hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  Hodge continued: “Hope your method does the job. Matter of fact, I’m an amateur chemist myself. I was wondering about the explosive compounds you use.”

  The rainmaker reached for Florence’s hand, bending as if to kiss it. “And this must be your lovely . . .” he said, then paused and surveyed her face. He cocked his head to one side, narrowed his eyes. Florence’s pasty complexion turned to chalk. She yanked her hand away.

  “Say, you look familiar.” Roland slowly shook a finger at her.

  Florence quickly pressed a hankie over her nose and mouth. “Is it all right if I go back to the car? I’m not well,” she said to her husband.

  “Stay where you be.” Then, turning to Roland, Hodge grabbed the man’s arm, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. “Don’t you ever touch my wife again.”

  Roland raised his hands in surrender. “No harm intended.”

  “Just so we’re clear on that. Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Hodge went on: “I’ve got some questions about your operation. And keep in mind I kicked in a fifty toward your fee.”

  Roland smiled tightly. “I appreciate that and I’m glad to give you the low-down on my system.”

  “That’s more like it. What I’m wanting to know is how the materials are packed into the tubes. What goes in first?”

  As Roland answered the lawyer’s questions, keeping back a couple of trade secrets, his eyes shifted to the thin pale woman half-hidden behind her husband’s broad back. When Hodge’s inquiry ran out of gas, he gruffly thanked Roland, snatched his wife’s arm, and stomped off toward the cluster of parked cars. Roland watched as the fellow’s sedan backed up with a jolt and accelerated toward the road. He dipped his head in thought, then trotted out to the detonation site. The beam of his flashlight illuminated the blackened squibs. As Roland collected the rocket launchers, three teenagers in baggy denim uniforms approached.

  “That was the aces,” said the shortest kid. He had the clipped accent of a city boy.

  Roland studied the youth’s wide-legged stance, the brim of his hat rolled back over wavy dark hair. “Where you boys from?”

  “CCC camp, just west of town,” the kid said.

  Roland finger-snapped the patch on the boy’s sleeve. “Civilian Conservation Corp. I’ve heard of that. So FDR’s tree army has set up shop in Jackson County?”

  The kid nodded. “I’m Carmine. This is Chet and Gordie.” He jerked a thumb toward his two sandy-haired companions, who had the gangly appearance of Midwestern farm boys.

  “We was thinking it would be swell if you’d come out to the camp one of these days and talk to the fellows about your setup.”

  “Be glad to.”

  From across the way came the slow crunch of tires on gravel as the last of the spectators departed.

  “How you boys getting back to town?” Roland asked.

  Carmine shrugged. “Hoofing it, I guess.”

  “How about you three help me load my equipment? I’ll give you a ride and throw in a round of beers.”

  “You bet!”

  After the crates were loaded under a canvas tarp, the boys scrambled on top. The truck had bumped along a mile or so when its lamps shone on a stooped figure tromping toward town.

  “Want a lift?” Roland called out, tugging on the brakes.

  The man, wearing a shapeless fedora, wordlessly waved Roland off without lifting his head.

  “Suit yourself, old-timer,” Roland said, releasing the clutch and applying the gas.

  From his perch in the back, Carmine watched the man diminish in size until he was no more than a blurred gray shape before he disappeared altogether. “Nuts to youz, grandpops,” he yelled, leaning back against the covered crates and stretching out his legs. “More room for us.”

  The truck putt-putted toward town, a dark mourning veil of dust in its wake. Shuffling along the berm, the bent traveler coughed and spat. After that, the quiet of the prairie was restored and the only sounds were the creak of his boots, the arid susurrations of the dead stalks, and the prayers of the people.

  Chapter two

  Sunrise the next day, dozens of farm wives rushed outside to peer into their washtubs and basins, expecting to see at least a puddle. But instead found only a few trapped weevils flopping in the dust.

  And in town, the owner of the Jewel Movie House also noted the lack of rain. Sniffing the dry air, Chester Benton immediately sensed that the rainmaker’s promises of the evening before were nothing but false gold. He congratulated himself for refusing to hand over a single penny to the Commercial Club’s rash backing of that hustler. But with the early-bird matinee only fifteen minutes away, he couldn’t spend time gloating. He strode to the ticket booth, which stood under the marquee, a small compartment unto itself that was outfitted with velvet curtains and a parlor lamp. Chester Benton himself was just as dapper in his pinstriped suit, polished brogans, and blue-tinted spectacles that hid his clouded eyes. Brain fever had rendered him stone-blind when he was eight.

  Approaching the booth, his leg wacked against the hard metal mouth of a waste basket.

  “I’ve told you a million times that can belongs in the booth with you.” Chester’s voice was strident as he squeezed into the compartment alongside Maxine, his thirteen-year-old ticket-seller, who was perched on a stool inside. “Now I’ll have a God-awful bruise on my shin.”

  “But Mr. Benton, there’s not room for it in here. I can barely cross my legs.”

  Chester shoved the can beside her stool. Maxine sighed.

  “And is that Juicy Fruit I smell?” he asked. “You know the rules. Spit it out.”

  “Yes, Mr. Benton. Sorry.”

  “You’re not wearing lipstick, are you?”

  “No,” Maxine said, quickly swip
ing her Red Glo–coated lips with the back of her hand.

  “I can’t afford to lose patrons because of a slovenly, gum-chewing, lipstick-wearing ticket seller.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do you have enough change?”

  There was a rattle of coins in the cash drawer.

  “Twenty-four quarters, five dimes, thirty pennies.”

  Satisfied, Chester eased back outside. Behind him came the click of a lipstick tube and the rustle of magazine pages, but he chose to ignore Maxine’s transgressions for the moment. Stepping out from under the canopy, he tilted his head. The sun beat down. Blue skies meant folks would be up and about and feeling snappy. In thirteen minutes the curtain would rise, and if he sold twenty tickets, there would be enough to make the rent. He grinned, allowing himself this nip of optimism, knocking it back same as a shot of Four Roses. Making rent had not been an issue until two years ago. It was then that the nickels that once jingled plentifully in men’s pockets and ladies’ cookie jars became scarce. Everyone started thinking twice before spending money on anything that didn’t put food on the table or keep the roofs over their heads. The Depression and the drought had walloped Oklahoma with a one-two punch.

  In the good years, the twenties, Chester had made a decent living. Bought a radio and an overstuffed chair for his apartment upstairs. Invested in a fine wool suit. Squired Lottie Klein, the head clerk and buyer at her father’s clothing store, to dinners at the Crystal Hotel and treated her to biannual train trips where they sipped Four Roses in the club car.

  He was a sharp-looking man, according to Lottie, who had regularly remarked on his pencil-thin Clark Gable mustache. The mustache was gone now. He’d had to give up the weekly expense of a barber’s trim. But Lottie said that his naked upper lip was not a deal breaker and that hard times called for economizing. She was a shrewd businesswoman and spoke her mind—qualities Chester admired. He figured she was in her late thirties or early forties. Her standard reply when anyone asked her age was, “None of your beeswax.”

  At precisely 11:35, Chester took up his position at the ticket bin inside the lobby. The first patron to step up to the pulpit was Mrs. Reed, as regular as clockwork. The woman wore too much perfume but her voice was pleasant enough.