Book Review: Blind Tiger

Synopsis:

1920 comes in with a roar!

Thatcher Hutton, a war-weary soldier on the way back to his cowboy life, jumps from a moving freight train to avoid trouble . . . and lands in more than he bargained for. On the day he arrives in Foley, Texas, a local woman goes missing. Thatcher, the only stranger in town, is suspected of her abduction . . . and worse. Standing between him and exoneration are a corrupt mayor, a crooked sheriff, a notorious cathouse madam, a sly bootlegger, feuding moonshiners . . . and a young widow whose soft features conceal an iron will.

What was supposed to be a fresh start for Laurel Plummer turns to tragedy. She is left destitute, but determined to dictate her own future. She plunges headlong into the lucrative regional industry, much to the dislike of the good ol’ boys who rule the local market. Her success quickly makes her a target for cutthroat competitors, whose only code is reprisal.

As violence erupts, Laurel and Thatcher, the new deputy sheriff, find themselves on opposite sides of a moonshine war in which blood flows as freely as whiskey.

Review:

Sandra Brown has published a staggering seventy-two New York Times bestselling books since she began writing professionally in 1981, including Outfox, Tailspin, Seeing Red, Sting, Mean Streak, Friction, Deadline, and Rainwater. Her books have been translated into thirty-four languages and more than eighty million copies have been sold. French Silk, Smoke Screen, Ricochet, and White Hot have been adapted into television films. Among the many awards she has received, an honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters was bestowed upon her by Texas Christian University.

As Brown sat down to write a new novel in 2020, she pondered what the world was like one hundred years earlier. She discovered that “things weren’t that different.” Another global pandemic — the Spanish flu — still posed a threat, and many soldiers returned from World War I, an unpopular conflict, with “shell shock” (which is known understood to be Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). The Ninth Amendment was passed by Congress on June 4, 1919, and ratified on August 18, 1920, finally guaranteeing to American women the right to following a decades-long movement. Unemployment was at record-high levels. And on January 17, 1920, the era of Prohibition began. It was a constitutional ban on the production, importation, transportation, and sale of alcoholic beverages that was not repealed until 1933. To top it off, Brown learned that just fifty miles from her home is the small town of Glen Rose, Texas, which was known as the “Moonshine Capitol of Texas.” Her “imagination ran wild” and her research revealed that despite the newly-enacted law, “business was booming” for bootleggers and moonshiners. She decided to combine all the usual elements found in her novels — “murder, mayhem, lust, greed, good guys, bad guys, and surprises” — in a prohibition-era thriller that she had “great fun” writing. As the events of 2020 (COVID, the Presidential race) dragged on, Brown says drafting the story “became pure escapism for me. The hours I spent working on it delivered me from my COVID confinement.” The book is titled Blind Tiger because that is the slang term for speakeasy and it is pure, enjoyable escapism for Brown’s readers, as well.

Brown set the story in fictional Foley, Texas, located approximately where the real Glen Rose is because the terrain and climate make it “an ideal place to make corn liquor.” As the story opens, Laurel Plummer’s husband, Derby, is a soldier who came home from World War I a changed man. The “dashing young man” she married returned a “quarrelsome stranger.” Their daughter, Pearl, is just a month old, but they are traveling a hundred and fifty miles in the middle of the night. Derby, who has lost another job, abruptly announced that they were moving to Foley to live with his father. Laurel is dismayed when they arrive to find that his father, Irv, resides in what can best be described as a “shack” with a dirt floor. He had no idea that Derby survived the war, much less that he would be arriving with a wife and infant daughter. When Laurel asks why Derby has brought them to such a desolate place, he promises, “You’ll thank me later,” and then takes action that forever alters the trajectory of Laurel’s life. But Brown soon reveals Laurel to be strong, resilient, and determined to forge a decent life for herself and little Pearl.

As Laurel is attempting to settle into life with her father-in-law and daughter, Thatcher Hutton, who also served in World War I, has just returned from Europe, intent on resuming his life as a cowboy on a ranch in the Texas Panhandle. “He hadn’t cheated death in France to die in a railroad car” so he leaps from a train to avoid a fight with three hobos, but not without sustaining a cut on the palm of his hand. In need of water as he’s walking toward his destination, he stops when he sees Laurel struggling to hang sheets on “a makeshift clothesline strung between the back corner of the shack and the outhouse.” As Laurel gives him water, they discover that Thatcher and her husband served in the same regiment. He observes her agitated demeanor. “She was strung up a whole lot tighter than her clothesline.” As Thatcher continues walking toward town, Laurel rushes back inside to check on Pearl who has been ill for more than week. But Laurel and Thatcher will meet again.

Trouble finds Thatcher immediately. He rents a room in a boardinghouse and finds a job on a ranch, but is accused of murdering the wife of the local doctor. Thatcher briefly encountered the woman when he first arrived in town, but now she has gone missing and is presumed dead. Because a nosy neighbor observed Thatcher speaking with her, he is accused and arrested.

Meanwhile, Laurel and Irv form a tentative alliance. Taking in his daughter-in-law and granddaughter has upset the equilibrium of his solitary existence, and Laurel is determined that they will move into more suitable housing. She finds the perfect home and vows that “if Irv couldn’t afford for them to live here on what he earned, then she would subsidize the household income. And not just for the short term, not just long enough to bring their bills current. She must begin thinking long range, to the time when Irv was too old and infirm to provide for her to any extent. She must plan for a future without him. Without anybody. Because she had resolved never again to hand over the reins of her life to someone else, as she’d done with Derby. She would be self-supporting, thank you.” Soon Laurel learns where it is that Irv goes when he leaves the shack and what he is up to, and since she is extremely bright and very clever, she envisions how they will earn enough money to improve their living conditions. Meanwhile, Laurel and Irv form a tentative alliance. Taking in his daughter-in-law and granddaughter has upset the equilibrium of his solitary existence, and Laurel is determined that they will move into more suitable housing. Soon Laurel learns where Irv goes when he leaves the shack and what he is up to, and since she is extremely bright and very clever, she envisions how they will earn enough money to improve their living conditions.

Thatcher quickly discovers that he has made his way to a town that runs on rampant corruption and the civic leaders are willing to do whatever is necessary in order to protect their influence and empires. They are driven by greed, as well as lifelong social standing and local politics about which Thatcher is uninformed. Matters become more complicated for him once the criminal charges are dismissed and he is released from jail, because the local sheriff convinces him to serve as a deputy. Thatcher knows the position will enhance his ability to investigate the disappearance of the doctor’s wife. Foley was never supposed to be his ultimate destination. But his future, like Laurel’s, inescapably differs from the way he imagined it because he learns there is no longer a ranch and respected employer for him to return to. And Thatcher has a hard time resisting his attraction to Laurel. It’s mutual. Laurel recognizes that “whatever else he is, Thatcher Hutton is no ordinary man. And neither is her middle’s flighty reaction to the very sight of him.”

The joy that Brown derived from creating the story and her characters is evident on every page of Blind Tiger, even though she does not take credit. Rather, she says, “Each of them walked into their first scene, me asking, ‘Who are you and what’s your role in all this?’ I let them stay to see what they would say and do, and they took over. So, credit for the storyline also belongs to them.” It is a clever, intricately-plotted tale full of surprising twists and developments — and yes, romance. Brown deftly transports readers to the small town of Foley and a long-ago way of life where a vivid cast of supporting characters provide intrigue, mystery, and some unexpected heartbreak. At the center of it all are Thatcher, the principled, quiet man who finds himself caught up in drama he did not go looking for, but from which he cannot extricate himself without ensuring Laurel’s safety and, hopefully, taking her with him. And Laurel, who is resolved, in part because she finds herself with nothing left to lose, and develops an affection for Irv and his friends. She is willing to take great risks and, convinced by her brilliance and determination, they permit her to team up with them in their moonshining business. “In addition to the pressing financial necessity propelling her was a personal goal. As long as she was embarking on an illicit business, she wanted to excel at it.”

Both Thatcher and Laurel have experienced devastating loss and disappointment, but are focused on securing their futures and wondering if happiness is still possible. They are dreamers — charming, sympathetic, and endearing. But Thatcher is also pragmatic. “In the trenches I saw men die in mid-sentence. Planning your next breath is a wasted effort.” Fully developed, multi-layered, and likable but flawed, Thatcher and Laurel, along with the cantankerous Irv, make the story engrossing, as well as suspenseful. They are the soul of Brown’s masterful and engaging adventure in which the danger her characters face is real, and Brown places them in peril to great dramatic effect as she propels the story forward at an unrelenting pace. With Laurel running a moonshine operation, while Thatcher is a deputy sworn to uphold the law, the conflicts between them may derail any possibility of a happy ending for the two. That is, if they survive after Laurel and her partners enrage the locals whose bootlegging market they are encroaching upon. Thatcher warns Laurel, “I’m afraid we’re going to wind up on opposite sides of a bitter and bloody fight.” Irv drives the point home. “Men like Hutton has this . . . fortitude. Honor. Whatever you want to call it. Unlike the most of us, it’s hard to bend and damn near impossible to break. If he was put in a position of letting you off the hook, or enforcing the law he’s now sworn to uphold, which do you figure he’d do?”

Historical fiction is a bit of a departure for Brown, but readers will never suspect that. With Blind Tiger, Brown is in top form, delivering a story about a wild time in American history that is both a masterfully constructed and engaging adventure.

Excerpt from Blind Tiger

May 1920

Thatcher had worn out his welcome.

He knew it, although he tried not to act like he did. He lay on his back, using his duffel bag as a pillow, fingers linked over his stomach, fedora covering his face. He pretended to be asleep. He was far from it. He was acutely aware of everything going on inside the boxcar, the atmosphere of which had turned ripe to the stinking point with hostility.

Beneath him, the wheels of the train rhythmically clickety-clacked over the rails, but their noisy cadence didn’t drown out the snores of the three men sharing the freight car with him. Thatcher didn’t trust their snorts and snuffles. They were too irregular and loud. Like him, they were playing possum, waiting for an opportunity to spring.

The door to the car had been left partially open to provide them fresh air. The gap was no wider than a few feet. Three, four at best. Once he made his move, he couldn’t hesitate. He would get only one chance, so, within a second or two of moving, he’d have to make a clean jump through that slim gap.

If he didn’t make it out, a fight was inevitable. Three against one. Bad odds in any contest. Until fate had put them together on this train, they’d been strangers to him and to one another. But last night, somewhere between coastal Louisiana and wherever they were now, the other three had become unified against him.

The last thing he wanted was a damned fight. He’d fought in one. A bloody one. He’d been on the winning side of it, but victory hadn’t felt as glorious as people had let on. To his mind, the loss of so many men and women wasn’t a fit reason to hold parades.

No, he wouldn’t welcome a fight, but if he had to defend himself, he would, and he wouldn’t fight fair. He hadn’t cheated death in France to die in this railroad car that reeked of its cargo of yellow onions and unwashed men.

One advantage the other three had over him was that they weren’t new to riding freights. He was the amateur. But he’d listened to their idle conversation, had paid attention, had sifted the facts out of the bullshit.

They’d jawed about the stationmasters who were charitable and looked the other way when they spotted a hobo, and others who were die-hard company men, “by-the-rules sons o’ bitches” who were well known up and down the line for showing no mercy to men they caught hitching a ride.

Thatcher’s plan had been to wait until the train began to slow on the outskirts of the next town and to get off before it reached the depot, in case the stationmaster there happened to be one of the less tenderhearted.

But these men, who were seasoned in the art, were probably expecting him to do just that. No doubt their plan was to jump him before he could jump from the train.

They were on a track that cut across the broad breast of Texas where towns were few and far between. But within the last few minutes, Thatcher had decided that no matter how desolate the landscape was where he landed, it would be safer than staying in this boxcar and at the mercy of men who didn’t have anything left to lose.

Jumping from a moving train couldn’t be much worse than being thrown from a horse, could it? He’d been pitched off too many times to count. But he’d never been thrown when it was full dark, when he didn’t know his exact location or where his next drink of water would come from. How long till daylight? He didn’t dare check his wristwatch. The army invention was still a novelty to folks who hadn’t been issued one during the war. He didn’t want to draw attention by consulting the time, which would be a giveaway that he was awake and planning a departure. As unobtrusively as possible, he used his index finger to raise his hat just far enough to gauge the degree of darkness beyond the opening.

Since the last time he’d sneaked a look, the rectangular gap had turned from solid black to dull gray.

Moving only his gaze, he looked toward the men who were a short distance away, lying at various angles to each other. Two were snoring loudly, feigning sleep. One, Thatcher could tell, was watching him through slitted eyelids. Thatcher lowered his finger from the underside of the brim. His hat resettled over his face.

He forced himself to breathe evenly while he counted to sixty. Then in one motion, he lurched to his feet as he popped his hat onto his head and grabbed his duffel bag by the strap. He made it to the opening and hurled his bag out.

Just as he was about to spring, one of the men grabbed his sleeve from behind.

Thatcher came around and swung his fist toward the guy’s head, but he saw it coming, ducked, and held on to Thatcher’s sleeve like a bulldog. Out the corner of his eye, he saw another approaching in a crouch, making wide swipes with a knife.

The man holding on to him threw a punch that caught Thatcher in the ribs. He retaliated by chopping the guy across the throat with the side of his hand. His attacker let go of his sleeve and staggered backward, holding his throat with both hands and wheezing.

Thatcher spun around to the one with the knife. He had less than a second to throw up his hand to protect his face from being slashed. The sharp blade sliced across his palm. Thatcher yelped.

The hobo grinned and charged. With his good hand, Thatcher caught hold of the vertical iron handle on the door and kicked the knifer in the balls. Dropping the knife, he screamed in agony, grabbed himself, dropped to his knees, then fell onto his side. Thatcher picked up the knife. The third in the group was poised to attack. Thatcher, winded, his cut hand hurting like bloody hell, said, “Call it quits why don’t you?” But the tramp didn’t listen. He came up on his toes, preparing to lunge.

Thatcher threw the knife end over end. The point pierced through the man’s right shoe, nailing his foot to the floor of the boxcar.

Thatcher turned and made a blind leap through the opening. As he went airborne, howled obscenities trailed him into the predawn light as the train rumbled on.

He landed on his feet, but his knees buckled at the jarring impact. Unable to break his fall, he tumbled down the incline, cussing the pounding he was taking from boulders and stumps.

On one of his revolutions, he recognized the shape of a large agave, dead ahead and coming up fast. As he slid downhill toward it, he dug in his heels. They kicked up loose rocks and grit that struck him in the face, but he was able to stop within inches of being impaled by one of the plant’s barbed spines.

As the dust settled around him, he took mental stock of himself and determined that none of his limbs hurt bad enough to have been broken. His breathing was hard and fast, but it didn’t hurt to suck in air, so no busted or sprained ribs despite the blow he’d taken on one side. He wasn’t dizzy, didn’t feel like puking.

Accepting that he was basically all right except for his throbbing palm, adrenaline seemed to leak from his pores like sweat. He stayed as he was, lying there on his back, taking in his expansive and unobstructed view of the sky. It was turning paler by the second, causing the panoply of stars to dim, and he thought what a hell of a thing it was that he was still alive and could admire that sky.

Then, as only one who had slept standing up in a trench while rats scuttled across his blood-soaked boots could do, he dropped into a deep sleep.

He woke up to an early sun, but kept his eyes closed against its brightness, basking in the clean warmth of it on his face. He savored the stillness of the ground beneath him. He’d been unsteadily rocking for two days in that mother-lovin’ boxcar. It had been almost as bad as the merchant marine freighter requisitioned and re-outfitted to ship troops home from Europe. If he never saw the Atlantic again, or a wave stronger than a ripple in a stock pond, it would be fine with him.

After several minutes, he sat up. His vision was still clear, and he wasn’t dizzy, although he had taken a clout to the head during his downhill plunge. A goose egg had formed on his right temple at his hairline.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the blood away from the cut across his palm. It wasn’t all that deep, but it made his hand ache. He wrapped the handkerchief around it.

By the position of the sun, he figured out the directions. The landscape was dominated by rugged limestone outcroppings, some bare, some with live oak trees or cedar breaks seeming to grow straight out of the rock. Scrub brush, like that wicked-looking agave, dotted the shallow topsoil.

He figured he was somewhere in the hill country. Still hundreds of miles from home.

He stood up and dusted himself off as best he could, then climbed the incline back to the tracks. The wind was southerly and warm, but strong. It had blown his hat off when he’d made the jump, but miraculously it was still there, lying in the railbed.

He clamped it onto his head and pulled the brim down low over his eyes, then started walking along the tracks in the direction from which the train had come, until he reunited with his duffel bag.

Shouldering it, he reversed his direction and continued in the north-westerly direction the train had been traveling. He saw no indication that a settlement of any kind was anywhere close. He didn’t even see a road. The only living things he spotted were a small herd of cattle on a distant hill, and three buzzards, circling their breakfast. Or what soon would be their breakfast.

His stomach was gnawing at its own emptiness, but the only food left in his duffel were a few saltine crackers and the last of a hunk of cheddar. Eating them would make him thirsty, so he decided to hold off until he found water.

He hiked along the tracks for an hour before he reached a crossing. A gravel road ran north and south perpendicular to the tracks, extending for seeming miles in both directions without a turnoff. He took the northern route, hoping that he wouldn’t have to hoof it for too long before someone came along who would give him a lift.

The road was easier to walk on than the railbed, but the sky was cloudless, and the sun grew hotter than what you’d expect in mid-May. He shucked off his jacket and draped it over the duffel bag, unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them up.

Sighting a thin trail of smoke rising from behind one of the hills, he was tempted to go in search of the source. A ranch house, or even a campsite, could provide him with a drink of water.

But the smoke was swiftly dispersed by the high wind, so he couldn’t be certain how far away it was, and he was reluctant to go exploring off the beaten path. He was no stranger to living without a roof over his head, but he wasn’t equipped to do so now.

He estimated he’d walked three or four miles before he spotted a structure on the crest of a rise. At first it was only a dark dot, but the closer he got, it began to take shape. He smelled wood smoke, even though he didn’t see any coming from the flue sticking out of the roof at an angle. A Model T was parked in front, along with a truck that looked like a junkyard on wheels.

The place didn’t look hospitable, but somebody was at home, and he was damned thirsty.

He started up the dirt lane. As he got closer to the house, he saw that it wasn’t a house at all, but a line shack, as ill-kempt a one as he’d ever seen. It must belong to a slipshod outfit that instilled no sense of pride in the cowboys who worked for it.

However, it was no cowboy in the yard, but a young woman who was wrestling with a wet bedsheet. She was trying to get it onto a makeshift clothesline strung between the back corner of the shack and the outhouse. The strong wind was hampering her effort, but she was putting up a fight.

He said, “The sheet is winning.”