"The moment a warrant was sworn out Itchy Mama would get a telephone call and everyone went into action. Itchy Mama's sources were wellnigh infallible and the whiskey had been removed hours before to a safer and more distant location...
Deputies fanned out into the woods with sharp metal rods to prod the ground for jugs of contraband...but the place might have been a Pentecostal church so free of alcohol it was.
Bellwether knew the deputies wouldn't find anything...he did not participate in the search. He leaned against a porch support and smoked a cigarette, glancing occasionally at a man in a gray fedora..."
"The old man did not actually drink whiskey anymore. He'd sit hour-long with a glass of bourbon in his hand as if he were absorbing it into his blood by osmosis. Sometimes he'd raise the glass and just smell, taking in the odor of icy whiskey."
"Things run along smooth when I don't think of him at all. Then I get started on him and it's like somebody jabbed a stick down inside my head and stirred everything up. My mind's like muddy water."
"She set the tone arm carefully onto the spinning record, waiting..."