Moon Over Manifest

  As one looked at them, all carrying their metal lunch boxes and wearing their denim overalls and miner’s helmets with gas lamps attached, it was difficult to distinguish one man from the next, one group from another. However, when they spoke, it became clear the Italians were ending their shift and the Austrians were beginning.

  That was the way Devlin preferred it. Keep each to his own kind, speaking his own language, and everyone would stay in his place. The men coming out of the ground, squinting against the daylight, were like dead men rising out of a grave. They walked in somber formation to the water pump to wash.

  That day was unusual in that Mr. Devlin himself stood near the mine elevator. Jinx hadn’t seen him since the night of the Klan rally and felt himself draw back a bit at the sight of the grand knight. Of course now there was no white hood or cloak. Mr. Devlin was dressed in a large pinstripe suit and an immaculate celluloid collar. His slicked-back hair glistened in the sun as he appeared to be having a heated discussion with the mine geologist.

  Jinx was relieved when Ned finally emerged from the elevator cage with the Italian crew. He walked his bike over to join Ned in line at the water pump. Ned removed his miner’s hat, revealing his sweaty hair and white forehead against his otherwise soot-blackened face. He eyed the two men arguing. “What are they going at it about?”

  “Something about the direction of the vein,” Jinx answered. “Seems the coal vein took a turn it shouldn’t have and now it’s going the wrong way. I think the geologist is about to get the boot.”

  “Oh, well,” Ned said. “Let ’em argue. Where’d you get that contraption?” he asked, motioning toward the bicycle.

  “Shady won it in last night’s poker game. Want to take it for a spin?”

  “Can’t.” Ned pumped fresh water and washed his face and hands. “My legs are aching to be stretched after being cooped up for eight hours. I might just run from here to Erie and back.”

  Several other mine workers stood around, waiting for their weekly pay.

  “Benedetto. You working too much,” Mr. Borelli said, using his Italian nickname for Ned. “Study. Learn. You go to college.”

  “Yes, sir. I hope to go on a track scholarship next year.”

  “Good, good.” He patted Ned on the back. “You run hard and study harder. Then you’ll not have to go work underground to feed your family. Man was not meant to spend his days in the dark, eh, Vincenze?”

  Mr. Vincenze wiped his face with a handkerchief. “C’è un inferno oggi!” he answered.

  “Sì, sì. It is a hot one today,” Mr. Borelli answered. He patted Mr. Vincenze along, then whispered to Ned and Jinx. “He speaks no English. These mines. They keep us in the dark in more ways than one.”

  Just then, Lester Burton, the pit boss, stepped among them and nailed a notice to a post near the water pump. The letters were big and bold enough to be read from several feet away.

  BY WAY OF PUBLIC NOTICE

  AMERICAN DEFENSE

  SOCIETY WARNING

  Every German or Austrian in the United States, unless known by years of association to be absolutely loyal, should be treated as a potential spy.

  Be on the alert. Keep your eyes and ears open. Take nothing for granted. Energy and alertness may save the life of your son, your husband, or your brother.

  The enemy is engaged in making war in this country, transmitting news to Berlin, and spreading propaganda and lies about the condition and morale of American military forces.

  Whenever any suspicious act or disloyal word comes to your notice, communicate at once with Fred Robertson, United States district attorney, Kansas City, Kansas, or the American Defense Society, 44 East Twenty-third Street, New York City.

  Burton turned his sun-splotched face to the men. “In wartime, that spy could be your neighbor. The chump sitting next to you at the pool hall or even at church.” He looked straight at Ned. “Could be anyone of unknown or questionable background. Be alert and trust no one. Got it?”

  There was a stir among the crowd. Mostly men asking for a translation from the few who could speak some English.

  “Good.” Burton fanned a stack of envelopes. “Borelli,” he called out. “Servieto. Vincenze.”

  One by one, the men took their pay and drifted away like shadows.

  “Gillen.” Ned stepped forward to receive the last envelope.

  Burton held out the envelope only to pull it back as Ned reached for it. “So you plan to go to college, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Looks like studying’s going to be a tight squeeze working double shifts.”

  “Sir?”

  “That’s right. There’s been a bit of a mix-up. We need to dig out a new room and Weintraub’s out with a broken leg. You’ll go in for him.”

  “But I just worked a full shift.”

  “Strong kid like you, shouldn’t be a problem. I suppose we could call in your old man. I recall seeing an unpaid balance on the Hadley Gillen account at the Devlin Mercantile. He might want some extra work in case a ‘payment in full’ notice comes due. Think about it.”

  Burton handed Ned his pay envelope and walked off.

  “That’s not fair,” Jinx said. “There’s lots of folks who could fill in for Weintraub. Why does he want you so bad?”

  “I’ve beaten Devlin’s son too many times at track meets.”

  “So what? His son has everything else going for him. Money, privilege, family name.”

  “Yeah, and that kind of person doesn’t like to get beat by a person of questionable background.” Ned’s voice shook with emotion.

  “Forget about him,” Jinx said. “Let’s go down to the fairgrounds later on. I hear there’s a fella selling all kinds of fireworks.”

  “Selling,” Ned said, opening his envelope, “as in money, of which you have none.” He stared at the contents in disgust. “And, I guess, neither do I. They work us like pack mules for seventy-eight cents a ton of coal and then pay us in vouchers for the company store. It’s no wonder we can’t get out from under their thumb.” He crumpled up the envelope. “So unless they’re selling fireworks at the Devlin Mercantile, we’re out of luck.”

  “I didn’t say we were going to buy any. We’re just going to look. Once we see what goes in one, we can make our own. We’ll have fellas all over Crawford County buying our fireworks.”

  “Not in the mood.”

  “C’mon. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

  Ned slowly buckled his belt and pick around his waist. “It’s buried a hundred and fifty feet underground. Maybe I’ll start working triple shifts. Then I can buy a piece of that coal vein and somebody might have a little leverage against Devlin.”

  “Suit yourself. But I did see Pearl Ann Larkin trying on a fetching hat at the millinery today. Big pink thing with feathers. She waved at me through the window.”

  Ned shrugged, opening the lower chamber of his miner’s lamp and dropping in a small handful of little white cubes. He turned the knob to the chamber above, allowing a few drops of water to hit the cubes, creating a gas that rose to the top. Ned flicked the flint, sparking a flame. Donning the hat, he said with a smirk, “Big pink thing with feathers, huh? If it doesn’t come with a carbide gas light, I’m not interested.”

  “She said something about looking forward to sharing some popcorn with you tonight at the carnival and taking a ride on the carousel. But I guess that doesn’t interest you either.”

  Ned adjusted the flame and shined it in Jinx’s squinting eyes. “She said that?”

  “Sure as I’m standing here. And I happen to know you’ve got forty cents at home.”

  Ned sighed. “This shift doesn’t end until six o’clock.”

  Jinx smiled, knowing he had won. “I’ll meet you at the fireworks booth at six-thirty.”

  Ned studied Jinx under the light of his helmet lamp. “What are you cooking up, Jinx? The last time you were this interested in my courting Pearl Ann, I ended up smelling like a glacial s
kunk.”

  Jinx straddled his bike. “By the time you’re done working two shifts, you’ll smell plenty without any help from me. So be sure to wash up,” he called as he pedaled off.

  The autumn night was cool. Hensen’s field just outside of town was aglow with hanging lanterns strung from one booth to the next. The county fair was a welcome time for all. Farmers had finished harvesting their soybeans, milo, and alfalfa and had planted their winter wheat. The kids had a break from school. Folks from neighboring towns stopped in to sample the variety of foods.

  The Italians baked everything from cannelloni to ziti. The Swedes served up braided bread and hard baked pretzels, while the Germans and Austrians touted their strudels and bierochs.

  Jinx spotted Ned and handed him a calzone. “Compliments of Mama Santoni. She heard you had to work two shifts.”

  “Grazie,” Ned called to the large woman, his mouth already full of bread and cheese.

  “Eat, eat,” she insisted, her arms deep in dough. “Come back, I have biscuits baking. I keep them warm for you, yes?”

  “We’ll be back,” Jinx said, leading Ned away by the elbow.

  A few booths over, a placard read JASPER HINKLEY, PYROTECTIC. The exuberant Mr. Hinkley worked a crowd of young boys who apparently had plenty of money to spend. “There you go, lads. And remember, be careful with fire. Once you start it, fire works!”

  The boys ran off, leaving Mr. Hinkley to laugh alone. He smoothed the handlebar mustache covering his upper lip. “Just a little pyrotectic humor, gentlemen. What can I do you for today? See here, you’ve got your Shanghai Sizzlers, Sparkling Marys, Chinese Color Changers.”

  Jinx picked up a red cylinder behind the rest. “What’s this one?”

  “Easy there, son!” Mr. Hinkley took it from Jinx and gently replaced it with several matching red cylinders. “That little fella’s not for sale. He’s a Manchurian Fire Thrower. They’re ones that shoot upwards of three hundred feet in the air and explode in two different colors.”

  Jinx hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “What do you take us for, mister? A couple of them schoolboys? You expect us to believe these here cans shoot up in the air and explode in color?”

  Mr. Hinkley looked bewildered. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Haven’t you ever seen fireworks, boy?”

  Jinx stuck out his bottom lip and spoke with a feigned country-bumpkin accent. “Well, mister, we may look stupid, but that’s as far as it goes. I bet there’s nothing more than beans in them cans.”

  Mr. Hinkley took a medium-sized canister and cranked off the lid. “You see that there powder? That’s pure T-N-T. Mix that with a little potassium nitrate, sulfur, and charcoal and you got the beginnings of a first-class shell.”

  Jinx looked sideways at Ned. “Sounds like quite a recipe. But even if you can get it off the ground, and I’m not saying I believe you can, how you going to get it to explode in the air?”

  “Now, that’s the trick.” Mr. Hinkley gently reached into the canister and exposed a thin fuse. “This little fella, he starts to burning when the shell goes up. When he’s all used up, kapow! You got yourself a mighty fine pyrotectic display. That’s fireworks in layman’s terms.” He put the lid back on the canister. “Course, you got to be a bona fide pyrotectic to handle these little darlings. I apprenticed with a full-fledged Chinaman up in Omaha.”

  Jinx nodded and crossed his arms. “Well, you do seem to know your trade.”

  “Fine. Now, which one of these quality specimens would you be interested in? Keeping in mind, I don’t sell the Manchurian Fire Throwers. Those are only for official pyrotectic displays.”

  Jinx looked over his shoulder. “Uh-oh. Isn’t that Mama Santoni calling, Ned?”

  Ned took his cue. “Uh, yeah. She’s keeping those biscuits warm for us in the oven.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Hinkley. If we don’t hurry up, those biscuits are going to turn into fire crackers. Just a little humor from one pyrotectic to another,” Jinx called as he and Ned walked off. Mr. Hinkley smoothed his mustache as a new group of boys crowded around the stand.

  Jinx and Ned wandered past the next few booths of carnival games, where vendors tried to attract the attention of passersby. “Step right up! Toss three balls in the hole and win a prize. Or try your luck in the shell game. Win a Liberty Head silver dollar.”

  “So much for your big con, Jinx,” Ned teased.

  “A con is merely the art of distraction.” Jinx studied the booths. “Come here.”

  Jinx grabbed Ned by the elbow and led him to the shell game. A man in a striped shirt and bow tie smiled a crocodile smile. A tiny monkey perched on his shoulder. “Ready to try your luck and win yourself this here Liberty Head silver dollar? It’s an easy game. I’m practically giving away money today. Right, Nikki?” The monkey twittered his agreement.

  Ned shook his head. “I’m not into wasting money. No thanks.”

  “Come on,” Jinx said. “It only takes a dime and you can win a dollar. Then you can buy Pearl Ann a bag of popcorn and a lemonade with change to spare.”

  Ned grimaced and placed a dime on the counter.

  The man lined up three walnut shells and placed a pumpkin seed under one. He shuffled them around. Ned kept his eyes on the shell with the seed, and when the man stopped, Ned tapped it.

  The man uncovered the seed. “You’ve got a good eye.”

  Ned was jubilant. “So, hand over my Liberty Head silver dollar.”

  “You don’t get that on the first try. It takes three chances. And each chance costs a dime.”

  “Go ahead, give him another dime. You’re good at it,” Jinx coaxed.

  “Oh, all right,” Ned grumbled, reaching for another coin.

  Again, the man revealed which shell held the seed and shuffled them back and forth. Again, Ned tapped the correct shell.

  “Woo-hoo,” Ned shouted. This time, he didn’t need any coaxing. Pleased with his success, he already had his third dime on the table and waited for one last game to claim his silver dollar.

  Again, the man shuffled and Ned watched as the shell with the seed went left, then right, then around and ended up in the middle. The monkey hopped onto Ned’s shoulder and twittered with excitement. “Hey, little fella. You know a winner when you see one, don’t you?”

  Ned reached to tap the middle shell but Jinx stopped his hand. “Not that one. This one.” Jinx moved his hand to the shell on the right.

  “But I was watching. It’s not—”

  “This one,” Jinx said firmly.

  “Now, don’t let him sway you, son. You’re a natural at this game,” the man said without his usual smile.

  There was something so definite in Jinx’s voice that Ned uncovered the shell on the right. There was the pumpkin seed.

  The monkey jumped from Ned’s shoulder, snatched up the seed, and popped it into his mouth.

  “Now, look here,” growled the shell man. “This is not a two-player game. If you want to play, put up your own dime.” The monkey chattered more and more loudly in agitation.

  Just then, Judge Carlson approached the booth, patting Ned on the back. “Keeping those legs warmed up, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ned replied. “I’ll have my work cut out for me staying ahead of Heck and Holler,” he said, referring to the Judge’s sons, who were also star runners on the Manifest track team.

  “That’s right, Judge,” Jinx said, emphasizing the word Judge. “He might even get a new pair of shoes with the dollar he just won. That is, if this gentleman will give Ned his rightful winnings.”

  Judge Carlson looked at the shell man. “Is there a problem here?”

  The man grimaced. “Nope.” He pulled the silver dollar from his pocket and shoved it across the counter. Judge Carlson picked it up. “May I?” he asked Ned. He held up the coin, studying the woman’s profile, with her wavy hair and crown. “Lady Liberty. She’s a beauty.” He flipped it into the air to Ned. “Don’t spend her all in one place.”

  The j
udge moved on and Ned and Jinx walked away from the scowling man and his monkey.

  “I never took my eyes off that shell. I knew it was in the middle,” Ned said.

  “Just like I told you. The art of distraction. You took your eye off the shells when the monkey jumped on your shoulder. Nikki did his part and the shell guy switched the shells.”

  “You mean that monkey is trained to do that?”

  “Sure. Most people aren’t willing to make a thirty-cent bet, so they let you win a couple of easy rounds to get you to put down a couple more dimes. Then Nikki makes his move and you lose.”

  “The art of distraction,” Ned mused.

  “Yup. All kinds of things can be accomplished when someone’s looking the wrong way.” From behind his back, Jinx revealed the large red canister from Jasper Hinkley’s fireworks booth.

  Ned’s eyes got big. “Nice trick. But you can’t just steal his Manchurian Fire Thrower.”

  “It’s not stealing. It’s like the library. You check out a book, look at what’s inside, and take it back. We’ll use this canister as our model. We make our own and return this one.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we set up shop and sell them to every kid around.”

  Ned caught sight of Pearl Ann standing in a pretty pink dress. He headed for the popcorn wagon. “Count me out.”

  Jinx caught sight of Sheriff Dean near the popcorn wagon, and as he always did when he saw the sheriff—or any sheriff, for that matter—he turned the other way. This time he ducked into the diviner’s tent.

  Frog Hunting

  JUNE 5, 1936

  In bare feet and overalls, I looked out my bedroom window. It had been several days since Miss Sadie had left me hanging with her last story, about Jinx and Ned at the county fair, and that day I had the afternoon off. The Liberty Head silver dollar mentioned in Ned’s letter had taken its place on the sill, next to the Wiggle King fishing lure. I had to admit, it was exciting and mysterious how the diviner could draw a whole story out of these little somethings. I could see why people would come to visit her.