by Steph Post
When Judah Cannon, only a few months out of prison, walked into Pizza Village and offered him a job, Lesser had stripped off his sauce-spattered apron right then and there. Lesser hadn’t been able to believe his luck. Not that he’d wanted Benji to be hurt, he’d just about lost his lunch when he visited Benji in the hospital and saw the raw hamburger his face and left side had been ground into, but he knew that working as a grease monkey at the scrap yard was the surest way for him to become part of the Cannon crew. And that was all Lesser had ever wanted.
He watched Judah light another cigarette, his mouth pinching into a frown around it. Judah turned toward Lesser.
“What did you mean by king and queen?”
Lesser spread his hands out on the thighs of his jeans and looked down at his knuckles. Even in the dim light of the truck’s interior he could see that they were still webbed with grease and grime.
“Well, you run the Cannons now that Sherwood’s dead and Levi ain’t nowhere to be found, right?”
Judah’s eyes were back on the road and he didn’t say anything.
“And the Cannons, well, it’s like a kingdom.”
Judah nodded slowly.
“I never quite thought about it like that.”
“That’s probably ’cause you’re on the inside. Everybody else is on the outside, looking up at the castle. Either wanting to get in or scared you guys will come charging over the drawbridge with your army and shit.”
Judah cut his eyes at Lesser.
“You pay attention in history class or something?”
Lesser grinned.
“Nah, this all comes from my old man. Back when he was still around, he’d talk about you guys like that. He was the one into history. Had all these books laying around that he liked to read.”
“Your dad worked for my dad back in the day, didn’t he?”
Lesser sat up straight.
“Yeah. He did a few things. He drove for Bullet Freight all his life and sometimes he’d call Sherwood about a load he was carrying. Cigarettes, or maybe TVs or something. He’d let himself get jacked so Sherwood could steal whatever he was hauling. We’d always know when Dad had been on a job for the Cannons ’cause he’d come home with a black eye or two. I don’t think we kids were supposed to know, but ’course we did. They’d have to rough him up a little when they stole his load so the company wouldn’t think he was in on it.”
“Sounds typical.”
“I don’t think he minded. He’d always get paid afterward and take me and my sister to Chuck E. Cheese’s down in Gainesville. A month or so after, he’d always buy us something big, too. New bikes or a Super Nintendo. Dad was good, he always waited until the heat was off him before spending the money. We even got kicked out of a place once and Dad had the cash for us to stay, but he wouldn’t use it. Mom wasn’t too happy about that.”
Judah put both palms against the steering wheel and stretched.
“I bet not.”
“Once he started spending a payout, though, he’d go on a binger. Never at home, but he’d be gone for a week or so up at my uncle’s. That’s how he died. Was so drunk one night, he stood out in the middle of a railroad crossing, playing his stupid harmonica, carrying on, I guess, and didn’t even see the train coming.”
Judah winced.
“That’s a rough way to go.”
Lesser looked down at his knuckles again.
“Yeah. I think he always thought he’d get it in the back of the head one night. Instead of just breaking his nose, Levi’d put one in him to keep him quiet. Or just because, you know. So, that’s what Dad meant when he said you Cannons were like a kingdom. He’d say that he wasn’t part of the inner court like some of the guys were. Like Leroy, Ramey’s dad. My old man said he was just a soldier. And soldiers could never know when their time was gonna be up.”
Judah drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Sherwood was a king, huh? That’s how people saw him?”
Lesser nodded.
“And now you’ve taken his place.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Lesser.”
“And you’re gonna be an even greater king than he was. Because you’ve got Ramey.”
Judah’s mouth twisted into a smile, but it was an ugly smile.
“Because I’ve got a queen.”
Lesser couldn’t tell if what he was saying was doing him any favors with Judah or not. He probably shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. Judah’s face had fallen into an unreadable mask and Lesser grew more and more uncomfortable as a mile, then two, passed while they rode again in silence. Judah had said that they were meeting Nash somewhere out near Carraway and Lesser reckoned they were getting close. He was already nervous about acting right on his first run with Judah. Now he was worried he’d pissed Judah off before they’d even gotten there. The silence in the truck was killing him and suddenly he blurted out the first thing he could think of, just to hear the tone in Judah’s voice and know where he stood.
“So, how did Sherwood really die, anyway?”
Judah glanced over at him sharply and Lesser cringed. Why, why couldn’t he just keep his damn mouth shut? Judah turned his eyes back to the road without answering him and Lesser continued, stumbling over his words.
“I mean, everyone says he died in the fire up at that church in Kentsville. That he was in a shootout with those biker dudes. They torched the place and Sherwood was caught inside.”
Judah turned the wheel with both hands, guiding the truck off the highway and onto a narrow side road. The crumbling pavement was rough underneath the tires, but Judah didn’t bother to avoid the potholes. Lesser gripped the door handle as they bounced along without losing any speed. Judah didn’t look at him.
“If that’s what everyone says, then that’s what happened.”
“But why did it happen?”
Judah’s mouth was set in a grim line.
“If you’d paid more attention in school like you should’ve, then you’d know. Every king has their day, kid. And every king falls. No one can reign forever.”
THE GLOW from a buzzing orange street light heralded their arrival and Judah swerved the truck around the last bend in the road. He rolled to a stop in front of the two gas pumps outside Jedidiah’s Food and Fixins and cut the engine. He kept the headlights on, illuminating the rest of the road as it disappeared into the near primordial swamp and lowland woods. Judah sat for a moment, just watching the road, listening to the night. Bullfrogs. Crickets. Insects droning away. The birds that swallowed them whole in midair, calling out to one another in the dark.
“What is this place?”
Judah turned to Lesser, wide-eyed and leaning out the window.
“Jedidiah’s. Last stop for beer, ice and bait before you hit Kettle Creek down that a way.”
Judah gestured toward the empty road and then reached for the .45 under his seat. Lesser was still eyeing the store front with its two neon beer and ice signs flickering in the windows. Paper signs lettered in black marker covered the rest of the glass: Red Worms Sold Here. Boiled Peanuts. Cash Only. Lotto Cigs Sandwiches. It looked like any other country store, with a low, sloping tin roof hanging down over the two wooden benches and tin bucket full of sand and cigarette butts on the porch. Judah’s truck was the only vehicle in the dirt lot. Lesser leaned back against the seat.
“Those gas pumps still work?”
Judah dropped the clip in the gun to check the bullets. He glanced up at the two pumps, their nozzles hanging haphazardly against the sides. Peeling rust spotted the face of the chest-high dispensers. Judah shrugged.
“Probably. This place does some business during the daytime. Benji and I used to drive down here when we were about your age. You go a mile or two more down the road and you’ll hit some of the best catfish spots this side of the St. Johns River. You gotta drive the forty miles from Silas, but it’s worth it. At least, it used to be.”
Judah slammed the clip back into the gun and ya
nked the slide. He jutted his chin toward the compartment in front of Lesser.
“In there.”
Lesser thumbed open the glovebox and pulled out a .38 Special. He was holding it awkwardly by the barrel. Judah suddenly thought that bringing Lesser along might not have been the brightest idea after all. But he had needed Alvin and Gary to be sure that Lonnie came through with the cash. And even if Benji had just stayed in the truck, he was a risk. Judah wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stand the drive with his brother, anyway. These days, he did as much as he could not to be alone with Benji and the misery that tinged his every glance and word. Misery and silent accusation.
Only twice had Benji outright blamed Judah for his involvement in the robbery whose retribution had caused him to be dragged down County Road 225 behind a Harley for a quarter of a mile. Once in the hospital, a few days after Benji had woken up, and once right after Judah and Ramey had taken Benji home to live with them in the house they had just rented at the end of Redgrave Road. Judah had tried to cut through the Oxy haze and explain to Benji that their father, who had led the robbery on the outlaw motorcycle gang and then betrayed his own family, was dead. Only Ramey knew, and would ever know, exactly what had gone down between Judah, Sherwood, Sister Tulah and the Scorpions, but Judah had wanted to make it clear to Benji that things had been settled. That he and Ramey were determined to take care of Benji until the broken bones in his leg and the massive lacerations all up and down his body had healed. Neither conversation had gone well, and both times Ramey had been forced to pull Judah from Benji’s bedside before he said something he would regret. She had known Benji was half out of his mind with pain and the seeds of resentment worming their way up to the surface, like shards of embedded shrapnel.
Now, three months after Benji had first been admitted to the ICU, there were no more raving accusations. No more spitting tirades. Only hollow glances or deep, seething glares, depending on how long it had been since Benji had swallowed his last pill. No, Judah much preferred Lesser’s guileless chatter to an hour car ride with his brother.
Judah pointed to the gun resting in Lesser’s lap.
“You know how to use that?”
Lesser picked it up and stretched his arms out, pointing the gun straight at the windshield. Judah slammed Lesser’s arm down.
“Jesus. Why don’t you get out and wave it around some?”
Lesser dipped his head and looked down at the gun he was now cradling with both hands.
“Sorry.”
Judah shook his head.
“Just stick it in your waistband and leave it there. You’re not gonna need to use it.”
“Okay.”
Judah turned back to his own gun. He should have brought Ramey, really. He didn’t need backup, he just needed someone beside him. Someone who could keep a cool head if Nash decided to be difficult. But things were tough enough already with Ramey. She probably wouldn’t have said anything, but she would have been thinking it the whole time. They were supposed to be getting out. Hell, they were never supposed to be in. And yet here they were. Every day being swept out further with the tide; every day watching the shoreline become more and more hazy in the distance. Judah should have listened to her. He should have kept his foot on the gas until Florida was nothing more than a rearview mirror memory.
Ramey had been hell-bent on running. Especially since they were in possession of the hundred and fifty thousand dollars that had first been stolen from Sister Tulah and Jack O’ Lantern Austin, leader of the Scorpions motorcycle club, and then from Sherwood himself. During the shootout at the church, Judah had killed Jack with a wild shot. He had also stood up in front of Sister Tulah and all but admitted that he had her money. He and Ramey had fled the scene of the burning church, and the chaos and uncertainty of who was still alive and who was dead, with the intention of collecting the money buried in Hiram’s minefield and hightailing it. The plan had been to leave Bradford County for good. To disappear completely. Use the cash to start a new life together, one that wasn’t shadowed by the reputation and deeds of the infamous Cannon clan.
Doubt, however, had soon crept into his mind. Doubt and guilt, all tangled up with the image of Benji lying motionless in a hospital bed, his face and body mangled, his mind lost somewhere in the depths of a coma. Before they had even made it across the Florida-Georgia line, the guilt had given way to shame and Judah had felt its weight pressing down upon him, forcing him into a mire of degradation. If he had fled, if he had abandoned his brother, Judah knew he would have never forgiven himself. He would be a coward. He would be contemptable.
As expected, Ramey hadn’t seen the situation in quite the same light. She had, however, agreed to stop and stay the night at the Peacock Inn in Valdosta so they could talk it through. Judah’s mind had already been made up, though, and he had set to work trying to convince Ramey before they’d even walked through the motel room door. Judah had been determined: he wasn’t going to leave Benji. But he certainly wasn’t going to leave Ramey, either.
Thankfully, the TV news had been on his side. After an hour of arguing, with Ramey alternating between reason and panic, and Judah single-mindedly appealing to her conscience, Ramey had turned on the television in frustration. According to the Channel 6 Evening News, the remaining Scorpions had been arrested only a few miles from the church. Sister Tulah had lost an eye, but had made it out of the fire alive. In her interviews, Judah and Ramey hadn’t been mentioned. Neither had Sherwood. Sister Tulah had assumed that the man who had gouged out her eye, and whose remains had been found in what was left of the church, was one of the outlaw bikers. When the body was identified as Sherwood Cannon, Tulah had appeared astonished and then bemused. Judah had scrutinized Sister Tulah’s placid face on the fuzzy television screen as she stood next to the shell of her church, her idiot-looking nephew beside her, and responded with shock in learning that she had innocently stumbled into a feud between rival gangsters. Sister Tulah had offered no idea as to why her humble church had been the stage for so dramatic an encounter.
Over takeout pizza on their lumpy motel bed, Judah had laid out his case with a clear finality to the woman he was confident would stand by him. Sherwood was dead. Levi was missing. The Scorpions, or most of them anyway, were locked up. Shelia, the crazy bitch who had set up both Benji in the bar and Judah at the church, had disappeared into thin air. And Sister Tulah was claiming she had nothing to do with either the bikers or the Cannons. Judah had figured that she most likely believed Sherwood had lied to her about having the money in the first place, and Judah rolling up on the scene was a just a family matter. Even if she did suspect that Judah had the money, he had doubted Tulah would do anything about it. With all of the media and police attention on her now, she was too exposed. Sherriff Dodger had been on the Cannon dime for years, so Judah didn’t expect any trouble from that quarter. They would be safe. They would be there when, and if, Benji woke up. Judah had assured her; they would only stay in Silas as long as they absolutely had to.
But once Benji had woken up, once he had been assured that his brother would survive, Judah couldn’t just forsake him. Not after what he saw burning behind Benji’s eyes. The resentment. The silent castigation. So one week had turned into two. And then three. Then they had brought Benji home. Meanwhile, Sherwood’s ghost had been haunting their every step. Judah had quickly discovered that the criminal enterprise Sherwood spent his life building would not simply crumble with his death. There were too many people involved, too many ongoing deals with strings attached, and, by necessity, Judah had begun the convoluted process of attempting to unravel, and extricate himself from, his father’s notorious legacy.
It was easier said than done. Every time Judah thought he was close, another unforeseen strand slipped around his neck like a noose and threatened to strangle him. Three weeks had become three months and they were still no closer to being free. And he could see it in Ramey’s eyes: she was beginning to doubt him. She was beginning to lose faith.
Judah opened the truck door and stepped out into the sweltering night. He came around to the passenger’s side and hooked his wrists over the lip of the open window.
“Let’s go, Lesser.”
Judah stepped back and ran his thumb over a deep gouge in the red two-tone paint job and then yanked the door open, waiting. Lesser slid out of the truck and jammed the .38 into his pants. He stood up straight and flung his shoulders back. He didn’t look as awkward as he had in the truck and Judah nodded his approval. Lesser put his fingertips in the pockets of his baggy jeans.
“We’re the only ones here.”
Judah glanced around the empty parking lot, even though it was obvious they were alone.
“We are. I’m going inside to check things out.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Judah started walking toward the store.
“Just wait out here on the porch.”
Lesser caught up to him and Judah clapped him on the shoulder.
“And relax. This isn’t a big deal. He’s just handing over some cash.”
“It sounded before like you ain’t even know this guy, Nash.”
“I don’t. But he worked for Sherwood for years. Collects from Sipsy’s out here in Putnam and the couple of mom-and-pop operations we sell cigarettes and booze to.”
