The Billietts' house loomed tall and dark against a brilliant sunset as Jesse drove his Model T past it, heading north through Granstburg, Wisconsin. He pulled a left on the next street, turning directly into the sun.

Out of the blaze of light another vehicle appeared, making a left turn at the same moment. It slammed into Jesse's left front tire.

Jesse lurched sideways across the bench seat, catching himself just short of hitting his head. Shaken but unhurt, he climbed out the passenger door and wobbled around his car to the scene of the impact.

The other driver got out as well, staggering and shouting in outrage. "Why'd you run inta me?"

Jesse pointed at the fellow's bumper, rammed against the Model T's wheel. "You ran into me. I had the sun in my eyes. What's your excuse?"

"You came outta nowhere, you young whippershnapper. Whash a kid like you doing on th' road anyway?"

Jesse fanned aside the alcohol fumes from the man's breath and sidestepped to get a better look at him, out of the sun's glare. "Why hello, Mr Smith," he said with a glance at the fellow's fancy Durant Star coupe. "Doesn't look like your car suffered any--"

"You better pay for repairsh, young man! Drivin' like a maniac, all you young bucksh--"

"You hit me, Mr Smith."

"Don't give me none o' yer shash, young man! Yer at fault!"

Jesse folded his arms. "How about we get Charles Saunders up here to decide who's responsible. Which of us needs to pay for repairs."

At mention of the sheriff's name, Mr Smith, a notorious local bootlegger reeking of his own illegal booze, visibly deflated. "It ain't none o' Chuck's business. No need to call him in." The fellow blinked several times, as if that would help sober him up, then bent over the impact site. "Hmph," he snorted. "Tell ya what. You leave him outta this, and I'll pay fer yer repairs. You take it to th' garage tomorrah. I'll settle up."

Jesse sniffed. Stinging fumes of alcohol rose stronger and stronger, and not from the drunken bootlegger. He circled around the fellow's coupe, then bent and looked beneath it.

A pool was growing, some kind of liquid leaking from the trunk in the back. Not water, that's for certain. Some kind of liquid cargo had broken in the crash. Moonshine.

"You juss leave Chuck outta this, an' I'll pay yer bill," the moonshiner repeated. "No harm done, right?" Jovial now, and generous, he slapped Jesse's shoulder, then unsteadily ambled back to his open door, climbed in, and drove off in a weaving path, never noticing one of his headlights hung a little crooked on its strut.

Jesse shook his head, chuckled, and hoofed it down the street toward the garage. His poor Model T needed a tow.

.

Prompt: bribery

Jesse later noted: "The moonshiner kept his word and paid the bill." (pp 103-104)

bootlegger: moonshiner: maker or seller of illicit whiskey

Prohibition in the USA lasted from 1920 until the end of 1933.