by Ace Atkins
“I reckon,” Heath said, reaching for a good baseball cap. He didn’t care what kind. It was black and said LUCKY on it in glitter.
“We don’t steal,” he said. “Put that in the basket. Me and Tyler earn a living.”
“Oh, hell.”
“It’s in the damn Bible,” Cody said. “Plain as fucking day.”
Heath tossed the glitter hat into the buggy as they made their way to the checkouts without no cashiers. When Cody used the scanner to check himself out, Heath was just flat-out amazed. The boy laughed at him and his old face colored a bit. He’d had about all the uppity, cocky-ass shit he could stand from those two boys. He knew more about racin’, growin’, drinkin’, and screwin’ than those little fuckers could ever imagine. Not sure when it would happen, but when the time was right, he sure needed to teach them boys a lesson, show them who is the king of the family hill. “Y’all check them filters this morning?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“How about pruning?” he asked. “Some of those plants looking plenty ragged.”
“Tyler took care of it,” Cody said. “He’s good at getting that growth started. I call him the weed whisperer.”
They paid and pushed on through the automatic doors, out of the artificial coolness and into the heat of the Walmart parking lot. Cody had double-parked his Chevy in a far row so no one would scratch the white paint. He reached into his pocket to unlock the doors.
“When y’all gonna harvest?” Heath asked.
“Few weeks.”
“And then what?”
“Sell it,” he said. “What’d you think?”
“Where?”
“Uncle Heath,” Cody said. “How about we not talk about this shit in public?”
“Suit yourself,” Heath said. “Won’t talk in the house. Won’t talk at the Walmart. Where the hell are you boys gonna talk and explain how the business is being run? I got a right to goddamn know. You two little fuckers think you’re tricky. But if y’all want to enter the big time, you need to follow my goddamn lead.”
Cody stopped halfway down the row of cars. He didn’t move, still hanging there with elbows on the push handle, eyes scanning the parking lot, ball cap down in his eyes. Somewhere, Heath heard the big dirty growl of some scooters rolling in. Sounded like a whole mess of ’em.
“You got that gun?” Cody said.
“What?”
“I said, you got your goddamn gun?”
“’Course I got my goddamn gun,” Heath said. “I don’t go to the shitter without it. You think I’ve gone soft in the head?”
“Get it,” Cody said. “We got some damn trouble. Those motherfuckers tailed us here.”
A dozen or so black-leather-and-denim-wearing fuckers on scooters blasted down the parking lot, roaring past the grocery cart and circling it like some snaggletooth sharks.
“Born Losers.”
“Well,” Heath said. “Sure. OK, then. Let’s see what they got.”
“I guess those booby traps didn’t scare them none.”
“Let’s hurry this up,” Heath said. “My goddamn ice cream’s starting to melt.”
* * *
• • •
I’m done,” Boom said. “Just cut me a check and I’ll be on my way.”
“Hold up there, son,” L. Q. Smith said, fingers hooked into his skinny little belt. “You can’t just skid onto company property, slamming on your brakes, and leave your rig parked like that. I heard what you said to the dispatcher. Those were some hurtful words. I’ll have you know Earl is a Christian man who very much loves his mother.”
“I said I’d do the job,” Boom said. “I did the job.”
They stood inside an open cargo bay, alone, after Smith had met him in the lot. Boom had jumped from the truck, tossed Smith his keys, and stormed on up to the main offices. Smith trailed behind him, telling him to stop, wanting to know just what had made him so gosh dang mad. When Boom tried to answer him in the Sutpen offices, Smith held up the flat of his hand and said this was more of a private conversation. He bought Boom a Mountain Dew from a vending machine and walked him into the empty bay. Some of the secretaries and men who worked the docks eyed them as they passed. But Boom paid them no mind. He didn’t give a good goddamn who heard what he had to say.
“I told you I wasn’t running anything that wasn’t on the manifest.”
“And I told you that you wouldn’t,” Smith said, hands in his fancy-ass jeans, green-and-white checked shirt wide open at the throat to show a diamond-crusted horseshoe hanging around his old saggy throat. “That’s why I got you running these old cars back. That way you could see what we’re moving and wouldn’t be worried about a damn thing. I’m still telling you that was a simple and honest mistake on that last run. I don’t know why they told you avocados when they meant electronics. I don’t pride myself in mistakes, but there wasn’t anything illegal about it, son. I appreciate you being prideful in your work, but this kind of loose talk and accusations can’t stand if you want to keep on working for Sutpen. This company started back in 1968 and has twice been awarded Lee County Business of the Year.”
Boom looked down at Mr. L. Q. Smith, with his rumpled checkered shirt and fancy loafers. He still had the face of a roughneck, with the deep-burned skin and the long mustache. He held out his hand and offered Boom a smile.
“Y’all welded hidden compartments onto three of those vehicles,” Boom said.
“Son,” Jones said. “I got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I stopped off at a Home Depot outside New Orleans,” Boom said. “I got a stick welder and opened ’em up. I know what you put inside. I don’t mess with that shit. Ever.”
The smile faded from under L. Q. Smith’s droopy mustache. He folded his long arms over his potbelly and grinned in a different way than before, like they were both in on some goddamn hilarious joke. He nodded, thinking on it, color coming up from his throat and splotching the cheeks of his face. “I done bumped your ass to the front of the line,” he said. “Jerry Colson said you got sand in your britches and would do a job without making no trouble. I guess ole Jerry was wrong. He’s gonna be real sorry to hear that.”
“Mr. Colson’s a good man,” Boom said. “He wouldn’t run that garbage unless he’d been lied to.”
“Little things,” Smith said, fingering at his ear. “Little things can add up to big problems for a man. Jerry makes some runs on occasion for us. Nothing big, just up to Memphis or down to Mobile. I’m sure he’d hate to have those checks stop coming at his age.”
“I’ll take my check and get going,” Boom said. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“You do that, son,” he said, peering up at something beyond Boom’s shoulder and nodding. Boom turned to see two men walk into the empty cargo bay. One of them was old and weathered, with long gray hair pulled into a ponytail. The other was a little taller, lean and muscled, looking like a cowpuncher, with shaggy brown hair. He’d seen them once before, working the big glass office beside Smith’s. The guy with the gray ponytail had a billy club tucked into the back of his hand-tooled belt but moved empty-handed.
Boom watched the two men as he walked with Smith. He sure as hell didn’t like their looks.
“Hate for you to miss out on a good-paying job,” Smith said. “With your, um, abnormality. And I’ll try not to take no offense to the accusations that you’ve made against Sutpen. You’re a good driver and a valuable part of the team. You go on back to Jericho and think long and hard about what we’re offering here.”
“I heard you,” Boom said. “Don’t need to hear it again from these fellas.”
“You hadn’t met Mr. Taggart and Mr. Hood?” he asked. “They run Sutpen’s. Took over when Old Man Sutpen passed away some years ago. Fine men.”
The old ponytailed man cocked his head, studying Boom. The
other cowboy-looking man just nodded in his direction. Neither of them spoke, offered to shake his hand, or moved to try and whip his ass. Not that either one of ’em could do it.
“All right, then,” Boom said, feeling a little rush of adrenaline as he turned and walked slow and easy from the room, keeping his eyes on the two men hanging against the wall, waiting for L. Q. Smith to give some kind of signal. Taggart and Hood. He didn’t know which one was which, but he sure as hell didn’t want no more trouble.
Boom just wanted free of being some white man’s punch, trucking his drugs and stolen shit across state lines. He’d rather go back to the County Barn and work under Skinner’s cronies than spend the rest of his days in a federal pen like his buddy Donnie Varner.
“Look forward to hearing from you, son,” L. Q. Smith said, loud behind his back, echoing on the metal walls. “We sure do value and appreciate your work here at Sutpen Truckin’.”
* * *
• • •
What’d you peckerheads do with Ordeen Davis?” said the black-bearded, sallow-faced bastard sitting astride his Harley. “We come to ask you nice. And that shit ain’t gonna happen twice.”
“And who the fuck are y’all?” Heath said, not liking being addressed in that manner. But he knew full well these scooter boys had been sent by that Hathcock woman. His nephews had told him the whole story when some of the Born Losers hit that trip wire two days back, leaving scooter parts and a lone boot scattered across their private dirt road.
“Read the patch,” the man said, pointing to his denim vest. The patch on his jacket read WRONG WAY. The man and his scooter were so damn close Heath could smell the cigarettes and whiskey on his breath. The man just hung there, sitting on his bike, and lit up a smoke.
“Your momma name you that?” Heath said. “On account of you coming out of the coot backwards?”
Wrong Way laughed hard, along with the two boys with them. They were all on the far side of the Walmart parking lot, close to where a few trees offered some shade. Heat waves shimmered up on the asphalt, scooter engines making ticking sounds after they set down their kickstands. “One of my boys got hurt real bad,” Wrong Way said. “Y’all weren’t very welcoming when we came out to your land.”
“We didn’t invite you,” Cody said, standing tall behind their buggy filled high with little plastic bags. “Y’all were trying to sneak up on us.”
“Ain’t nothing sneaky with these pipes, boys,” Wrong Way said. “Just coming to collect our friend, Mr. Ordeen. He came out to do some business with y’all last Saturday night and he never came home. We don’t like that. We don’t like that one bit. He ain’t a Loser but part of the family just the same.”
“My nephews were at the goddamn Possum Trot in Columbus last Saturday night,” Heath said, puffing out his chest, making that bad-ass eagle on his tank top really stand out. “If your boy came to do some business, he sure wasn’t looking for us. We got plenty of ‘No Trespass’ signs. We got every legal right to protect what’s ours.”
“Where is he now?” Wrong Way said.
“Boy, them bikes fuck up your hearing?” Heath asked. “We don’t have no goddamn idea what you’re talking about. Me and my fine nephew just come on out to Walmart to do a little afternoon shopping. Got some fucking Oreos you wouldn’t believe. If you please, we need to get home and get our pizzas and ice cream into the deep freeze.”
“Either you bring Ordeen back to Miss Fannie,” Wrong Way said, “or we’ll turn that weed farm into a funeral pyre. You hearing me, old man? We like watching shit burn. And it burns all the sweeter knowing it belongs to some sawed-off jailbird like you, Heath Pritchard.”
“Well, shit,” Heath said. “OK, then. I’m honored you know my name and didn’t have to read it off my shirt. But I’d rather have you call me Captain ’Merica. A goddamn redneck hero who’s come home from stinky, muddy, asshole-smellin’ hell to protect what’s rightly his. You get what I’m saying, Mr. Wrong Way? Or you gonna stand here and let my fucking peach ice cream turn to shit?”
“We ain’t leaving till we get that boy,” Wrong Way said. “Miss Fannie doesn’t like folks who don’t give her what she wants. In case you hadn’t heard, Miss Fannie runs shit around here.”
“Guess you’re gonna go back empty-handed to that redheaded cunt,” Heath said. “’Cause that nigger done came on to the wrong land. He’s long gone. Y’all better forget his black ass and move on.”
Wrong Way swung a leg over his motorcycle and reached into his leather satchel for a handful of chains. His two buddies followed, walking up shoulder to shoulder toward where Heath stood next to Cody and his Walmart buggy. Wrong Way pushed the buggy and Cody pushed back harder, nearly knocking ole Wrong Way off his boots. He shot a mess of chains down on Cody’s hands just as Heath tackled him to the ass-burning parking lot. Those scooter boys laughing and yelling, spilling their fucking groceries and trying to wrap up Cody. Heath couldn’t see the action but heard a sharp crack and one of those boys yell. Heath dug his knees into Wrong Way, punching that son of a bitch right in the throat, grabbing his melon head and pounding that shit to the asphalt. His palms were bleeding as he got to his feet, wiping them on his jeans and coming around for a boy circling Cody with the chains. The boy didn’t see him and reared back, ready to strike. Heath grabbed the chains and wrapped them around the boy’s throat. That Wrong Way fella crawling nearby, face bloodied. Heath pulled and twisted the chains until he rode that biker down to his knees, holding him there, whispering sweetly in his ear, “There, there. There, there, fella. Be a good boy and don’t you move. Don’t you move and you’ll ride out of here.”
Cody snatched up their plastic bags from their overturned buggy and crawled up into the white Silverado, letting down the windows and telling Heath to get his ass inside. “Damn, you know they called the fucking cops.”
That boy Wrong Way had gotten up, stumbling toward Heath, motioning Come at me with his dirty fingers. Damn, Heath wanted it bad. He wanted to whip that boy’s ass again so bad he could taste it in his mouth. He felt a tightness in his chest and down in his nuts as he walked forward, Cody yelling for him more. “Come on! Shit. I hear the fucking sirens.”
Heath nodded before he turned, reaching for his gun, and shot Wrong Way in the thigh. The man let out a high-pitched scream that sounded just like an old woman’s. Heath grinned real big, already tasting that sweet ice cream when he got home.
“Be seeing you, Wrong Way.”
Heath heard the police coming now. Cody was already driving through the lot and Heath had to make a run for it and jump in the truck bed. Cody cut across the parking spaces and then doubled back fast toward those scooters. The hot wind felt good in Heath’s face as his nephew squealed them big tires and went right for that upturned cart and those Harleys, riding that truck up and over them, some of those bikes and the buggy caught up under the truck, sparking on the blacktop, as they fishtailed free of the Walmart and headed out onto the highway. Heath fell onto his back in the truck bed, laughing like hell.
“Damn, that was fun,” he said.
10
Boom helped out at The River when he could, sorting donations into big plastic bins of canned vegetables, dried beans, peanut butter, fruit juice, rice, canned tuna and chicken, applesauce, and pasta. They kept freezers full of frozen chicken and beef, catfish donated from a farm over on the Delta, and on holidays, turkeys and hams that went first come, first served. Caddy often told Boom that she was never shocked by folks who damn well had the money but thought of The River as some kind of discount grocery store. But The River never asked for pay stubs, W-2s, Social Security cards, or food stamp vouchers. Caddy believed that those who showed up should get fed.
A wooden sign hung by the front door of the commissary, its burnt letters reading FOR I WAS HUNGRY AND YOU GAVE ME FOOD. I WAS THIRSTY AND YOU GAVE ME DRINK. I WAS A STRANGER AND YOU WELCOMED ME.
Ser
vices on Sunday. Commissary open Tuesdays and Fridays.
Boom watched Caddy across the concrete floor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as she rummaged through big cardboard boxes of kids’ clothes, finding a pair of Carhartt overalls for a little Hispanic girl. Caddy got down on her knees and held the overalls against the girl’s small frame, sizing her up, and then handed them over to the girl’s mother, who already held an armful of clothes. The woman was short and thick, dark and Indian-looking, in a threadbare cotton dress and tennis shoes.
Caddy had on a black SUN RECORDS T-shirt and some frayed cut-off jeans and leather sandals. She walked up to Boom while the woman gathered up the clothes into a black plastic bag. “Two church groups turned them down,” Caddy said. “Wanted to see some identification. Asked if they were legal.”
“That ain’t right,” Boom said. “What’s it matter?”
“Every week I think we’re not gonna make the next,” she said. “But somehow we get what we need and keep the lights on. I don’t think that’s by accident. Like you. You just show up here with all that frozen chicken. How’d you know we were running low?”
“People like chicken,” Boom said. “And I ain’t too busy this week.”
“You resting up from the road?”
“Gonna be a long rest,” Boom said. “I think I’m gonna quit.”
“Quit trucking?” she said. “Are you messing with me? I thought you loved the road?”
“It ain’t what I thought,” Boom said. “I’d rather go back to the County Barn. Fixing shit.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nah,” Boom said. “You got enough shit to deal with. You don’t need to carry my damn water, too.”
Boom lifted up a big box filled with the family’s food for the week and followed them out to where they had parked by the creek. The little girl’s big brown eyes followed him as he moved, looking up at his huge black shape and silver hand. Two more children hung out the windows of a battered blue Chevy pickup. There wasn’t a single tree on the land, everything clear-cut and stripped, just a big wooden barn where they held the services, the commissary shed, and a half-dozen little shacks for the homeless or people in crisis. The name The River being some kind of joke, as most of the time their creek was just a dry gulch.
