The rickety truck rumbled southward, all the way to Matagorda Bay.  It was night by the time he got there, just about 10 pm, but the town was hopping.  A couple, the woman clad indecently and the man looking like a sailor, reeled drunkenly across the road, prompting him to test the old truck's brakes.  Soon he was near the docks, and in the moonlight could see ships bobbing on the water, along wooden piers.  People were about, and some of the buildings near the bay were brightly lit.  One was a diner, The Southern Star, and he could smell the coffee from here.  Another was a hotel, fairly cheap from the look of it, and two ladies, very scantily clad, were leaning against the wall and surveying him dubiously.

Looking around, Brother Clary noticed the "ladies" at the hotel.
"For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil:
But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Lest thou shouldest ponder the path of life, her ways are moveable, that thou canst not know them.
Hear me now therefore, O ye children, and depart not from the words of my mouth.
Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house..."(Proverbs 5:3-8, KJV) He muttered to himself.

Then looking over at the diner, and inhaling the dark, rich aroma of the fresh-brewed coffee, he thought he'd take a shot there.

Walking into the establishment, he scanned the interior taking in first the patrons, then looking for a place to sit and relax.

The two soiled doves responded to his expression more than his words, for they
were some distance away.  One scowled at him, the other set her hands on her
ample hips and stuck out her tongue.

He went into the diner, and noted it full of the sort of riffraff to be found
around docks. Fishermen, sailors, porters, and other rough labor.  There were
four seats open at the counter and two booths, and a clot of men at the far end
of the diner were standing by one booth and laughing at some joke or story being told.

A no-nonsense 40-ish waitress, her bleached-blonde hair a riot of frizz, her
uniform a crisp black and white, immediately brought him a cup of coffee as soon as he sat down. "Cuppa joe,"  she said brightly. "Got the blue-plate, it's ham and beans, got tuna fish griller and you get a lot, got tomato veg and chicken rice soup.  The sinkers are fresh an hour ago."

She took Clary's order without bothering to write anything down, and hurried
off.  He took stock of the rest of the diner's visitors, saw an elderly man
sipping coffee at the counter near him, saw two sailors chattering in Spanish -
something about a really big fish - and saw a quiet blonde man enjoying the blue plate at the nearest booth.  He didn't seem to fit in, perhaps because the
weather was still hot and he had a heavy leather and sheepskin jacket next to
him.

When the waitress brought his blue plate, Brother Clary offered her his warmest smile.  "Thanks, Darlin'," he drawled pleasantly.  "I was a wonderin' if you could tell me how I might find a gent named 'Flynn.'  I'd like to hire his boat fer a little trip."

"That's him down there, tellin' lies,"  the waitress said with
a flounce of her frizzy locks, in a low tone, toward the end of
the diner where the clot of men were. She topped off Brother
Clary's coffee, too.

 "But if you want to go south for some
rum, you'd be better to go with the Kraut there,"  she nodded
at the quiet man with the sheepskin-lined jacket.  "G-men been
lookin' round for Flynn, but none of them has figured out about him
yet.  He tips good, so I ain't tellin' them neither."
She went off to pour coffee for the quiet blonde man and then
returned to the kitchen.

"Darlin'" Brother Clary drawled quietly, "I ain't intersted in no rum.  But I do need to head south.  Seems my callin' lies down thataway."

His eyes follow the waitress as she refills the blond man's coffee.  When she returns to the kitchen, Brother Clary never notices -- he's too busy assessing the stranger in the booth.

"Well," he thinks to himself, "I could take my chances with Flynn, but if the Revenuers are after him, and they catch me, my ministry will be as good as dead.  On the other hand, what do I know about this feller, 'ceptin' that he's a German rumrunner who looks to be cold-natured.  As the Good Book says, if anybody lacks wisdom, let him pray for it..."

Uttering a quick prayer for wisdom, Brother Clary eases up out of his booth and approaches the chilly German.

Brother Clary settled himself in the Hun's booth, prompting a cautious look of the light blue eyes, but this did not stop the German from devouring his blue-plate special.  Apart from that, the man seemed affable and approachable.  In the heavy accented English, Brother Clary found out the man's name - Hans Gruber - and his planned departure - after pie.  He would take Brother Clary to Brazil, so long as he did not mind paying 25$ for the ride.  That would leave Brother Clary with 17$ remaining from Chang's donation for Demon Slaying.

Flynn, from the look of it, was not going to depart the diner anytime soon...though no doubt he could shame the rogue into taking him south for nothing more than a sermon.

"Tell you what, brother," The Texas preacher says, offering his broadest and friendliest smile.  "I got a truck outside that's probably worth at least thirty.  I'll give you the keys to hold. On my word of honor as a man of God, I'll see to it that you get what I owe, and maybe more.  Ifn' I don't get you your fee, you kin have the truck and sell it, use it, whatever."

While he's speaking, Brother Clary looks over Gruber.  The jacket he's wearing, could it be the kind that pilots wear?  "If I'm right," he thinks, "and he's got a plane, then I can get to my destination that much quicker, and probably won't have to associate with a known devil. Sometimes its jest best to not ask too many questions...."

The Hun shook his head, with a shrug of his own.  "I don't need a truck,"  he said. "I need petrol for my aeroplane."  It seemed the leather-and-sheepskin jacket was indeed a pilot's jacket, and Brother Clary could just make out some faded insignia - Jasta 5, and a German eagle.

Still smiling as if the two of them were sharing a private joke, the Texas preacher leaned back a little.  "Well, partner, it looks as if we're in a bit of a dillema.  I need to go way south o' the border, and you need fuel fer yer puddle jumper.  But we both need some cold cash to make it happen.

I may be an ol' country preacher, but I do know a little bit about recent history.  You Germans put up a good fight a few years back, and I know that y'all 're a pretty honorable bunch, 'specially you flyboys."  He nodded over to where Flynn was holding court.  "I was told to look up that feller there, but I'm a bit concerned about him.  I was asked to look into something down south that requires some discretion, and I don't know that he's got any o' that.  So tell me, Captain Gruber, what does my $25 get me besides a planeload of fuel?"

"I only need the fuel if I take you that far south,"  Gruber said, the soul of amiable reason.  "And trouble, I stay out of trouble."  The blue eyes cast very briefly toward Flynn and his cronies, and then the waitress plunked a pair of apple pie slices, with a big slab of vanilla ice cream on the side of each, in front of the two men.  "Unt it vas Leutnant Gruber,"  he added, rather more softly.

He ate his pie, paid - tipping the waitress two dollars and change, and was ready to leave the diner.

As the German begins to leave, Brother Clary rises also.  "Give me a moment to take care of my truck, and I'll take you up on your offer."

He heads over to Flynn's court and looks the rum-runner square in the eye.  "Son," he begins, "My name is Brother Clary and I'm on a mission from God.  I know who you are and what you do, but more importantly than that, God knows as well.  I also know that your time is runnin' short.  The law is hot after you, and it is only a matter of time before they catch up to you.  I would ask you to repent of your evil ways, but for now, I 'll let you go on the condition that you help me out.  See that truck over yonder?  That's mine.  I'll sell it you or anyone else in this diner for $100 cash on the barrel head.  Any takers, or is anyone here fool enough to stand between me and the mission the Almighty has planned for me?"

Gruber shrugged lightly.  He would wait, but Brother Clary could tell it would not be for long.

Flynn was a red-haired Irishman, with a lined face, freckled mightily from exposure to sun. Like the others, he wore rough clothes, work clothes.  He didn't look well pleased to be interrupted in the middle of a story, but it turned out Chang was right - the man was respectful to clergy.

"A hunnert, good father, well that's a lot of money for an old truck,"  Flynn said.  "And I would not be a-worried that the G-Men are a-coming for old Flynn just yet.  Would you take 40 $ ?"   The cronies waited, silently, apparently to watch the bargaining in action.

"Brother Flynn, I don't have much time, so let's say this; how about fifty and I'll tell the world how you slickered a simple country preacher?"  While still not approving of the man's choice of earning a living, Brother Clary felt a little more at ease, even as Flynn's lackeys looked on.

He still thought that Gruber's plane might be the best means of getting on with this business.  The preacher never liked waiting around when there was something that clearly needed to be done.

"If you agree, I'll just need to get my personal belongings out..."

Flynn hurriedly dug into a pocket and pulled out 50$.  "You're a good man, preacher," he said, with the sweet Irish lilt.

Brother Clary headed outside to see Gruber leaning against the wall of the diner, nonchalantly slouched. After grabbing his gear from the truck, the two set off a little ways along the docks, the wood pathways bobbing gently on the tide that was rocking the boats in the harbour.  At the end of one was a seaplane; it was painted a plain sensible grey, and looked sturdy.

"Get in," Hans Gruber directed, opening the hatch.  Inside were ropes, netting, and a soft hissing sound.  He reached out to pat a huge snake coiled around a support beam, and then showed Brother Clary the cockpit. "You can be co-pilot,"  the Hun smiled, apparently a rare event, "God iss my co-pilot mostly, He will not mind."

The leather-covered seats were padded and comfortable, if worn-looking, and the instrumentation was all in place.  The German pushed some things, pulled some things, went out to take off the mooring ropes, and spun the propeller, then dashed into the plane as the engine started and got to his seat.  The seaplane taxied out onto the water, and the engine roared, pulling it out onto the ocean and then up into the night sky.  Gruber was whistling cheerfully, and flying with insolent ease.

Hoping that for Gruber "God" was not the snake that the pilot had showed affection for earlier, Brother Clary sat down.  This was to be his first flight, but he did not want to let his apprehension show.  He was very uncomfortable with the pesence of the snake, and he had hoped to find somewhere in the Bible a verse that said something to the effect of "thou shalt not suffer a snake to live."  Unfortunately there was none.



As the plane rose into the air, the preacher man prayed very sincerely that when Jesus said "Lo, I am with you always..." He didn't mean *Low*.  He tried to mask his discomfort with a little bit of conversation.

"I know you told me that your rank was Lieutenant, but this is your ship, and you're the captain of it, so if'n you don't mind, I'd like to call you Captain.  How long you been flyin'?"

"That's quite an interestin' pet you got there," he said, referring to the snake.

"What brought you to this corner of the world?"

These were all questions the good brother hoped would not be offensive, nor too prying, espcially with him being so far up into the air.

Gruber seemed happy to be flying; from the look of him, he didn't ask much out of life, and this was sufficient to his needs.  "Since I was 17 years,"  the German replied.  No mystery who taught him, looking at the jacket.

He nodded at the comment about the snake.  "She keeps people from robbing me,"  he added. "I come here, there is money to be made, that silly law.  Now everyone wants drink.  So I load up on rum, tequila, whatever.  I was in Egypt last year, but too much shooting there, not enough work too.  It is safer here."  Trouble was something Clary could tell that Hans Gruber avoided.  He also hadn't asked why Clary wanted to go South; perhaps he just didn't care.

Brother Clary bristled a little at his cavalier attitude toward Prohibition.  As far as Clary was concerned, it was a good law.  Too many fine folks ruined by their taste for fire liquor, demon rum, whatever you wanted to call it.  He'd seen any number of "town drunks" make their way down the sawdust trail at one of his tent meetings.  When they met Jesus, they didn't have a taste for the stuff anymore.  These men (and not a few women, he thought) would go home to their long-suffering spouses and children, and all would be well.

Of course, he noted grimly, there were also several for whom religion didn't seem to take.  As soon as the tent meeting was over, they went right back to the bottle.

He perked up out of his reverie at the mention of Egypt.  It was a place that he'd read about, of course -- you can't preach on Moses without reading about it!  "So you got to see them fabled pyramids and temples that the children of Israel slaved to build before Moses led them out?  What were they like?"  He was eager, almost like a child on Christmas Eve.

Later, as he looked outside the window, he asked "How long does a flight like this take, usually?"

Gruber guided the plane through a series of bumps and drafts, steering it with aplomb as if a rough ride was nothing to be concerned about.  "Oh, jah, those pyramids, they are very big.  There are a lot of them, some are small and made of bricks.  Some have white marble sheets, they shine in the sun, what is left.  And there are temples.  Egyptians, they build very pretty.  I take sight-seeing touristen, go along Nile, about two years.  But, there is trouble."  He shrugged again.

"Five, maybe six hours,"  Gruber replied to the query on how long it might be, "I refuel once."  He was flying the plane at night, not looking at the charts at all, but he seemed to know where he was going.  "I go a little farther, to take you to where you want.  No real difficulty; rum is rum."

"If'n you don't mind me askin', what kind o' trouble?



"Well, I'm much obliged for the trip, and sorry fer takin' you outta your way.  I'm sure you know that as man o' the cloth I can't cotton liquor of any sort.  But you seem to be a good man, even if'n you're involved in something I'm opposed to.  Hope this won't affect my passage much."  Brother Clary added the last with the friendliest smile he could muster.

Gruber shrugged, as much as possible, as he guided the plane along a sea lit by moonlight.  "Trouble, you know, people shooting at each other, telling me to go away, so I go."  he said.  Trouble seemed to be one thing he avoided at all costs.

"Is not that difficult - you pay for the petrol to go, I take,"  Gruber shrugged again. "The US of A, silly law, no alcohol.  Can't make beer worth drinking, anyway, and that's all I will drink, except for peppermint schnapps, and nobody can get that now.  You not like it, that's fine, but that's my money, so I do it."  Breaking laws didn't seem to trouble Gruber either, especially since he considered Prohibition silly...and it provided him with a job.

Gruber didn't seem like many of the other rumrunners and bootleggers Brother Clary had to deal with in the past.  There was no swagger, no arrogance, just a quiet, self-assured manner that he knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't appear to be thumbing his nose at the law like Flynn, only making it work for his survival.  Brother Clary was fascinated by this attitude.  most of the miscreants he had encountered were sinners by choice because they saw themselves as being above the law and thought that they could get away with it.

Brother Clary reflected on this thought.  "If anyone could get away with rumrunning, it will be Gruber,"  he thought to himself.

"Well," he drawled aloud "I still cain't agree with you on your line o' work, and I'm mighty obliged to you for not chunking me out the door here.  I'm not sure there's enough to cushion my fall down there."

"How long you been working this part of the world?"

Gruber was certainly laid-back, and he flew as if it was a casual thing to be hauling a lot of metal through the night sky, though the plane was responsive and the engine was humming along evenly.  "Vos is chunking ?"  he asked, with mild interest, since slang was difficult for him.  "Oh, you pay for petrol, so I fly, no problem.  I have been in US of A for 10, almost 11 months.  Flew over here from the North; Greenland, Iceland, Canada.  I hear the story of this Pro-Hibition, it is good money, I get to fly a lot, I speak a little Spanish, it works.  Maybe they take silly law back, I go somewhere else.  Always someplace to be, big world, many places."

"Chunking...you know, tossin' out."



Brother Clary stared straight ahead for a moment, his eyes belieing the fact that he was thinking through his situation, weighing something.

At last he turned back to the pilot. "Tell me, Captain Gruber, do you believe in evil?"

Gruber, affable and relaxed, shrugged after he considered the question.  He had nodded at the explanation of the slang, accepting it too.  "Evil...I see many bad things, in war, at home, all over world." he said. "I see men do these things, but I don't think about why they do it.  I know when I see such badness, it is time to go again, there will be Trouble.  You ask if I believe in God, and the Devil ?  I don't know. Never thought about it."  Apparently content to drift wherever he might find a place to be, Hans Gruber had no home, no anchor, and seemed content.