“Six bucks.” Bearded guy at the register has an opener in his hand. Tommy takes a drink.
“How’d you get that open?”
Tommy pulls six bucks from his wallet and hands it to the guy, walks out the door. Something inside him wants to burst, gotta be nerves from Carla or maybe he’s as sick as he feels. Like his gut could come out in any direction.
It’s dusk, sun still up a little. The place has outside lights but they ain’t on yet.
“Got a quick start on that,” Skinny says.
“Here to do business, not fuck around.” He sits. “What’s the job?”
“No details here.”
Tommy drinks. Guy talks like he’s a fucking idiot. Won’t be details at a place like this but the guy wanted to meet him, has to say enough for them both to decide.
“Just tell me what I gotta do. Ask me what you gotta know.”
No one sits near them. Skinny looks around anyway, talks soft. “It’s a bar, makes some book in back. Big day’s the Super Bowl but they bring security for that. And Sundays the bar’s packed, people watching games. But Saturday nights, regular season? Lotta money in back.”
“In a safe.”
Skinny shakes his head. “Not the whole time. They transfer it, don’t do payoffs at the bar. Take the bets one place, pay off another.”
“And you know when they pick up the money.”
Skinny nods.
“And this ain’t protected.”
“All private, no one behind ’em.”
“These guys nuts? Someone gets wind, they worse than dead.”
“Why the job’s safe.” Skinny looks around again. Still no neighbors. “Just need a couple guys with guns to do this.”
“How many guys they got? Including the driver. Cuz they all got guns. And no way I do this if they’re Chinese or black. Those people cut a white man’s balls off.”
“Two guys pick up from one.”
“So three. And there’s a driver. Four. And you said a couple of us. We need more guys than they got and you provide weapons. I approve the weapons before I do the job.”
“You ask the right questions,” Skinny says. “But I gotta know about you.”
“You know or you wouldn’t ask.” Tommy holds his empty bottle. “Be right back.” He stands. “Need anything?”
“Nah.”
Maybe Tommy’s drink count matters tonight but fuck it, he ain’t pretendin’ he don’t drink. Let ’em know this is who he is now. He stands in line, pays for his open beer when he gets to the register, goes back to the table.
Tommy sits.
Skinny’s palm is over the top of his coffee cup. He tips his head up then back down, like maybe he’s indicating Tommy’s new beer. “And I’m supposed to believe you’re fine.”
“Beer and a shot now. Follow me the last two years, that’s all you see.”
Skinny holds his coffee cup again, like it’s still warm enough to drink. “Whattaya do instead?”
“Instead of the highs?” Tommy shakes his head. “Work when it comes. Fight with the old lady. What’s anyone do?”
“You shot heroin?” Skinny asks it casual, like it’s a hobby.
“Everyone I knew did. Don’t know none of them now.”
“Ya want to?”
Tommy drinks, sets his bottle down. “Not guys you’d miss.”
“What about the highs? Miss them?”
“The shit near killed me. Maybe that was okay then.” He drinks. “Don’t wanna die no more.”
“So whydja fall down at the bar?”
Motherfucker Eddie. Business though. “Just sick. Don’t last forever.”
Skinny nods. “We leave here in separate cars. Prescott Motel, you know it?”
“Yeah.”
“We meet in the parking lot, right outside where you check in.”
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Here is a preview from Skunk Train, a crime novel by Joe Clifford.
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Northern California, sometime around 2010…
CHAPTER ONE
Kyle saw the opened school envelope on the counter as soon as he stepped inside the trailer. He wasn’t surprised. Once Ronnie said Deke was looking for him, he knew he was in trouble. The only time his cousin Deke ever looked for him was when he was in trouble, which seemed to be more and more of late. Fist fights. Meetings with counselors. Write-ups and detentions. Since he stopped going to school, Kyle had been smart enough to sneak back to the trailer and get the mail before Deke did. Today he’d gotten distracted, too stoned on the Highway. Of course the first day he missed the mailman, the letter would come. Just his luck.
For the past three weeks Kyle had left the trailer every morning like he was going to school. Didn’t matter if Deke was already gone for the day or that neighbors up here didn’t talk to each other, the little shacks and sheds buried among the Northern California redwoods spread too far apart to invite much company. Kyle wanted to keep up the routine. Wake up, brush teeth, eat cereal, put back the milk. Then he’d disappear into the woods to pedal his old bicycle down to the Highway. Sell a dime bag from Deke’s stash at the Ironside, the biker bar up the road, hang with the older skater dudes behind the strip mall, wait till Ronnie got home from class. Kyle knew everyone would blame his recent behavior on the pot. But pot really had nothing to do with it. Up in Humboldt County everyone started smoking the stuff. Eventually. And smoking wasn’t the cause of his problems—smoking was the result of his problems, a way to cope—he remembered that from an assembly last fall. The truth was something inside him had broken. Just short of his sixteenth birthday, Kyle couldn’t explain what that something was, not to teachers or Ronnie, certainly not Deke. Kyle’s life had been rough since his dad dropped him off on his cousin’s doorstep. Kyle had always been moody; at least that’s what Deke called it. If having two emotions—sad and angry—constituted moody. If Kyle didn’t say anything, kept his head down, he could withdraw deep into himself. Survive the day. Which was the better of the two options. Because anytime he tried to express himself, these feelings he had, it ended bad. Pushed hard enough, he’d lash out. Because Kyle wasn’t a big kid, that usually ended up with his ass kicked. But he wasn’t chickenshit or scared to throw a punch. That’s the one thing living with Deke had taught him. Better to get pounded than be thought a coward.
No one was inside the trailer but Kyle could hear Deke and Jimmy, his business partner, arguing out back. The trailer wasn’t actually a trailer—that’s what Kyle called it because it was so small. He’d lived there since he was five. It’s hard to remember much at that age, memories just out of reach, like the details of a dream you’ve already forgotten upon awaking. He knew he missed his mom a lot, and that he cried when his dad dropped him off following the funeral service because he’d wanted live with his father in Hollywood. But his dad was too busy making movies.
Through the kitchen window, he spied them by the toolshed. Kyle couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Deke and Jimmy were going at it pretty hard, in each other’s face, jabbing fingers, standing toe to toe. Deke was sucking on that Marlboro Red like a fiend. Kyle liked Jimmy, who rented a booth at Blood and Bones, the tattoo parlor on the Highway. He was certainly cooler than Deke.
Kyle already regretted cutting class, knew it was going to bite him on the ass. In truth, Kyle was bored shitless, and most of the time he wished he were back at school. But too much time had passed to walk back into class now. He had to wait for this to play out. Thanks to that letter, he wouldn’t have to wait long.
Kyle brushed aside the rest of the mail, utility, gas—but not cable because Deke was too cheap to spring for that—shopping flyers, the empty takeout containers. He searched for a cigarette in an ashtray but couldn’t find one. Foggy, gray light crept through
the threadbare curtains, these cheesy things with dangling, frilly dice that Kristy, Deke’s ex, had picked up at a consignment shop when they’d all gone for breakfast in Cutting. That was a nice morning. He missed having Kristy around. At least she tried to talk to Kyle once in a while.
Kyle chugged the half can of warm Mountain Dew, and stared into the dense, green thicket of Mendocino Forest. Dark clouds churned in the distance, upturning leaves on the trees, thunderstorm brewing.
Let’s do this. With Jimmy there, Deke was less likely to lose his shit.
Kyle shoved open the screen door, and both Deke and Jimmy jumped out of their boots. Everyone in Dormundt knew those two didn’t take shit from anyone. Kyle felt good that he’d scared them.
Deke whipped the letter from his back pocket, waving it around, eyes squinty mean. He pointed a finger at Kyle. “Stay right there.”
“I ain’t going anywhere.” Kyle nodded at Jimmy. “What’s up?”
“How’s it hanging, little man?”
“Go back inside,” Deke said.
“You told me not to go anywhere.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
Kyle smoldered in place, trying to look tough.
“Go!”
Kyle yanked open the screen door, flinging it wide and letting it slam. He stalked near the window, trying to keep his edge. Now that they knew he was home, they were talking quieter. Like Kyle cared about whatever lame secret Deke had.
Soon as Deke came inside, Kyle was telling him. He had made up his mind. He was moving to L.A. to live with his dad. He’d threatened it before but this time he would follow through. He imagined Deke getting all teary-eyed when he saw Kyle wasn’t playing around, and then his cousin would calm right down, try to backpedal, say Kyle couldn’t leave, how much he needed him, but Kyle would tell him too bad, he was out of there, no matter how much his cousin begged him not to go. Kyle would grab his stuff, all stone-cold and silent, and head out, leaving behind a weepy Deke to wonder why he had to be such a dick.
And that’s where the fantasy dried up.
Because Kyle couldn’t get on his bicycle and pedal five hundred miles to L.A., or even the twenty to the Greyhound station in Richter. Plus, he had no idea where his dad lived, and studios have security guards. He didn’t even have the same last name as his dad. No one would believe him. No one believes anything when you’re fifteen.
Kyle sat down at the kitchen table in the dimming light, peeling labels off empty beer bottles, wadding spitballs and flicking them with his thumb. He must’ve dozed off because he woke up still sitting at the table but now it was dark.
He heard Jimmy’s truck fire up, and Kyle steeled his resolve for the fight with his cousin. But when Deke walked in all he did was pace back and forth, pulling aside the dice curtains, gazing out the window and watching taillights disappear. He fired up another smoke even though he still had one in his mouth.
It was getting late, darker, but no one bothered to turn on any lights. Something had Deke rattled, and it was more than Kyle’s cutting class. Deke hadn’t said one word to him, pacing, chain-smoking, staring down the black country road long after Jimmy’s truck was gone.
“What’s wrong?” Kyle asked.
Deke snapped to and pulled the letter from his back pocket, holding it up, before slapping it down on the counter. “Like I don’t have enough shit to worry about, you have to pull this stunt?”
“It’s not a stunt.”
“You’re going back. You hear me? Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
Kyle wanted to say like hell he was, dig in his heels and make a stand, but something wasn’t right. Deke had resumed pacing, acting a nervous wreck. Kyle didn’t like this, Deke losing his cool. Kyle hated Deke most of the time, hated him for always giving him a hard time, for being a loser, for not being somebody important like his dad, but Kyle also respected how tough he was. He’d once seen Deke almost break a man’s arm in two for trying to rip him off. A couple winters back, this skeezy junkie, Chip Morsman, came by the trailer with two jacked-up buddies. Chip had bought a pair of tires off Deke, then tried to weasel out of paying because he said the tread on one of them was worn, which was a lie since Chip had picked out the tires himself. Chip must’ve figured with his two buddies there, both tatted and built like farm oxen, Deke wouldn’t start any trouble. But he didn’t know his cousin. Deke picked up an ax handle—just the wood part and not the actual blade—and he cracked Chip so hard in the eye you could hear the bone splinter across the yard. Then he wrapped the handle behind Chip’s arm, twisting it and lifting him off the ground until Chip cried like a baby and made his buddies grab his wallet and pay Deke. His cousin was a lot of things, but he wasn’t chickenshit. Right now, though, Deke looked terrified, and that terrified Kyle.
Then his cousin did something unexpected. He came over and wrapped his arms around Kyle, hugged him tight. Deke never did that. Kyle didn’t know how to respond, so he sat there, body tensed, trying not to cry. Kyle had spent the last three weeks gearing up for a big showdown, but this wasn’t playing out like he’d imagined.
“Come on,” Deke said, walking out back.
Night had fallen hard, the sky over Spy Rock stained mud gray, and a harsh cold wind blew in from the Pacific and over the Ranges, rustling the forest. Deke pulled out a joint and sparked it. He took a hit and passed it to Kyle, who looked up, unsure what to do.
“Yeah, I know you smoke. What’d’ya think? I’m stupid?”
Kyle took the peace offering.
“And I know you take money out of my dresser, and I know you pinch my stash and go down the strip mall and sell to those hoodrat turds.” Deke shook his head. “I never asked to be your dad. I didn’t have a choice.”
Kyle didn’t know what to say.
“Your father couldn’t take care of you after your mom died. He’s not that kind of a guy. It’s not only ’cause he’s an asshole. He don’t have a caring bone in his whole rotten body.”
Deke didn’t talk much about his father anymore. Any time Kyle brought him up, it ended in a blowout. Kyle didn’t want to say anything, hoping maybe his cousin would keep talking. But he stopped.
Deke took a couple steps into the tall backyard weeds, before turning around. “I need you to stay at Ronnie’s for a few days. I ain’t mad at you. But you have to go there. Okay? For a little while.”
“I can’t. Ronnie’s mother hates me.”
“Shit, man, ain’t there anywhere you can go?”
“Maybe I can stay with my dad.” Kyle was trying to be helpful but that was the wrong thing to say.
“Don’t you think if I knew how to find the sonofabitch I’d have called him by now?”
“You’re just saying that because you’re jealous.”
“Why would I be jealous of that asshole?”
“Because he’s down in Hollywood, making movies, and you’re a loser working in a bar, dealing dope.” Kyle didn’t feel bad for Deke anymore.
“Oh, yeah? If he’s such a great guy, how come he ain’t never called you? Doesn’t write you no more?”
“You probably told him not to.”
“No, Kyle. Your father ain’t called, and he don’t write, because he’s a selfish prick. He didn’t want you to live with him. That’s why he dumped you here.”
Kyle leapt at his cousin, a half punch, part shove. Deke ducked out of the way and Kyle stumbled to his knees.
“I hate you,” Kyle spat from the ground.
“Pack some clothes.”
“Screw you.”
“I’m not kidding. We need to get out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Deke grabbed Kyle by the arm, dragging him to the toolshed, Kyle resisting the whole way, until his cousin flipped him over and Kyle tumbled into the weeds. Deke pulled the wad of keys off his belt and opened the lock. He tugged the st
ring and a dangling bulb blazed bright.
On the floor of the old toolshed lay two large canvas bags. Deke knelt down and unzipped them. Marijuana. Lots of it. Sealed in plastic wrap, stacked high and deep, front to back.
Deke never carried more than a sandwich baggie or two.
“How much is here?”
“I don’t know.”
Kyle tugged one of the handles. The bag didn’t budge. “Are you nuts? You can’t leave this out here. This shed’s falling apart. Anyone could come bust that lock with a rock. We’ve got to bring it in the house.”
“We can’t bring it in the house.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s the first place they’re gonna look.”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? The people we stole it from.”
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Beacon Hill Page 24
