Rodney knew the road to improvement was paved with education; that didn’t mean school. The best education—to Rodney “best” and “most practical” were the same—came from people who did what you wanted to do. What benefit to him who wrote some fucking book or fought a battle a hundred-fifty years ago? His friends knew how to make money. A scam here, shoplifting there, all cool so long as they were juveniles. Rodney older now, time to step up, and the drug business owned the only ladder in town.
Drugs were a sucker’s game. The hoppers on the bottom took all the risks. Those what made real money never touched the drugs. That was the level Rodney wanted to occupy, but they had this whole working your way through the ranks thing, might as well make you join a fucking union. Plus, drug boys caught more beatings than Rodney cared for—more than none—and the occasional bullet. Not part of Rodney’s plan at all.
Hands stuffed way down inside his coat pocket when he stepped out. Gloves at home someplace; no idea where. Still living in the little house where Grandma’s landlord let him crib as a courtesy, give the boy time to find something for himself. What she bought the insurance policy for: a start when she was gone. The few dollars she’d put aside with the church every week got her buried. The ten grand was Rodney’s future.
Walked to Eazor’s Deli, wind in his face, fingers freezing even in the coat pockets. Could have eaten in the Res Mall food court with everyone else. No good way there to avoid that little bitch Jamal, sure to be running his mouth about what the Rev said, the changes coming. Rodney didn’t need to talk; he needed to think. No way a man could do both at once. Listen and think, sure. What could he learn listening to a Gump like Jamal?
Ate his meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn alone. Eazor’s didn’t serve okra, what he liked best with Grandma’s meatloaf. Asked once and the white man behind the counter stared like he’d asked for sheep dick or some other exotic shit. Eazor’s meatloaf was good for a restaurant. Fake mashed potatoes better than most, not as good as real; the gravy almost made up for it. Corn no substitute for okra. Never would be.
Picked out Cassius Abernathy as the man to hang with right away. Maneuvered around Jamal so Rodney got to work with Abernathy instead of Lewis, the Rev’s original plan. Rodney recognized a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it without breaking any specific laws Rodney could see. Grandma sent him here for his own good, and to do good; no reason he couldn’t do well at the same time.
Abernathy scared Rodney a little, not that he’d tell anyone. Why he kept his distance, watching, noticing anytime money changed hands it moved in Abernathy’s direction. Contractors, tradesmen, roach coach vendors who came around before the food court opened. You did business with or at Res Mall, Cassius Abernathy got paid.
Rodney saw his niche there, laying in the cut. Not taking so much anyone would notice. Spread the sources around, a nickel here and a dime there and pretty soon you’re talking folding money. Abernathy had it going on the way Rodney imagined it would work.
Rodney’s problem, he got there late. Abernathy’s operation already set up. Every day a lesson on how to maintain. Rodney still had to learn the start-up end. Opportunities would present when the needs of the mall changed as things progressed. The new sprinklers, for example. Different contractor needed for that work. Someone new for Abernathy to touch. Rodney would be ready, watching.
Piss Rodney off if Res Mall went tits up and left him with nothing except this minimum-wage-plus-a-quarter punk-ass job to put on his resume, like he’d ever need a resume, the things he wanted to do. Res Mall his ticket out of this shithole town, and that shithole little house he’d have to leave soon, anyway. The mall had to hold together for him to learn his craft. Learn it quicker if he could get Abernathy to bring him in as a partner—no matter how junior—if Rodney ever got up the balls to ask.
Rodney Simpson needed Resurrection Mall. Resurrection Mall needed money. Rodney Simpson had money. His ten thousand, thrown into the general fund, would disappear like sugar in ice tea. Might be he could use it some way to show Abernathy some skills; thinking outside the box and shit. Could be a man with the vision of Cassius Abernathy had use for a man with the skills of Rodney Simpson, once he’d seen those skills first hand.
Back to TOC
Here is a preview of American Static, a crime novel by Tom Pitts…
Chapter One
It came as soon as he touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. Like a brick to the back of his head. The pain was searing, white-hot. For a split-second he thought he’d been struck with an aneurysm, but he saw his cigarette fly out in front of him and he knew that he’d been punched.
He crumpled toward the ground, powerless to the pain. The shock of it paralyzing his senses. He lay there confused, not knowing what was happening to him. “Gimme the bag, motherfucker.”
Then a kick. A hard one, into his right kidney. Then another at the base of his spine.
“Give me the fuckin’ bag.”
The bag was a knapsack, a backpack tightly secured around his shoulders. He folded his arms into his chest and pulled himself into a fetal position. Whoever his attacker was, they circled round in front of him. He could see feet now, boots. Two more sloppy kicks to his stomach. He felt the bag being pulled from his back. Instinctively, his arms locked onto one another and held tight. There was a strong torque in his shoulders as the straps dug in, followed by the sound of the assailant’s labored grunts. When they pulled the bag, his body moved with it, sliding across the gravel.
There were two of them, maybe more. One in front, kicking with those big black boots, and one behind, pulling at the bag. He held as still as he could, willing the attack to end through inaction. He waited for more blows. And they came. Kicks to his legs now, his lower back again, and to his head and face. He was sure they’d broken his nose. The pointed kicks turned to heeled stomps and, finally, he gave in. His arms let go as his mind flicked on and off in solids of white and black. He felt the bag being roughly yanked away.
He thought maybe he was unconscious, but he heard the crunch of boot steps on gravel departing. He lay warm in the sun, hot where the contusions throbbed, wet where blood trickled. In front of him he saw his cigarette, barely burning, a fine wisp of smoke curling up from its resting spot. He watched it, wanting it more than anything.
***
“What the hell’s a matter with you, son?”
Steven opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The sun reflected off them just right. It sent a piercing ray into his retinas. Fucking cops.
The man behind the sunglasses said, “Don’t you know that smoking can be detrimental to your health?”
A set of near-perfect white teeth appeared below the sunglasses and out came a chuckle. Not a self-aggrandizing laugh, but a cool chuckle. Steven tried to focus and saw the man was wearing a dark brown leather jacket and jeans. Not a cop. Probably not, anyway. A hand came out and pulled Steven’s forearm and he straightened himself up, the axis of the earth still pitching and tilting.
“Shit, son. They got you good, didn’t they?”
Steven wasn’t sure if he’d made a sound or just nodded his head.
“You gonna make it? You want me to call an ambulance…or a priest?” There went the laugh again. “You waitin’ on the bus? Or just got off?”
“I got off to have a smoke. They took a ten minute bathroom break. Thing hadn’t stopped since Eureka. All I wanted was a smoke.” Steven heard his own voice quiver.
The stranger reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a box of Marlboro Reds, flipped the top, and shook one out. “Here, kid. You look like you could use it.”
Steven took the smoke and allowed the man to light it for him. The man squatted down on his haunches and Steven sat with his legs splayed out in front of him. They stayed still and quiet for a moment, Steven smoking and letting the air pass between them.
“Where were you headin’?”
“San Francisco.” Steven’s
head throbbed and the knots on his forehead felt heavy and swollen.
“You know who it was that fucked you up?”
“I think it was two Mexican guys from the bus. Got on in Eureka.”
“What’d they get?”
“My backpack. Everything. All I had was in there.” Steven breathed out through his nose as the reality of what he was saying sunk in. “Fuck.”
“You think they got back on the bus?”
Steven was sure they did. They’d been eyeballing him since they got on up north. “I don’t know.”
“Did you see which way they went?”
Steven admitted, “No.”
“Willits ain’t too big a town.” The man flicked a thumb behind him toward the 101, the only real artery running though the tiny burg. “Tell you what, get up, we’ll take a quick cruise round. See if we see ‘em.” The stranger once again held out his hand. Steven took it. He pulled Steven to his feet. “If not, maybe we can catch up to that bus of yours.”
Steven was sore and stiff from the beating and moved slow behind the man. “Where’s your car?”
“Right there,” the man said, pointing at a cherry red 1966 Mustang parked across the street.
“Nice ride.”
“I’m just fuckin’ with ya. My truck is over there.” He swung his index finger to the right and pointed at a well-worn, gray Ford F-150. “Nineteen ninety-four. Nothing fancy, bare bones. But it gets the job done. Let’s go.”
First they headed south on the 101 as far as Brown’s Gas Station, where the town began to thin out, then they looped around and drove north up the same stretch, all the way to Willits High School.
“See anything?”
“No,” Steven said. The sad futility in his statement was hard to hide.
“What was in the bag?”
“I told you, everything. My money, my phone, my ID, even my bus ticket. Everything.”
“Everything, huh?”
The cynical tone in the man’s voice made Steven think he didn’t believe him. Steven said, “Yeah, everything. I don’t know what I’m gonna do now. I’m fucked.”
“Tell you what, why don’t we grab some lunch. I’m buying. Then we’ll figure out what to do.”
“I thought we were gonna catch the Greyhound?”
“Trust me, we got time. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
***
They drove directly to a spot on the southern edge of town, a diner. As they walked toward the front door, Steven wondered if it was one of those retro joints or just old. When they entered the dusty place, poorly lit and choked with greasy smoke, Steven decided it was just old. They sat in a vinyl booth with a scratched Formica table between them. The vinyl bench was worn and cracked and pinched Steven’s ass when he sat down.
A waitress stood near the cash register calculating and recalculating a bill. She waved at the two as they took their seats. “I’ll be right with y’all.”
The man waved back. “Take your time, sweetheart.” He removed his sunglasses, folded them, and took a menu from its cradle behind the napkin dispenser and dropped it on the table. “My name’s Quinn, by the way.”
Steven didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say pleased to meet you, or what. After a few seconds of the man staring at him with his cool blue eyes, he said, “Steven.”
“What’re ya havin’, Steven?”
“I dunno. A cheeseburger, I guess.” Steven looked out the window at the cars streaming by on Highway 101.
“Look, don’t be so anxious. They’re on a bus that stops every twenty minutes. We can catch ‘em. We only need a schedule. You got a phone?”
“No, they took everything, I told you. No phone, no contacts.”
“Right. Well, I do. We’ll use mine.”
Quinn pulled a flat black cell from his pocket and tapped the screen. “Let’s see, Greyhound schedule. Where the fuck are we again? Willits, California?” He tapped in the letters, mumbling to himself.
Before he could complete the search, the waitress approached with two glasses of water and Quinn set the phone down to his right. “How’re ya doing, sweetie? What’s good here?”
The waitress blushed but managed to come back with, “Other than me?”
She chuckled and Quinn chuckled and she said, “The country-fried steak is good. Our gravy is the best in the county.”
“You have any documentation to back that up?”
“Oh, sugar, you just get whatever you want, and we’ll make sure it’s the best.”
Quinn ordered a cheeseburger for Steven and the country-fried steak for himself. “With the gravy on the side. I’m watchin’ my figure,” he said with a wink.
When the waitress had tottered back toward the kitchen, Steven said, “Friendly sort.”
“What can I tell you, people love me.”
They ate in silence. Steven was having a tough time chewing. His jaw hurt and every time he bit down sharp pains rocketed up his cheek into his eye socket. He swished water around in his cheeks to help aid the breakdown of the burger. He tasted blood in his mouth, but he forced back the nutrition, reminding himself he didn’t know where his next meal would come from.
Quinn watched him while he ate, smiling at Steven while chewing his country-fried streak. Amused, but sizing him up, too. He picked up the small porcelain cup full of white gravy and poured a dollop over his steak. “How’s your burger?”
“S’good.” Steven nodded. He knew he was being scrutinized and stayed focused on his food.
“Gravy’s excellent. Hard to find good gravy out of the South. You wanna dip your burger in?”
Steven shook his head.
There were a few more moments of silence. The only sounds were Quinn’s cutlery and the hollow noises from the kitchen. Finally: “You better hurry up and finish if you wanna catch up to that bus.”
***
They were back in the truck. The interior was bare except for a single roll of paper towels on the floorboard. No personal items, no tiny statue of a saint stuck to the dashboard. It was clean. Steven wondered if it had been rented.
Quinn started it up and put it in gear. The wheels spat gravel as he accelerated out of the diner’s parking lot. As soon as they were traveling south on the 101, Quinn asked Steven if he wanted another cigarette.
“Sure,” Steven said, taking one from the flip-top box. “You haven’t smoked one yet. You keep these just for giving out?”
“Nah, I smoke ‘em. I’m trying to cut back, though. I usually don’t have one ’til I’ve had a drink.”
Their speed was increasing. From his vantage point, Steven watched the speedometer climb above eighty.
“But if it makes you feel any better, pop open the glove box.”
Steven opened the box; inside there was a pint-sized bottle of Jack Daniels sitting beside a chrome-plated .45.
“Pass that over. The bottle, not the gun.”
Quinn took the bottle from Steven, unscrewed the cap with his teeth, and took a hardy swallow. He put the cap back on and passed Steven the bottle. “You wanna hit?”
Steven shook his head.
“Time for that cigarette,” Quinn said.
***
The countryside flew by as they smoked. Steven peeked again at the speedometer. Ninety-five. He gripped the door handle with his right hand and fought the urge to brace himself on the dashboard with his left. He turned and looked at Quinn who looked relaxed; head tilted back, nodding his chin to a private beat that bumped on in his head. Steven couldn’t decide if the man were deliberately trying to terrify him or just didn’t give a shit.
After a few more miles, Quinn noticed Steven eyeing him and turned toward his passenger. “Shit, your eye is starting to swell real good. Look in the mirror. Hell of a knot on your forehead, too.”
When Steven didn’t check his bruises and kept his eyes glued to the road, Quinn added, “You said you wanted to catch ‘em, right? You want me to slow down, just say so.”
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Steven finally gave in and put a hand on the dash. Quinn took his foot off the gas and the truck slowed. As they decelerated around the next turn, they came up behind a Greyhound bus. Quinn got close enough to where they were engulfed in its shadow.
“Look familiar? We’ll wait until the next stop.”
“Then what?”
“Then I go see if they’re on the bus.”
“How?”
“What do you mean, how? I just walk on and take a look. But before I do, I need to ask you again, what was in the bag?”
Quinn saw Steven hesitate. The kid wasn’t sure if he could trust him.
“Look, I don’t want what’s in it. I told you I’d help you. I need to know what I’m gettin’ into though. You understand?”
“Smoke.”
“Smoke? You mean weed?”
“Yeah.”
“I figured. How much?”
“Three pounds.” When Steven said it, Quinn didn’t look surprised or impressed. He waited for a response.
“Not too much then.”
“It is to me. That’s all I had. It isn’t paid for and there’s people in the city waiting for it.”
Quinn shrugged. “All right, all right.”
They drafted the bus for about two miles before it pulled into a combination gas station, diner, and bus stop. The bus ground to a halt in a cloud of dust. It stood inert for a moment before it gave off a high wheeze of hydraulics as the front door opened. A few passengers disembarked. A mother with three young children, an elderly couple, and then two young men. All of them appeared to be Hispanic.
Quinn nodded at the two men. “Is that them?”
Steven looked closely. “No. They were younger.”
They waited another minute. No one else got off.
A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1) Page 29
