No Good End: PART 4 from http://twitter.com/ttaylordude
The sheriff’s office air conditioner coughed, then stopped. “I’m not going to sit in here. It’ll be 300 degrees in an hour,” said Ab.
Ab picked up a folder from his desk and told Gus he was going to check some leads about Human’s death. Gus nodded and waved.
“Got air conditioning in the car,” said Ab. “You need anything? Flowers, wine, perfume, ribbed plastic?”
Gus didn’t look up from his typing. “No, I’m good. But I got your attempt at sarcasm.”
“Yeah,” said Ab. “I may be late. I’ll keep my room at the hotel tonight. See you later. I’ll call if I learn anything.”
Jimmy drove to a warehouse district and parked a good distance from an isolated metal building surrounded by intermodal cargo containers.
They sat in the truck for an hour, the air blowing. Several men came out of the building. Jimmy raised his binoculars.
“Who’s that?” said Jolene, squinting toward the men. Her nails needed another manicure. She chewed them constantly.
“Nobody,” he said. “They’re not the ones we’re looking for.”
“Soon,” he said, putting on a pair of rubber gloves. He gave her a pair. “Put these on.”
He walked to the back of the truck; came back with a black case. Inside were pieces to a sniper rifle. “Look familiar?” he said.
Jimmy assembled the weapon, attached a sophisticated scope and put the case back in the toolbox behind the truck’s cab.
He covered the rifle behind the seat and watched through the binoculars. Two hours went by. Jolene sat patiently until she could hold it no more.
“It was fun for a while,” she said. “Now I’m tired of it. Why am I here? What do you want? This doesn’t involve me.”
More men came out of the building. Jimmy gave the binoculars to Jolene. “It does, actually,” he said. “Man in the green shirt. Watch him.”
Jimmy eased the rifle over the seat, slid the bolt back and loaded a single 7.62×67 mm round.
“I’d let you take the shot but I want this one in his head,” said Jimmy. “Not in his leg or in one of the other guys.”
“I stole the rifle,” blurted Jolene. “From a house down the street near Tajo’s. I had a client. A doctor, divorced. It was in his den.”
“That was your first time shooting a rifle?” said Gus.
“It was a last minute thing. The doc was gone. I had a key. I took it,” she said. “I shot Tajo and that lawyer from the doc’s back deck.”
She rubbed her knees. “I took the shell and put the rifle back in the case and left. Nobody saw anything.”
The air was stifling outside as the morning sun roasted the sky and roiled up a bank of clouds to the west.
“Hated that bastard, Tajo. Hated them all. Rich pricks,” she said. “They used people like condoms. They used me as meat. Payback’s a bitch.”
Jimmy looked at her and rubbed his neck. “She is.”
The men talked and smoked on the loading dock. A truck drove past between them, then cleared. Jimmy ran his hand over the steering wheel.
“That shot you made was about 300 meters, between trees and three houses,” he said. “Impressive for a virgin.”
I damned sure ain’t no virgin,” she laughed.
“A virgin shooter,” he clarified. “With a rifle like that.”
“How far is this?” she asked, nodding toward the men beside the warehouse.
“800 meters. A little less,” he said, using the truck door to steady himself. “Don’t move. It shakes the truck.”
“Why the guy in the green shirt?” asked Jolene.
“Be still,” said Jimmy. She held up the binoculars; the most powerful ones she had ever seen. It happened two seconds later.
The man in the green shirt lay crumpled across a stack of pallets. Half of his head was scooped out and splattered across the metal wall.
Men beside the warehouse scattered and dove under vehicles. Voices echoed through the structure. A giant garage door slowly descended.
“Get the tag numbers of the trucks that leave,” Jimmy told Jolene. She watched through the binoculars.
More people ran, crouched in the distance, Word spread quickly among the workers in the warehouse. They hid behind crates and forklifts.
One man ran to a white tractor-trailer, another into a silver one. The sound of air brakes, blended with gears as the trucks left quickly.
Jolene read the numbers and Jimmy wrote them down – New Jersey plates. When the white truck rolled out of the lot, Jimmy followed it.
He called a number on his smartphone and read the truck colors and plates into his cell. “I’m on white,” he said.
“Why follow the white one and not the silver one?” asked Jolene.
“The silver one is not going anywhere,” said Jimmy. “The white one either, for that matter.” He stayed several car lengths back.
The truck got on I-65, going north. Jimmy held the smartphone in one hand, logging onto a Web site and entering some information. He waited.
“Who was the man you shot?” she asked.
“The unlucky one,” said Jimmy.
He logged onto another Web site. The location of the two trucks appeared as red dots on a map.
“Look at that. You’re a control freak. Nothing to chance,” said Jolene. “How far can you track them?”
“As far as I need to,” said Jimmy. People passed them, eating and laughing and talking. Jimmy kept the truck in sight. 65 mph. No cops.
“Since we can see it in front of us, why do you need that tracky thing?” she said. “The truck is right there.” She pointed.
“It’s insurance,” said Jimmy. “Like you said, no mistakes.”
Ahead, billboards advertised peaches. Jolene loved peaches.
Ab took the I-85 exit off I-65 in downtown Montgomery, checked his smartphone and drove east towards Atlanta.
On the screen was a map. A red dot blinked. He was five miles behind the silver truck; the tracking device stuck to the back of the cab.
Ab’s gut ached as it had for the last year. The tumor in his bladder had spread. Just part of the gig, he figured.
Without chemo, they gave him 6 months. They always give you six months, he though. What is the magic cancer number: six months?
The pain eased. He looked at the map. Three miles to the silver truck.
Jimmy watched the white truck change lanes. “I need a favor,” he said to Jolene.
What could a man as devoid of humanity as Jimmy possibly want from her, except sex? And he did not seem interested in that.
“You got that 9 mm clip full?” asked Jimmy.
“Yeah,” said Jolene.
“I’m going to drive up beside that truck and you are going to shoot the driver.”
“What?” she said, furrowing her brow. “Shoot that truck?”
“No. Shoot the driver,” he said. “Unload the clip into the door, window, just keep squeezing until it’s empty. You’ll hit him.”
“And heroin will be all over the highway,” she said. “What about the cars around us?”
“I’ll pull up when there are none. Up there ahead, in the clear,” he said. “You can do it, right? I’ve seen you with a rifle.”
“I can do it,” she said. “What’s in it for me?”
He looked at her. His eyes went from hard to crinkled. It reminded her of the mall Santa when she was a child. A scary Santa.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Gus called Bren. It was the one phone call that he looked forward to.
“It’s Friday. You want to go to that seafood place up at the lake for boiled shrimp? All you can eat. Good company,” he said.
“What if we eat it all?” she said.
“Say what?” “I’m just messing with you,” she said. “What time?”
“Let’s go early, sit outside on the deck, watch the sunset.” His favorite time of day was sunset. “It’s hot, I know, but it’ll cool down.”
“It might get hotter,” she said seductively.
Gus hoped so.
Jimmy rolled down the window. The rushing disturbance of the 18-wheeler crushed the wind between it and Jolene. Jimmy accelerated.
The driver had his windows up, air on. Jolene looked at Jimmy. He nodded toward the cab of the truck. She took the safety off the 9 mm.
Turning to grip the gun in both hands, Jolene glanced ahead and behind but never blinked. She looked into the face of the driver.
She had seen him before, at Tajo’s, close and sweating. She put the first round through the center of the door. The man arched his back.
She put a second round through the driver’s window, spidering the glass around the hole. The cab of the big rig filled with red mist.
The truck veered to the shoulder. Gravel lifted into the air, blowing ashen dust around the two vehicles. The big wheels bounced violently.
She squeezed several shots through the door in a circular motion like stirring cake batter. She put a round into the front tire.
Hydraulics and physics jerked the truck to the left, then right. Rubber came off in shirt-sized chunks. The trailer jackknifed behind Jimmy’s truck as he pushed the gas.
Suction pulled at Jimmy’s Ford. He held the wheel tight and moved to the left shoulder, staying clear of the wrenching metal.
“Go,” she yelled. Jimmy pushed all the pedal he had. The force pressed her into the seat. She twisted farther and fired the last round into the gas tank.
In Jimmy’s rearview mirror, a gush of orange flame engulfed the disintegrating rig. Black smoke bellowed. It flipped across a soybean field.
“No heroin all over the highway now,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Cooked it. They passed another peach sign. “Let’s get some peaches.”
Jolene didn’t look at the destruction behind them. She looked straight ahead and laid the gun in the floorboard to cool.
Ab approached the silver truck just east of Montgomery. The red blip pinpointed the position. It was speeding. He did too.
He got close enough to read the Jersey plates; followed it until they passed the Tallassee exit; eased up to it. There were few cars near.
Ab pulled an old .38 from a brown bag; rolled down the passenger window; five shots: three in the door, two in the tank. Airbrakes wheezed.
When the burning big rig was curled up in a crop of pines, he turned around at the next exit and drove back to Montgomery.
Ab threw the .38 in the Alabama River. The drive back to Gus’s office was troublesome. His gut hurt like hell.
Baskets of ripe, fragrant peaches bowed plywood tables under a corrugated aluminum roof. A dozen or so people were inspecting them.
A woman and an old man worked the secondhand cash register. It was obvious that the peach stand was their only source of income.
The sinewy old man – stooped, but strong – carried wooden crates of peaches from a 1980’s truck parked under several laden trees.
The woman could have been in her 40’s or 50’s. She was tanned and creased by years picking in the sun. Her laugh was loud, like a bark.
An old TV sat in a folding chair. The story was about unrest in Iran.
Jimmy stayed back near the truck and watched the road. Jolene picked up a basket of peaches and took them to the cash register.
“You just might be the prettiest girl we’ve had in here all day,” said the woman. “Claude, look at this angel here.” The old man waved.
Jolene paid with cash that Jimmy had given her.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jolene. “You look like somebody’s mama. That’s a good thing in my book. Wish I had one.”
The woman put the peaches into a bag. “I was a mama. But the Good Lord had other ideas.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jolene. “I didn’t mean to bring up any bad thoughts.”
“I have my share of bad thoughts,” said the woman. “None about my boy, though. He was a good boy. Died 3 years ago. After high school.”
A look of tragic disgust weighed down her face. “In Iraq. Roadside bomb. He wasn’t the only one, but was the only one I had.”
Jolene understood death better than most people. She touched the woman’s arm and dropped her head. “I ain’t no angel,” she said softly.
“Pretend, sugar,” said the woman. “That’s just as good.”
Jimmy headed south. Jolene leaned forward, dripping peach juice down her chin and off of her elbows. She put the seeds back into the bag.
“I ought to plant these,” she said. “See if I can get some trees to grow. Make a nice little grove.”
Jimmy squinted. An 18-wheeler passed them. It was not white or silver.
“You ought to try one of these,” she said, chewing the fuzzy skin. “Peaches from around here are better than Georgia. That’s what they say.”
Jimmy held out his hand. It was the hand of a man half his age. Jolene placed a peach in it. He slurped through the first bite.
“Pretty damned good,” he said. “Don’t eat too many. Get a belly ache.”
On another interstate; Ab new the feeling.
A lawyer named Sweeney walked into Gus’ office. “Ya’ll haul in Carl? He got a little drunk and disorderly at the barbecue place last night.
“Yeah, he’s in the back,” said Gus. “I’m all too familiar with disorderly at the barbecue place.”
“I heard. No charges. Costs me money. People quit suing each other, what am I going to do?” said Sweeney. “Bad for business.”
“That your new BMW out there?” said Gus. He looked in the direction of the $80,000 vehicle. “Looks like plenty of suing going on.”
“A few more lawsuits and I get a free trip to Vegas,” said Sweeney, sarcastically. “Suit of the month club.”
“Ham’s back there too. Isn’t he one of your clients?” said Gus. “Talked old man Falkner out of his farm equipment.”
“That’s just an allegation,” said Sweeney.
“Falkner has Alzheimer’s, Sweeney,” said Gus. “That’s pretty damned low.” Sweeney cracked his neck and looked at the map on the wall.
“Did you hear about the plant?” He pointed to it on the map and circled his finger around the plant location.
“What?” said Gus. “A bunch of personal injuries occurred during a staff meeting?”
“Layoffs. This morning. Maybe 20 Wasn’t but 500 there to start with. That’ll put a crimp in the economy around here,” said Sweeney.
“Guess people will have to start suing each other to make extra money,” said Gus.”You may win that Vegas trip, yet.”
Sweeney smiled and sipped a lukewarm cup of sheriff’s office coffee. “When did you get a sense of humor, Gus?”
“Earlier this week.”
“About damned time.”
Gus saw a report appear on his Web scanner about two fiery 18-wheeler accidents. Detective Lewis called at that same moment.
“Guess you saw the news,” said Lewis. “Trucks on fire.”
“Sounds like a band or a country song, don’t it?” said Gus, “Trucks On Fire.”
“Not really,” said Lewis.
“Is it what I think it is?” said Gus. “Tajo’s heroin?”
“Yep,” said Lewis. “Cooked it all. Expensive burn job.”
“Sounds coordinated, somebody with a plan. Tajo’s dead, but his men are freelancing, trying to work an angle on this, maybe?”
“I just know a lot of money burned,” said Lewis.
“You almost sound sorry about it,” said Gus. “You invested in heroin futures or something?”
Lewis did not comment on Gus’ humor. “Heard from your daddy lately?” said Lewis.
“You think he did this?”
“He’s a suspect,” said Lewis, sucking on a cough drop.
“How did he blow up two trucks at the same time that far apart on different highways?” asked Gus. “He’s good, but not that good.”
Where’s Ab?” asked Lewis.
You keep asking me that,” said Gus. “He’s working for me. Out investigating Human’s murder,” said Gus. “It’s not Ab.”
“How long has he been gone?” Asked Lewis.
Is my brother a suspect too?”
“No. Just tying up loose ends,” said Lewis. “No sign of Jimmy since the bar shootings. No Jolene since that robbery.”
“I vouch for Ab,” said Gus.
“How about Jimmy?” asked Lewis.
“You know the answer to that,” said Gus.
Jimmy pulled into the long driveway in front of Jolene’s parent’s house. Her dad walked out to meet them, looking around nervously.
“Cops been watching the place,” he said. Stubby, gray beard covered a bruise on his jaw.
“Did one of them hit you?” asked Jimmy.
“No. That was mama,” he said. “She’s losing her mind. Gets meaner every day. I think she might be dying of something.”
“Not fast enough,” said Jolene. “She was a bitch 10 years ago. I won’t take any more abuse from her. You shouldn’t either. I don’t care if she is crazy.”
Mr. Skunker noticed the 9 mm tucked into Jolene’s pants, a box of rounds in her hand.
“You ain’t safe here,” said Mr. Skunker. “Don’t want to see something bad happen to you.”
“About 5 years too late,” said Jimmy.
Mr. Skunker looked warily at Jimmy. “Jimmy Gantt, why are you back here with Jolene?” asked Mr. Skunker. “You bring trouble when you come.”
“I did bring trouble,” said Jimmy, nodding toward Jolene. “That’s for damed sure. She wants to spend the night too. She loves you, old man. That’s a small club.”
“I can stay in the attic. I’ve done it before. I need to bath and wash some clothes, charge my phone.” She cut her eyes toward the barn.
“They don’t have the manpower to watch you too close,” said Jimmy. “Unless you’re speeding. Traffic is cash flow.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” said Jimmy. Jolene hugged her father. The old man cried. She could not. Her crying part did not work anymore.
Jet skis frothed the chocolate water of the Conecuh River along the horizon. Bass boats idled under the low curve of Dunn’s Bridge.
“Smell the moss?” said Bren. Two men cast a line below. “Reminds me of fishing with my dad when I was 10. He died that year.”
“My dad may as well have been dead,” said Gus. “He was to me, anyway.”
Above the southern tree line, pumpkin colored clouds gurgled up into a sky as blue as Gus’ totaled Galaxie 500 Temperatures cooled to 80º.
“So you taking tomorrow off?” asked Bren. “All work and no play makes Jack an ass.” She laughed.
He was still aching from a tough day. Her smile felt like ibruphrophen.
“I know a guy named Jack,” said Gus. “He doesn’t even have a job and he’s still an ass.”
They crunched across pecan hulls. Cypress trees pushed knuckled roots into the water. People laughed behind screened porches.
They got a table next to the weathered rail, the water spread beside them. A waitress lugged a platter of red, peppery boiled shrimp past them. It smelled like horseradish mixed with brine and salt from the Gulf of Mexico.
“I’ll be with y’all in a minute. Want a beer first?” said the woman hurriedly but friendly, squeezing between large men in small chairs.
“Yes ma’am,” said Gus. “And we’ll have the boiled shrimp, too.” He adjusted the roll of paper towels on a wooden dowel.
“Light beer for me,” said Bren. “I can’t afford new jeans.”
“That’s why I wear spandex,” said the waitress, wiping bits of shrimp off of a table and juggling empty beer bottles. “Grows on me.”
A scavenger tabby cat trotted between legs across the stained deck, nabbing a shrimp tail and chewing vigorously with its jaw teeth.
“We have so many of those cats at work. It’s a shame,” said Bren. “So few people wants cats in this economy.”
“We have so many of those cats at work. It’s a shame,” said Bren. “So few people wants cats in this economy.”
“I’d say that one right there has found a home and a steady stream of meals,” said Gus. “I know people who aren’t that lucky.”
Christmas lights, draped across the porches and decks around them, making the wooden building look more romantic at dusk than at noon.
Ice slid down the bottles of Bud as the waitress put them on the table. “Your brother was in here last night,” she said.
“Ab?” said Gus. “What did he have?”
“Couple of beers and fried oysters,” she said. “The older gentleman had catfish and sweet tea. No beer for him.”
Across the river a fire cuddled in a barbecue grill. The rippled image glided over the surface. “What time was that?” he asked.
“About 11 PM, I reckon,” said the waitress. “They didn’t even finish their food. Older fellow said he had an early morning.”
Disappointed anger gripped Gus. “Don’t we all?” he said. The veins in his arms swelled as he crushed his hands together.
Neither spicy shrimp nor cold beer could assuage Gus’ sullen mood. In two hours, Bren adjusted his attitude.
Ab Drove to his hotel room and fell into bed, early. Took two pain pills. The Braves played a night game on TV. His mind decompressed.
In the last week, Ab seemed to feel death inching closer. He had seen a lot of it, but feeling it, tasting it on his lips and gums was different.
The cancer filling him tasted like copper pennies. Perhaps it was the pain meds pulling him in. He ordered a pizza and two beers.
An hour later Ab got up, showered and went to Walmart. It was a Super Walmart. It had everything a person might need to live on earth.
Ab loved Walmarts. It was not just the low prices, it was the people, the workers, the customers. They carried America on their backs.
The man in the produce section had the look of a veteran, maybe Iraq. The woman buying Ball jars, a grandmother, likely a widow.
His buzz gave him sympathy for people who suffered innocently. The guilty could go to hell. He sent more than a few there himself.
These customers paid their taxes, fought our wars and believed our leaders lies, no matter which party. It was all America to them.
His politics were neutral. He based it one the candidate, not the party. His ideology: Leave people alone until there is a reason not to.
Technically, he was a criminal, so his reasons did not matter. He broke the law, killed people for money or worse. But not people like this.
Ab had boundaries. They were farther out than most peoples’ limit. The ones he killed deserved it. Or that was his justification.
His brother lived inside the lines. He was a good and decent man, a cop. If Ab had a regret, it was that he waited so long to know Gus.
Ab bought a bottle of Extra Strength Maalox. It soothed the blades in his stomach. He paid for it and walked around the store drinking it.
He talked to a man looking at big screens and DVDs; another man near the pet supplies; a woman in outdoor products.
He loved the hardware section, especially the chainsaws. But he had nothing to cut. Ab roamed through the aisles until midnight.
It was possible to disappear in a place like this. That is why he loved it. It was a wilderness of products. He felt like one of them.
The TV stayed on 24-7 downstairs in the old house. An infomercial droned. Jolene washed clothes and avoided her mother. She talked to her father as much as she could.
Talking to him gave Jolene hope, even though he had none. He rambled about the weather and people she did not know. She still enjoyed it.
No cops came. Jolene wandered the yard behind the house, the melons and scuppernong vines tangled with strawberries and rosemary.
She looked for fireflies. None were out. The fields were lonesome. Her father could no longer hold out to farm. His body was used up. His emotions bled dry. She knew she had been the cause of some of it. She saw the regret in his face.
There used to be peanuts and corn. Now there was just a pathetic, weedy garden, chewed by worms and stung by bugs. Even the tomatoes rotted.
Thunder brought the distant towns to the south closer – Brewton, Atmore, perhaps Pennsacola. Teenagers enjoyed the night like Jolene once did.
She felt old, so much pain, so few years. She refused to feel pity for herself. That, she despised, as much as those pouty girls in school. Perhaps it was turning into the same regret that her father felt.
Jolene scrunched into the small bed that was once hers and fondled the toys she had once loved. They were her friends from a tough time.
A worn teddy bear lay blotched with dried blood. She remembered the night, her mother’s screaming behind fists and pills.
Her dad came up the narrow, slanted steps. It took him a while, but he was determined to make it. He sat in the torn chair under the window.
He could barely read, but he spent money to buy Jolene books. He wasn’t above stealing them. He didn’t want her to be like him. She wasn’t. That’s what hurt so much. He was the only truly good man she knew. The rest were flawed beyond salvation. Even the one’s she had loved.
She asked him to read her a story. Didn’t matter which one. She ended up reading one to him. He watched her read like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Whe he left, she finally cried.
Jolene woke up at 5 am. She walked to the barn and moved the rotting wood and the old jars and the rusted metal NEHI sign.
1950’s dust swirled, giving life to the people in those black and white pictures in the dining room. Her father was young in one of them.
The picture had been shot in front of this barn next to a ’48 Chrysler. Her father, slicked black hair, smiled and pointed at the car. He had no idea what was ahead.
A dozen bent and muddied Alabama license plates marked the spot. She kicked them away and used the shovel to dig the soft clay.
A black garbage bag rustled at the dip of the shovel. Jolene pulled it out and extracted the black duffel. Inside was $450,000 in hundreds.
She pulled out $2,000 and stuffed the bills in her pocket. She laid $3,000 on the lid of a discarded washing machine.
She reburied the bag, arranged everything and went to shower. On the way, she tucked the 3 grand into her father’s overalls pocket.
Saturday morning was unusually busy at the sheriff’s office behind the courthouse. Quiet Cleve was sweeping in front of the movie theater.
“How’s it going, Cleve?” yelled Gus. “Working hard?” Gus waved. Cleve, who was deaf, never looked up, just kept sweeping.
Gus didn’t plan on staying long, just wanted to check reports. Oddly Lewis had not called. He poured a cup of coffee and read the updates.
The two trucks that burned on Friday had bullet holes in the cabs. Two accidents like that were not a coincidence. He called Ab.
“Hello,” said Ab. “It’s Saturday here.”
“It’s Gus here. How you doing this morning?”
“Tired,” said Ab.
“Big night?” asked Gus. The conversation was strained.
Walked around Walmart. Couldn’t sleep. Love that place,” said Ab. “I always end up buying something. Got a swimsuit. Maybe hit the lake.”
“You find out anything yesterday? About Human?” asked Gus. “During your investigation?”
“Okay Gus, your voice is all lathered up in sarcasm,” said Ab. “Why don’t you just ask me if I shot up those trucks near Montgomery?”
“Did you?” asked Gus.
“What do you think, first,” said Ab. “Before I answer. Give me your hypothesis. Remember science class? Mrs. Humpdogger?”
“Her name was Humerdinct,” said Gus.
“Well, hell, that’s not much better,” said Ab. “Anyway, she used that word a lot. So tell me your hypothesis about me yesterday.”
Gus held the cup to his nose. Maxwell House aroma filled his sinuses. Ab said nothing. Gus could hear him peeing in the background.
“I think you met Pop at the lake, night before last, and planned this thing out,” said Gus. “That’s my hypothesis.”
“You’re half right. I did them both,” said Ab, coughing on the end of the line. He flushed and washed his hands.
“Makes your job easier, or harder, depending on just how black and white you’re feeling today about your police vows versus your bloodline.”
“You toss the gun?” asked Gus.
“Gone, like last Christmas,” said Ab. “Pop didn’t help. Did it all by my lonesome. Figure he’d be proud of the craftsmanship, though.
“All of Tajo’s heroin off the streets now.” said Ab. “Little kids won’t be junkies. So is it a good thing. Or a bad one if you’re selling.”
“Was Pop with you at the seafood restaurant up on the lake?” said Gus. “Sweet tea, when everybody else is having beers? That’s Pop.”
“He said to tell you hi,” said Ab. “He was just passing through. Had some errands to run, so I met him for a late snack.”
“Ab, you’ve been good about laying the truth on me. Now you tell me all this crap,” said Gus. “Bullshit don’t suit you.”
“Unless you’re going to arrest me, let’s go swimming. Pick up some ham sandwiches and beer in a cooler.”
“Grab Bren if she wants, come by and get me,” said Ab. “You’re driving.”
After finishing up paperwork, Gus walked to his car. Jimmy was sitting in the passenger seat, wearing a sweat-stained gimme cap.
“Sorry for the sudden visit,” said Jimmy. “Family business.”
“Family?” said Gus. “Not a term I recall ever hearing you use.”
“Your brother’s got cancer, you know that, don’t you?” said Jimmy with no emotion. “Wouldn’t take the chemo. He’s got a few months, maybe.”
“He didn’t tell me this,” said Gus slowly considering each word. “What kind?”
“His plumbing is rotting,” said Jimmy. “All he talked about was you since he found out. That’s why he’s here.”
“He seems totally fine. A little thinner, maybe, but I haven’t noticed anything unusual,” said Gus.
“He ain’t going to make no show of it,” said Jimmy. “Just thought you should know. He’ll probably die here with you.”
That last sentence slapped Gus. They sat in the heat for a full minute.
“You still working?” asked Gus. “Doing the same jobs as before?”
“I get one now and again. Some pro bono community work here and there. The bar is done, though.”
“You hear about Tajo’s heroin? Bullet holes all over the cabs of those two trucks.”
“Payback’s a bitch,” said Jimmy. “I’ve seen her.”
“Payback may be more than that, Pop,” said Gus. “Word is, Tajo’s partners aren’t going to let this much heroin go down without a fight.
“Two of the four trucks are smoked,” said Jimmy. “That leaves two.”
“The Feds have them locked down tight up there,” said Gus.
Jimmy just looked out the windshield. “Yeah,” he said with a grunt. “Don’t mention to Ab that I told you about his situation.”
Gus nodded. Jimmy looked at the badge clipped on his belt.
“How much justice you see everyday from behind that badge?” asked Jimmy.
Jimmy took a roundabout way to the Skunker’s house, picked up Jolene and drove towards Destin.
“Why am I riding around with you?” said Jolene. “I know I must have better things to do.”
“We’re going to do them,” he said. They passed a boiled peanut/tomato/corn stand. An old man sat waving the heat with a Jesus fan.
“What are we going to do?” said Jolene. “Chase down every thug-ass, drug-dealing murderer in Florida?”
“We going to see Detective Lewis,” said Jimmy.
Jolene’s mind tightened into a ball beside her eyes. “You going to turn me in?” she said. “You, of all people?”
“I’m not all people,” he said.
Gus, Bren and Ab sat on a pier with their feet sloshing in the sepia river water. Gus avoided the obvious conversation with Ab.
“So how you feeling?” asked Gus. He didn’t expect the truth.
“You asking me?” said Ab. “I’m fine. Feel like a 16 year old – mule.” He grinned unconvincingly and shook the legs of his new swimsuit.
While Bren pulled a sandwich from the ice chest, Ab did a cannonball, followed by a rooster tail splash across the dry decking.
Gus and Bren swam out to a sandy island no bigger than Gus’ mobile home. Ab tired quickly, climbed up and lay on his back, turning pink in the sun.
He pulled another beer from the cooler. Icy water ran down his sunburned arm. Old rock songs thumped in his head.
An hour later, Ab was drunk and cooked. Gus and Bren dripped water on him as they dried off with big towels.
“Got a proposition for you, Gus,” said Ab. “I got a Harley in a garage down in Destin. It’s a beaut. Like new. Spit shined and stupid fast.”
Ab laid back and looked up at the sky. “A black Fat Boy Softail, over and under exhaust, nice ride.” In his mind, we was riding it.
“You want to sell it?” said Gus. “I think I’ve got about $600 in the bank.”
“I’m not selling it,” said Ab. “I’m giving it to you. Just be nicer to it than you were to your Ford.”
“I was nice to my Galaxie. That other guy wasn’t,” said Gus. He handed Bren a light beer.
Gus knew Ab was sick to offer his Harley. Ab had never big on sharing his toys as a kid. Such newfound generosity meant Ab didn’t have long.
Past Baker, Florida, the rolling hills flattened and pines thinned. They took the Highway 4 cutoff to Highway 85 south of Crestview.
It was a straight road to Niceville. In 30 minutes they were crossing the Mid Bay Bridge.
Jimmy did the speed limit. Jolene slept. Slate gray clouds smudged the sky. Below, white caps danced in jagged rows across the chop.
Jolene woke up startled and looked around wiping her mouth. “How many people die every day?” she said.
“About 150,000 a day,” said Jimmy. “Maybe more on Saturday.” The sun came back out and drained the landscape of color.
“Either you’re joking, lying or you know that for some sick reason,” she said. He knew it for many sick reasons.
“So why are you here?” he said. Traffic lined up on the other side of the bridge. A police car blew past on the shoulder. A wreck choked the road ahead.
“Look at that,” she said. “Saturday is getting its quota.” A large RV sat beside them, an old man at the wheel. Jolene thought for a second.
“I don’t know why I’m still here. I’ve never really known why I did anything. I just did what I felt. Maybe that’s wrong,” she said.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Jimmy. “Don’t think about it too much. It don’t matter anyway. In the end, we all wind up dead.”
Gus took Ab back to his hotel. Bren asked to shower at his place. “Absolutely,” he said. Even soaked in river water she looked great.
After she showered, he got in and stood in the soapy steam that smelled of her. Bren combed her hair in the bedroom and waited.
He turned off the water. “Don’t dry off,” she said, pressing her breasts hard against him. He tried to talk but her lips filled his mouth.
Soon her freckles ran with sweat. They ended on the floor, sheets in a corner, pillows thrown onto the wet bathroom tile.
“You are definitely an investigator,” she laughed, catching her breath. “Who taught you that stuff?”
“I have high speed Internet,” he smiled. Perhaps he was joking, but maybe not. Hard to tell with his recent attempts at humor.
“Then I owe you this month’s bill, then,” said Bren. They showered again and lay talking in the tiny bedroom of Gus’ singlewide.
The window unit above his bed droned coldly. Bren rubbed her hand across a divot in his shoulder. “You get shot here?” she said.
“I’d like to brag that I did,” said Gus. “I fell on a broken bottle as a kid. Took a chunk out. Not as romantic as a gunshot scar.”
“Scars are scars,” said Bren. “Inside or out, we all have them.”
Detective Lewis stood in his boat, casting into the shallow water near a patch of reeds. Metal flake green flecks sparkled off the fiberglass hull. It was a boat paid for by more than a detective’s salary.
Fishing was his passion. He eyed a speckled sea trout languishing 20 feet away. Circles drifted from where his lure landed with a dollop.
The cell was in his car. If anyone needed him, they could leave a message. He would return the call. Lewis wiped sweat, working his line.
Polarized reflections dappled his Costa Del Mars. Without them, the harsh light would haze the visibility. He liked to see the fish.
A warm breeze rippled his blue shirt. Two F-15C’s from Eglin chased each other 15,000 feet above him in a roar that felt distant, yet close, pressing the surface with their roar.
Eglin was the largest Air Force base in the world, spreading 724 square miles toward Pensacola. Besides tourism, the Air Force was the economy in the Florida Panhandle.
Iced down beer filled his cooler. The big Merc 125 rose and dipped in the crystal water. Lewis checked the LCD of his fish finder.
A trout waffled in his direction. He reeled his Shimano slowly. This particular trout was shifty. Lewis appreciated a shifty opponent.
Jimmy crouched in the tall grass on the shore 700 meters behind Lewis, sliding a round into his rifle. Jolene squatted beside him, watching.
“Are you a serial killer or something?” asked Jolene. “I’m no saint, but damn, you are on a bad road. How many people have you killed?”
Jimmy turned a knob on his scope. Jolene motioned toward Lewis with a nod. “What did this guy do?” No answer.
Jolene looked through the binoculars. “That’s Detective Lewis,” she said. Lewis pull the trout out of the bay. “This is a little hardcore. I’m not into this. You kill a heroin dealer or a pimp and it might slide,” she said. “You kill a cop and you get the chair.”
Jimmy lowered the scope. “He tortured your boyfriend to death across the bay, there,” he said. “You still feeling charitable?”
“How do you know that?” she said.
“It ain’t Lewis’ first rodeo. He was in with Tajo. Lewis Okay the assholes who shot up my bar.” said Jimmy. “He’s trying to pin Trueberry’s murder on you.”
“How was he going to pin Jerry’s death on me?” she said. “Maybe I was dumb enough to be with the son of a bitch. But I didn’t kill him?”
“Lewis has evidence. A ring,” said Jimmy.
“I gave Jerry my mood ring to wear on a chain. My daddy gave it to me,” she said, putting it together. “It’s engraved with my initials.”
“It’s in his evidence locker now,” said Jimmy. “A jury of good folks will give a hooker the chair for that, no matter what Trueberry was.”
Jimmy settled and raised the scope to his right eye. “I’ll do it,” said Jolene. Give me the gun.” He did. She raised it and sighted Lewis.
She took a deep breath. Lewis put the trout in his icebox. The wind died. Jolene pondered what she saw: another man in the crosshairs of a rifle in her hands.
“I don’t care what you do, but I am not this person,” she said. Jolene gave the rifle back to Jimmy and walked away.
Jimmy sighted Lewis in the scope. He held it steady. Lewis continued to fish. The safety clicked. Another jet echoed across the water.
Jimmy walked to the truck. Jolene leaned against the hot fender. “Why didn’t you shoot him?” she said. “If all of those things are true?”
“They’re true.” said Jimmy. “You should ask him yourself.”
“Go walking into his office and get cuffed on the floor?” said Jolene. “I’ve been on that floor before. Hell no.”
“After what he’s done to you, personally, and to your sorry-ass boyfriend, I’d think you’d at least want to have a conversation with him.”
Jolene fixed a stare on Jimmy that scared some men and turned other on. In Jimmy’s case, he just saw Jolene staring in belligerence.
“Lewis’ Caddy is right over there. We’ll wait. I’m patient,” said Jimmy. “In my work, you have to be.”
The parking lot at Ab’s hotel was full; a baseball tourney in town. Parents mulled around with teenage sons in uniforms and cleats.
Clumps of red clay covered the floor in the lobby. Dusty baseball gloves with names scribbled in magic marker lay on tables.
Ab sat in the lobby; CNN on the flat screen. Bags with aluminum bats were propped around. He loved the grassy/leather smell of baseball.
Gus walked past the crowd, nodded at the desk clerk and stopped at Ab’s chair. “Now let’s talk,” said Gus.
“About baseball?” said Ab. “Love baseball. Went to a Reds game last year up there. Had a job. Maybe you and me can go to a Braves game. We better do it soon, though.”
Two grass-stained players walked by. “And Bren, of course,” said Ab. He was killing time, not wanting to talk about why Gus was there.
“How long have you had cancer?” asked Gus.
“Long enough,” said Ab. “Look, I get to deal with it everyday. Let’s just act like brothers for a while. To hell with cancer.”
“Why didn’t you do chemo?” asked Gus. He wanted answers and Ab was done with questions. “You’re not going to talk about it, are you?”
“I live it. Don’t have a choice,” said Ab. “But I don’t have to talk about it. Not avoiding reality. Just doing other things while I can.”
“So why go shoot up a truck with pop?” said Gus. “If your time is so precious?”
“I was in the bar when Tajo’s bastards shot the place up. I’ve seen what they’ve done to people. They are the cancers.
“I just helped Pop even it out some.” said Ab. “I’ll help him again if he asks. Nobody’s crying over dead dealers. Never did.”
A coach walked past with several players and parents. They were headed to their game. Their jerseys read “Climbers” across the front.
Smiles cut across every one of the adolescent faces. It was contagious. “When’s your game?” asked Gus.
“In about an hour,” said the kid who looked like a catcher. “We’re playing a team from Tennessee: The Sharks.”
Gus turned to Ab. “Want to go watch some baseball?” he said. “Just me and you. The Sharks from Tennessee against the Climbers from somewhere else. It ain’t the Braves, but the ball is the same size.”
“We’re from north Alabama, near Fort Payne,” said the catcher. “We’re going to kick their asses like a rabid donkey.”
“Ya’ll should change your names from the Climbers to the Rabid Donkeys,” said Ab. “Then people will fear you.”
Gus and Ab forgot crime and murder and cancer and went to the baseball game like the rest of the kids in the hotel lobby.
The boat glided to a dock beside an oyster shell boat ramp. Lewis walked to his car and held up his key fob, opening the locks with a chirp.
The big Caddy was hardly the type of vehicle used to tow boats, but Lewis had a thing for Caddies. It towed the boat just fine.
He put the key in the ignition. Jolene opened the passenger door. Lewis jerked his head back. She pointed the 9 mm at his right eye. He held up his hands.
“Whoa, there,” said Lewis. “Easy with the weaponry, honey. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Give me the key and shut the door,” said Jolene. She adjusted her hips in the seat. Bait stink surrounded him.
Jolene saw his cell and tossed it out the door. He checked the rearview mirror, then ran his eyes up and down her like so many men did.
“You like what you’re looking at?” she said. “A hot chick with a gun. That get you off?” She licked her lips and grinned.
“Maybe this?” After running her left hand up her torso and across her breast, she pushed her cleavage up slightly and pouted. Men were all the same.
Lewis sat, frozen, no longer the diligent detective, but an evil, hypnotized fool. Jolene watched her own reflection in his sunglasses.
“You killed Jerry Trueberry? Used my ring as evidence? You’re in with Tajo?” she said. Her sexiness bled a little with each question.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. It was so unconvincing she laughed. “Who told you that stuff?” he said.
“People who know. You want to tell me about it? Treat me like a priest and confess?” She rubbed her tight jeans, ending at her crotch.
“You are a little bitch, aren’t you?” he said with a smirk. “So if I do tell you, what?” He seemed to relax, moving his hands to the wheel.
“Tell me all about it. Don’t leave out a single, bloody detail,” she whispered. “I hated that asshole Trueberry. He made me do things.”
Lewis described the slow killing of Jerry Trueberry. Jolene listened to every detail. She always wanted to be an actress. He was sweating.
“That’s just want I wanted to hear,” she said. Cockiness blushed his face. “You know what I want?” Jolene leaned in as if to kiss him.
His expensive sunglasses burst into crimson splinters before she even pulled the trigger. Jolene jumped back, blood spuming her face.
A hole in the windshield gave away Jimmy’s position 200 feet in front of the Caddy. Lewis jerked. It was just severed nerves spazzing.
She stumbled backwards out of the car into the sand, arms extended, 9 mm coughing round after round into the dead man.
“Jimmy!” she screamed, lying on her back, her neck arched up. “Dammit! Son of a bitch!”
“We ain’t got time to spend screwing with his head. Just put a bullet in it; get it over with,” said Jimmy.
She jumped to her feet, the 9 mil smoking. Lewis’ blood ran out the door that she had just fallen from. The interior looked like a pizza exploded.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled. “I wanted him to see me pull that trigger. I wanted him to know.”
“Get those bloody clothes off and let’s go.” He handed her clean jeans and a tiny, black shirt he had gotten from her bag in the truck.
He turned his back and walked away. Jolene yanked down her jeans and peeled off her shirt and waded into the water. She was pissed.
Dipping her head under the salt, she scrubbed her skin, rubbed the blood out of her hair. She wanted to stay naked and just swim away.
Jolene spent so much time wanting to be someone else, be somewhere else, be anything else, she ached at who she really was.
Dripping naked on the shore, her shadow covered the bloody clothes. Jolene pulled on her clean jeans and shirt and wadded up the clothes.
In the sand, beside the Caddy, Lewis’ cell rang. It was Gus. She heard it as she walked away. Jolene hoped it was Lewis’ wife.
The Climbers’ catcher hit a double to right, a line-drive into the wall. Gus clicked the red ‘end’ on his cell. “Lewis is not answering.”
Ab chewed the rubbery popcorn and drank a Dr. Pepper. “Stop working, he said. “We got a baseball game going on going here.”
“Just wanted to check on –”
“What?” said Ab. “All the dead people we know? Lewis is probably fishing. He does more than that, but fishing is all I care to know about. I got friends in the department. Good men. Lewis is not one of them.”
“Stop talking about work,” said Gus. “We got a game going here.”
Parents complained about every call. The Sharks pitcher threw a strike. The parents thought it was a ball. One man called the ump an idiot.
“Rough crowd,” said Ab. “That was a strike, pure and simple. Inside corner. The ump’s not blind, that guy is.”
“Most parents are,” said Gus. “They see what they want to see.”
“Or they don’t see anything,” said Ab. “Either way, the next generation pays our debts. Way it’s always been.”
“Let’s you, me and Bren go see a movie tomorrow,” said Gus. “Public Enemies. I hear it’s great.”
“Maybe we know some of the characters,” said Ab. They both laughed. The Climbers hit a home run. The center fielder just watched it sail.
“You shot a cop,” said Jolene. “I shot him after you did, but we’re screwed. Not a jury in the state will give us a break on this one.”
“I’m not a good man,” said Jimmy. “But I know some cops who are. He was the bad apple.”
“All any judge and jury will see are criminals shooting people. When one is a cop, things get all Bonnie and Clyde out here.”
Jimmy drove to a used car lot and parked in the back. “Try not to kill the owner here. He’s a friend of mine,” said Jimmy.
They walked past a rusted door. An old man sat in a ripped, Naugahyde recliner watching reruns.
“Jimmy Gantt. What took you so long?” he said.
“Jolene, this is Bartholoma Hendricks,” said Jimmy, waving his hand like a game show host. “I’ve known him for a long time.”
“Longer than that,” said Hendricks. “You can call me Slick.” He smiled like a jackass eating briars. Teeth were missing. Slick was 86.
“Good to meet you Mr. Hendricks,” she said. “I’m Jolene.”
“So you ain’t going to call me Slick?” he said, spitting on the floor. “Got some manners. That’s good. Ya’ll know the law’s after you.”
“Usually are,” said Jimmy. “Let’s trade and move on. We got to be in Atlanta. Least I do. Don’t know where Jolene, here, has to be.”
“Here’s as good as anywhere right now for me,” said Jolene. “I’m cool. Nothing else on my calendar.”
“Never thought I’d see Jimmy escorting a beautiful young thing around at his dinosauric age,” said Slick, removing a key from a steel box.
“She’d find your implication humorous,” said Jimmy. “We’re just friends. I think.”
Jolene smiled, dipping her head in a nod.
“Dark green 2007 F-150; new tires, shined up, 29,000 miles, leather, like new. Got a GPS and a tool box, just like you wanted,” said Slick.
“We’ll get our stuff,” said Jimmy. Black and White pictures of old school stock car racing fascinated Jolene. Slick was a young man in one.
“You see me there?” Slick pointed to his younger, handsome face from the 1960’s. “Daytona. I had a gift with carbs. Make them purr.”
Running his crippled hands over the old photos took his mind for a second. “All these guys were famous once. Most are gone now.”
Jolene got up close, touching the thumbtacks, feeling a connection to the people in the curled and fading pictures. “Who’s this?” she said.
Slick pulled his glasses down and put his nose almost on the image of two young men, grinning in front of a logo-plastered Ford.
“That’s Jimmy on the right, a cop named Lewis on the left. The cop has a bad rep down in the garages these days. Money is the root.”
“Everybody was together back then. Racing wasn’t all corporate and vanilla. We had rocky road and nuts and cookies, all kinds of flavors.”
“A driver might get out on the straightaway, pull off a cowboy boot and start beating the hell out of another driver,” said Jimmy.
“I’m one of the few black men who worked the sport,” said Slick, proudly. “We need more of that these days.”
“Got to go, Slick,” said Jimmy. “Tank it up. Got 5 hours of driving.”
“The serial numbers have been adjusted, like usual. Put you a fuzzbuster in for free.” said Slick. “I know you like to drive fast.”
“Your money’s in the bank,” said Jimmy. “A little extra too.”
“I trust you, Jimmy. Always have. You do what you say,” said Slick. “They don’t teach that in school no more. Ethnics, they call it.”
“That’s ethics, Slick. Not ethnics,” said Jimmy. “No ‘N.’ You might want to write that down.”
“I will, ethics. Got it,” said Slick. “So, hey, before you go, is Miss Jolene here, she your girlfriend?” Slick nodded proudly at Jimmy.
Jimmy kept his head down, embarrassed at the thought. “Good to see you, Slick. Thanks for the work,” said Jimmy. Jolene waved and smiled.
“I was just wondering,” said Slick. “It’s fine if she is.” Jimmy lingered behind as Jolene went to the new truck.
“She’s my grand daughter,” said Jimmy. Jolene heard him.
A crowd of cars, trucks and minivans snaked out of the ballpark. A call came, it was a Detective Skeins with Choctawhatchee Bay homicide.
Ab could hear somber talking through the earpiece. It was not good news. “Damn,” said Gus. “Yeah, I called him earlier. No answer.”
“So what happened? asked Ab. Gus stared into the traffic.
“Lewis is dead. Shot 10 times. Blew him all to hell in his car after fishing. Nothing taken. Not a robbery. An execution.”
“With prejudice,” said Ab. “I heard he was running with Tajo. Maybe somebody is cleaning house down there. No leads, no loose ends.”
“Jet skiers found him. Saw a cloud of flies on the south side of the bay. Birds and crabs were already in the car,” said Gus.
They drove to the sheriff’s office. “Let me check something. Just a minute,” said Gus. When he opened the door, heat wafted in.
Ab stayed in the cool car, vents blowing. Gus was gone a few minutes. Ab napped. Gus returned, locked his seatbelt and shifted into drive.
“So who called you from down there?” asked Ab.
“Skeins, remember him?” said Gus. “Worked on TV’s, but too dumb to spell it. He was a gopher prick. Then Lewis makes him a detective. Hell, even the best departments have a few turds.”
“I know this one,” said Ab. “Nail fungus. So full of himself you’d think he’d eventually have to fart just to relieve the pressure.”
“Same guy,” said Gus. “So where’s Pop?” The question was met with a few seconds of silence by Ab.
“When anybody gets killed these days, you ask that same question,” said Ab. “Pop ain’t the Grim Reaper. Shit happens.”
Pop is called the Angel Of Death in some circles,” said Gus. “I’ve heard it for years. And you’ve been the angel’s messenger boy.”
“That’s real poetic, Gus. I appreciate the mental effort of the insult,” said Ab.
“Can’t say much about any bad cops when your dad kills people for a living,” said Gus.
Gus turned into the full hotel parking lot. More baseball players milled about talking, swinging bats and playing catch.
“Pop was no friend of Tajo, believe me. Lewis wasn’t too keen on Pop either. It was all real uneasy. Maybe a Vietnam thing,” said Ab.
“Tajo was too young to be in Vietnam,” said Gus.
“Not the war, the drug-smuggling days after it,” said Ab. “Heroin was pouring out of southeast Asia. Tajo’s father was over there.”
“Another family business,” said Gus. “I’m getting all misty here.” Gus checked his watch. He was late for dinner with Bren at her place.
“And both Tajo and Lewis are dead. Nobody talks,” said Gus. “Convenient.”
“I told you, if Pop shot Tajo, it would have been in the head,” said Ab. “That’s how he rolls. Head shots, no mistakes.”
“One of Lewis’ wounds was right between the eyes, through the windshield from a sniper rifle. The others were all fired at close range, a .45 or 9 mm. Either we got a sudden jump in snipers, or we just got Pop cleaning up.”
“Damn, that’s some fast forensics,” said Ab. “I guess cops get the HOV lane down at the morgue.”
Gus shook his head. Ab nodded. “Okay, sorry. That was a low blow. I respect you as a cop, Gus. You’re my brother. Sorry.”
“Check your badge, Ab. You’re a cop too, since I deputized you,” said Gus. “You got a paycheck coming, just like all us cops.”
“If Pop capped Lewis through the windshield, who blew him all over the car?” said Ab. “Maybe the shooter just making sure?”
“Pop always worked alone, right?” said Gus. “Except with you?”
“Pop never works with anybody, ever,” said Ab. “Not clean. Opens doors. Causes problems. It’s why he only worked with me – family.”
“So when he’s killing people, Pop’s a family man,” said Gus. “Didn’t I see this movie?”
“He liked to keep it in the family,” said Ab. “That’s why he was so angry when you became a cop.”
She was starved. He never ate. The ramshackle restaurant tumbled toward the beach in an unplanned, haphazard, cinderblock jumble.
No one would bring a family to this place, not even drunken tourists. The vibe oozed ‘locals only’ and followed it with strip joint neon.
“You still have that little bar in the back? asked Jimmy. “Dark wood, windows facing the water?
“It’s reservation only,” said the greeter – a weightlifter. Her arms flexed with each word. She was younger than her leathery looks.
“Is Bud here?” said Jimmy. “Tell him Jimmy is asking.”
A short, rotund man with frantic white hair came out, grinning. “Jimmy. How you doing? Come on back. Is this your date?”
“She is tonight,” said Jimmy. Jolene splashed a fake smile and followed.
The weightlifter girl admired Jolene like half the men she had known. It was not the first time a woman had looked at her like this.
Bud led them through a narrow hallway and into a darkened room. Three people sat at small tables. “Quiet place in this nook. Nice view.”
“If somebody I don’t need see to shows up, let me know,” said Jimmy.
“You got it,” said Bud. “Some of them are long gone forever.” He walked to the bar that wedged into a corner and talked with the bartender.
The place had a history in the panhandle; dark wood, nautical theme, no mirrors, few lights, strictly business. Tajo had meetings in this room when he was alive. Bud was discreet.
Out the window the Gulf of Mexico was breaking beyond the sugar sand. “Is this the gangster cave I’ve heard about?” said Jolene.
“You need to hear some things,” said Jimmy. The bartender asked for their order. Jolene’s was a rum and Coke. Jimmy wanted sweet tea.
“Why did you tell that guy I was your granddaughter?” said Jolene. “You joking with him? My mama and daddy live near Opp. You know that. I grew up there.”
She kept talking in defensive tones. “I know who my parents are. I know who I am. You, now there’s one I’m not too sure about.”
“You don’t know,” said Jimmy. He was as tactless as ever. “You’re adopted.” He said it simple, like when people tell the truth by mistake.
“You talked to my daddy. You know him,” she said. “This is messed up. What kind of scam are you pulling? I’ve see some twisted shit but –”
“The Skunkers adopted you when you were about a week old,” said Jimmy. Jolene refused to look at him, head down, eyes cut to the ceiling.
“Your real mama ain’t that insane woman torturing the poor old man you thought was your daddy,” said Jimmy. “He’s a good man. She’s nuts.”
“What a crock,” said Jolene. “Who are you saying my parents are? Screw it. I got enough problems without this white trash fairy tale.”
“Your real mama was killed in a wreck near Auburn. You were about 2 then,” said Jimmy. “Your daddy is my son. They weren’t married.”
Jolene pushed away from the table. “I am not listening to this. You are a murderer and a liar or worse. I’m stupid for even being here.”
Jolene stood, turned to walk away. “It’s the truth. I can’t change it. Neither can you,” he said. “Just thought you ought to know.”
She dug her palms into the table and bent over close to him. “You can go to hell. I’m no kin to you. I’m nothing like you.”
Jolene twitched in a spasm of anger. She wanted to pull out the 9 mm and end him in his chair. She could do it, be gone before anyone moved.
“That feeling you got inside you right now, the one that tells you to reach for your 9 mm?” said Jimmy. “That’s bloodline, genetics.”
He leaned into her face, calmly. His words were grit. “You didn’t get that from those people up near Opp. You got that from me.”
He sat back and rolled the pepper shaker between his fingers. “I’m trying to apologize for your DNA.”
In his eyes she saw the familiar disconnection she had felt her whole life. It was why the woman she thought was her mother beat her.
That old woman thought she could beat it out of Jolene, and lost her mind trying. Mr. Skunker thought he could love it out of her and lost his hope.
They both failed. Now Jolene stood in a dank bar staring at her linage and sickened by the lack of choice she had in the whole matter.
The bartender brought their drinks. “Rum and Coke, sweet tea,” he said.
Jolene downed hers in one gulp and left. Jimmy ordered fried catfish.
?
