Bad Company

by P A Duncan

  No, the lockbox in his trunk was the best place for the cash. The benefit of driving a junker car was no thief would think it contained anything worth stealing. Okay, put most of the cash in the lockbox; a couple hundred in his wallet. He always felt better when he was flush with cash. A new rifle and another Glock were on his wish list, but he’d hold off until he could wheel and deal at a show. After a big show, some vendors didn’t want to cart their stock back home. Good deals could be had.

  No doubt about it, five grand would be the most cash he’d had in hand in a while. He looked forward to his stress easing, of being able to afford three fast-food meals a day, maybe even an occasional dinner at a Denny’s or Applebee’s. Maybe he’d settle down for a few months, rent another place in Kingman. That would be good. That might get Siobhan to come around more often.

  Heat filled his face when he remembered how June had carped about the phone calls. Carroll had explained they were no cost to Addams, but the woman didn’t or wouldn’t get it. Carroll had to tell Siobhan not to call, to write letters instead, and he’d quashed her suggestion she come for a visit. June, the former whore, had found some morals and wouldn’t have “shacking up” in the house of a “Christian man like Mr. Addams.”

  He’d written letters to Siobhan at night, using a flashlight so he wouldn’t hear June complain about the electricity bill. He gave no hints about the exhausting work, the positive side of which was he either didn’t dream or didn’t remember what he’d dreamed. For Siobhan, he kept the letters upbeat, joking. He’d meet the mailman at the box rather put the letter inside and raise the flag. He’d asked the mailman not to leave anything if Carroll wasn’t at the box to take it. He wouldn’t put it past June to open his mail and read it.

  June had also followed him around, watching him work. She said it was to make certain he did what Addams expected, but she kept asking him to take his shirt off because of the heat. At meals she teased and chided him like a mother.

  “Eat all your vegetables, young man.”

  That pissed him off. He’d gotten this far without a mother’s nagging, and he resented this loud-mouthed, blowzy woman assuming that role.

  One night, June had come into the unfurnished room where Carroll slept in his sleeping bag. She wore a tee shirt and no underwear, and he woke up when she kissed him, her mouth tasting of whiskey and too many cigarettes. Any other time he wouldn’t refuse sex when offered; masturbating only went so far. This woman revolted him, and he couldn’t get hard. She’d laughed at first then blamed him, telling him not wanting her was an insult to Mr. Addams. She threatened to tell Addams Carroll had raped her if he said anything about it.

  He’d endured that too, for the money. More importantly, Mr. Addams was his friend, and he was doing his friend a favor. He didn’t leave things unfinished, his brief stint in college and the Army early-out notwithstanding. He’d said he’d help out an old man. Going back on that was wrong.

  Now, he was done. The list of jobs Addams had posted on the refrigerator would have its last item crossed off today. One final, mediocre dinner, only one more night to crawl exhausted into his sleeping bag. In the morning he’d be on the road, flush with cash.

  Except where to go?

  Arizona was becoming a dead end. No jobs, except ones that paid less than minimum wage. Having been in command of men in the Army, he didn’t want some job where he’d work for a kid who’d graduated from a high school business course.

  On the gun show circuit, he was his own boss, saw interesting places, met fascinating people, but that, too, had grown stale. He saw the same faces and disliked haggling when he was on the receiving side.

  Because he’d been here the past few weeks, he hadn’t registered for any upcoming shows. It would be close to a month before he could meet a fee deadline. All his big stock was in Arizona anyway, so he’d have to make do at smaller shows with what fit in his car.

  But there’d be an opportunity to see Siobhan again. Unable to talk to her, he missed her voice, and that had started an all too familiar empty feeling to grow.

  He wiped his hands dry on a paint rag and worked at cleaning paint from creases in his knuckles. His shoulders and back ached from using the paint roller, but hard work never killed anyone. Jesus, that sounded way too much like his dad. Carroll shook his head but laughed. Maybe the old man wasn’t so dumb after all.

  He washed the buckets, brushes, and rollers and stowed everything in a shed he’d cleaned and rearranged. On the way to the house, he glanced down at his clothes. The jeans, shirt, and sneakers were ruined, paint-smeared and worn through in places.

  Damn, the jeans had been new, but he’d toss them and the rest of the work clothes before he left. He wanted his money and no reminders of this place.

  After leaving his shoes in the mud room, Carroll entered the kitchen. June sat at the table, chain-smoking, an often-missed ashtray full of butts beside her hand. Ashes littered the table, and the room reeked. She looked up from reading the National Enquirer, the limit of her literary taste, and her face wrinkled in distaste.

  “You clean up after yourself, boy? Put away all Mr. Addams’ tools?” she asked.

  She had to know that. He’d seen her watching him from a window. This was her lady-of-the-manor act.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m all done,” he said. He took the stub of a pencil dangling from a string attached by a suction cup on the refrigerator. With a certain exuberance, he crossed off the last chore: “clean and paint meat house.”

  Carroll shuddered at the memory of the high shelf above the salted hams and shoulders, a shelf holding the cured hog heads. The pigs’ sunken eyes reminded him of dead Iraqi soldiers, eyes and flesh desiccated by sand. He was glad he wouldn’t be here for the winter slaughter. Animal slaughter was cruel, but he managed to ignore that when it came to eating meat.

  “Where’s Mr. Addams?” he asked.

  “Mr. Addams?” she mimicked. “You fucking punk. Don’t go making like you’re better than us.”

  “I called him John the other day, and you said that was disrespectful.”

  “Shut your mouth, boy. John don’t allow hired help to talk like that in his house.”

  “He lets you talk any way you want.”

  Her eyes bulged, the cigarette hanging from a lip, stuck there by her thick lipstick. “What are you saying… Do you mean…” She sputtered and couldn’t finish.

  “Only repeating what John said at gun shows. You’re a truck stop whore he hasn’t been able to get rid of.”

  She opened her mouth to scream, but Addams entered the room.

  “You done, boy?” he asked, not looking at June.

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to stay tonight, if that’s okay. I’ll sleep in my car, go into town for dinner, whatever you want. I’ll leave before breakfast in the morning, so I won’t be any trouble. We could settle up now.”

  Addams’ eyes were small in his round, swollen face. He looked like one of the hog heads in the meat house. Carroll looked away.

  “How much did I say?” Addams asked.

  “Five thousand.”

  “I don’t remember you saying five thousand, John,” June said, smirking at Carroll. “I thought it was two thousand.”

  “If the boy said it was five thousand, that’s what it was. This is between the boy and me, so shut up. Boy, I don’t have that much cash here. It’ll have to wait until the bank opens Monday.”

  Carroll knew if he stayed here another day, he’d wake to find new items added to the job list.

  “Sir, I do need to get on the road. Maybe we can work a trade.”

  “Like what, boy?”

  “I’ll take the Bushmaster you showed me the other day and six good handguns with their paperwork.”

  “I could get twenty-six hundred for that assault rifle in today’s market.”

  “No, sir. The stock’s cracked.”

  “What you want it for?”

  “I can fix it for my own use.”

  Addams frowne
d, his eyes darting around. “There’s the matter of your room and board.”

  Anger brought another flush of heat to Carroll’s face. He counted to himself to calm down. “You said that was included.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “I slept on the floor in my own sleeping bag.”

  “In a room in my house. You used my water, boy, ate my food.”

  “I worked for that.”

  “I’d say we’re even, then.”

  Carroll wanted to punch the old man in the face and struggled to stop himself. He took a deep breath.

  “You promised me five thousand cash for the work I did. You can’t go back on that. That’s not fair.”

  Addams laughed. “I worked you like a nigger, boy. I’ll pay you like one. You had a place to sleep and three squares a day. So, we’re even. Take that and leave it, or I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “Maybe we should do that. You got illegal guns here, ones not covered by your federal license. Let’s see what the sheriff says about that.”

  Addams laughed again, joined by June. “Boy, the sheriff’s my cousin. Your ass’ll be in jail before you can blink, and he’ll find drugs in that junker of yours.”

  “Yeah,” June cooed, “they’ll love your ass at the state pen, you pansy.”

  Carroll’s hands fisted as he fought for control, his body shaking. “I break my back for you, and I walk away with nothing?”

  “I paid you in room and board, boy. I ain’t repeating myself again. Pack up your worthless shit and get on the road. Now.”

  Carroll saw red. He’d never felt this much anger in his life, except that day when he’d watched the FBI murder people at Calvary Locus.

  “Did your whore tell you she tried to fuck me?” he asked, teeth clenched.

  “If she had, I’da charged you for that. I’m going out to feed the hogs. I don’t want to see you here when I get back.”

  “You’re a thief and a liar, and you’ll pay for this.”

  “I’ll ignore that, boy, but I swear if I don’t see your ass going out my door, I’m calling the sheriff. You hear me?”

  “Patriot City.” The voice on the phone was accented and wary.

  “This here is Addams from Arkansas.”

  “Ja, Mr. Addams?”

  “I, uh, need to speak with the preacher.”

  “Speak to me, Mr. Addams.”

  “Well, now, this is between the preacher and me.”

  “I’ll tell him exactly what you say.”

  “All right. I did what he asked. The boy just left here.”

  “Were you successful?”

  Addams’ laugh was a bark. “I’d say so. The little shit was about to cry.”

  “Which way did he head?”

  “North.”

  “Gut. Does he still drive the Chevrolet?”

  “Yeah, he does. You tell the preacher I did exactly what he told me to do, and I stand ready to do anything he needs.”

  “Of course, Mr. Addams. I will tell him. God is great!”

  “Yes, sir. God is great!”

  12

  Simple Kindness

  Anger clamped his foot tight on the accelerator. John Carroll sped toward the Missouri state line, replaying the scene in Addams’ kitchen over and over. Hindsight gave him better comebacks.

  His anger blossomed because he hadn’t handled himself or the situation. While he’d thrown his duffels and sleeping bag into his car, the bitch June stood on the porch, hooting with laughter, calling him queer, calling him a nigger. Like Addams had.

  In Iraq, his desire to kill another man was muted, brought out only by his training, never anger. Now, though, he wanted to go back and kill John Addams and his whore, but he kept the car pointed away.

  The black depression that had all but unmanned him last winter, that had stalked him while at Addams’ place now engulfed him, held him fast as he fled the place where he’d sweated and bled for nothing. He’d left nothing behind, and there was nothing ahead, only an endless progression of gun shows and living hand to mouth. He had nowhere to go. No one cared if he lived or died. Why should he go on?

  He was nothing, a long, painful fall from the someone he’d been in the Army. He was nothing, and a man he thought honest and upstanding had worked him like a dog and hadn’t considered him worthy enough to pay him. You didn’t have to pay for nothing.

  The sob choked him. Tears blinded him. He guided the car to the shoulder, a safe distance off the highway, and parked. Hands gripping the steering wheel, his head dropped forward. He wept, his body shuddering.

  This time he’d do it. He’d take the .45 to make certain it was quick, go to the ditch, and…

  Flashing blue light filled the car. A cop. Carroll sat up straight, sniffed, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He collected his registration and took out his wallet. He rolled his window down and kept his hands at ten and two o’clock on the wheel.

  “Evening, son,” said the state trooper. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, sir. I finished some work in Arkansas today, and I’m headed to visit an Army buddy. I got sleepy and pulled over.”

  The cop leaned down, his light on the side of Carroll’s face. “Had anything to drink?”

  “No, sir.”

  He must have been satisfied he smelled no alcohol. All he said was, “License and registration, please.”

  Carroll handed them over and returned his hands to the wheel.

  The cop shined his light on the license and registration and asked, “What kind of work were you doing?”

  “Painting, handyman stuff for an elderly gentleman on his farm.”

  The cop gave him his documents back. “There’s a truck stop about five miles from the next exit to the interstate, near the state line. Know it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve seen it.”

  “They’ll charge twenty bucks to park and sleep. Includes one meal.”

  “Yes, sir, but I got paid with a check, and none of the check-cashing places are open now.”

  “You got gas money, son?”

  “About forty bucks. That’ll have to get me to where I’m going.”

  The cop produced his wallet, slipped a twenty from it, and handed it to Carroll. “Here. Get to that truck stop and get some sleep. I don’t want to scrape you off the pavement.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t take that.”

  “I got a son about your age. I’d hope some brother policeman would do the same for him if he were on the road.”

  Carroll fought to keep his fingers from shaking when he took the money. A simple act of kindness from a stranger. The opposite of what he’d experienced from someone he thought a friend. Tears came to his eyes again.

  “If you give me a card, sir, I’ll repay you, and thank you.”

  “No need, son. Be careful on the drive. In fact, I’ll follow you. They have good coffee there, and my shift doesn’t end until four a.m.”

  That sounded like an order, but Carroll was too emotionally depleted to care.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stuck to the speed limit, his eyes on the cop in the rearview mirror.

  The state cop lingered over his coffee until Carroll ordered a meal. He wished Carroll a good evening and left. Carroll motioned to the waitress. “I’ll be right back. I need to use the pay phone. Can I take my coffee with me?” he said.

  “Sure, honey.”

  Siobhan didn’t answer. That didn’t surprise him. It was close to midnight in Boston. He left a message, not giving any details about what had happened, and told her he’d call when he could.

  When he sat at the counter again, the waitress put a plate before him: an omelet, hash browns, four sausage links, a half-dozen strips of bacon, three warm, fluffy biscuits. It smelled glorious, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. He and the waitress laughed, and she refilled his coffee. He dug in, the good food making him salivate.

  The Addams farm was hours behind him. The humiliation stung less. He needed to talk t
o Siobhan, to tell her about it. She was always so calm and composed. Unruffled was the word. When you had to use survival skills on a daily basis, life must be one big joke. No, she listened. She understood. She didn’t criticize or lecture. She accepted him, even if he had trouble doing that for himself. When he could talk to her, personal doubts didn’t matter.

  The piece of paper with her phone and address lay on the counter next to his left hand. He’d memorized them, but he didn’t want to lose that paper with her handwriting on it. When he put it back in his wallet, he spotted the business card that preacher had given him at the MW convention last year. He drew it out and studied it.

  Carroll had gone to the private meeting. Too much God talk for him. He hadn’t been interested in religion for a long time. He supposed he still believed in God, but he didn’t understand how God could sit back and watch his creations be so fucking cruel. The preacher had called himself Elijah, “like the prophet.” He’d invited Carroll to some place he had in Missouri. The address was on the business card, as was a phone number.

  “Call first,” Elijah had said.

  Carroll motioned for the waitress again. “I’m not finished,” he said, “but I have to use the phone again.”

  “That’s fine, hun. Warm up your coffee?”

  He nodded and went to the large map on a wall of the truck stop. He found the state road number and figured he was a couple, maybe three hours away. Back at the pay phone, he hoped he had enough on his card for another call.

  Elijah had described his “refuge” as a school where people could learn to be better citizens and patriots. “I always need good trainers,” he’d said. “Like Army vets.”

  That sounded like a purpose, a better one than eking a few bucks off tightwads at gun shows. Given what had happened today, he’d have to be careful. He’d ask for an advance.

  “Who is this?” came the answer to his call.

  Shit, he’d called too late. “Mr. Elijah?”

  “Just Elijah. Who is this?”

  Had he told the guy Jay Carroll or Jay Jenkins? “Uh, this is Jay. We met at the MW convention in Vegas last year, and—”