Walk In the Fire

by Steph Post

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? If I take Tulah down, I will take you down. I will take you down, your brother down, your lady friend here down. And, so help me God, I will take Tulah down.”

  Judah refused to flinch.

  “Your point?”

  The agent flicked his eyes up toward Ramey. Judah knew that the agent was trying to get to her. Grant was lavishing a self-satisfied gaze on her. The one that cops loved to give women. The agent was trying to tell Ramey that he might be an asshole, but he wasn’t as big of an asshole as Judah. She could jump ship, come clean and maybe be treated a little less like dirt. From the way Agent Grant’s brow knit as he looked away, however, Judah could imagine the expression on Ramey’s face. Nobody could give you a go-to-hell stare like Ramey. Judah waited for the agent to focus his attention back on him.

  “My point is this, Judah Cannon. You help me and I’ll help you. You don’t help me and, well, things are going to get pretty ugly around here in a hurry.”

  Judah leaned forward.

  “So, you’re trying to threaten me? Into helping you?”

  “I’m giving you the chance to save yourself. You help me prove that Tulah is tied into your criminal activities and your help will be taken into consideration. We’ll put together a substantial assistance deal or something. It will work out much better for you, and your family, in the long run.”

  Judah nodded slowly.

  “That’s your offer, huh?”

  Agent Grant reached into his pocket again. He pulled out a shell casing, this one much larger than the other two, and slowly, carefully, stood it up next to the others. The agent glanced from the row of casings to Judah. His look was pointed.

  “That’s the offer. I’d take it.”

  Judah turned around to face Ramey. He knew she recognized the casings. Her .9mm. His .45. The .308 from the M-14 Hiram had insisted they take. To anyone else, the look on Ramey’s face was stone cold. She would never let the agent see her sweat. But Judah had caught the flicker of panic in her amber eyes. In the twitch of her cheek muscle, in the lines around her mouth. What was she thinking? Her eyes had been fixed on the bullet casings, but when she raised them to meet his, Judah’s breath caught in his throat for an instant. She narrowed her eyes, almost imperceptibly, and Judah smiled at her. Nothing could get to Ramey; she would always have his back. She would hold his secrets, their secrets, and take them down to the bottom of the sea with her, drowning alongside them if she had to.

  Judah winked at her and turned back around. He looked over the agent’s shoulder at his brother. Judah liked what he saw. Benji wasn’t hunched over in an Oxy stupor; he was watching every move between him and the agent. He was listening. He was learning. Judah finally focused back on Agent Grant. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, it’s kind of you, but I’m afraid we can’t accept.”

  The agent stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over. The metal scraped against the cement floor. Agent Grant was furious and incredulous. Or, at least, he was pretending to be.

  “Did you hear what I just said? Do you know who I am? I’m ATF, not the local law you’re paying to look the other way. You piss off a federal and we’re talking about a special response team coming in and tearing apart this little chop shop of yours. Helicopters. Battering rams. There won’t be a single stick of this shack left standing. And don’t you try to tell me that you had nothing to do with the shootout and the fire up at the church. I read the reports. I looked at the site. Unlike everyone else on the donut patrol down here, I can put two and two together. I know you were involved. I know it and I will ruin you unless you work with me on this.”

  Judah smiled and raised his hands helplessly.

  “Sorry.”

  The agent’s mouth hung open, but Judah kept going.

  “So, good luck with all that.”

  He dropped his hands. And the smile.

  “Now, get the hell out of my garage.”

  Agent Grant unbuttoned and then re-buttoned his jacket. He smoothed his hands down the lapels as if trying to calm himself. He looked as if he wanted to say something in retaliation, but couldn’t think of anything clever enough. Judah waited calmly as the agent finally spun around and headed for the open bay doors. Just as he going, though, Grant stopped and looked back at Judah.

  “You’re going to regret this, you know.”

  Judah didn’t dignify the comment with a response. The agent was trying to stare hard at Judah, but there was too much frustration on his face to pull the look off. Agent Grant stormed through the door and around the corner. Judah waited until he could hear the Charger’s engine roar and then he sunk back into his chair. Benji swung toward him on his crutches.

  “Jesus, Judah. Talk about throwing a stick of dynamite. What the hell was that?”

  Ramey slumped into the seat next to him. She looked up at Benji and arched an eyebrow.

  “A game.”

  Benji caught himself and leaned against the edge of the table. He pointed to the row of shell casings.

  “And, what? Those are the pieces?”

  Ramey shook her head.

  “Something like that.”

  Benji picked up the .308 and turned it over in his hand a few times. His eyes were wide.

  “What is this from? What the hell does that guy have on you?”

  Judah controlled his voice. He was sure Ramey knew he had been shaken by the agent, but he couldn’t let Benji know. He flicked the .9mm and .45, toppling them over.

  “Don’t worry, Benji, he’s bluffing. He’s found something, but he has no clue what it means. He’s just fishing, like cops do. That agent doesn’t have a damn thing on us. Not a thing.”

  Judah glanced over at Ramey; she was staring hard at the fallen bullet casings.

  “Let’s just hope it stays that way.”

  Slim Jim watched Shelia struggling with the clasp of her lacy, purple bra. With her arms bent awkwardly behind her, she kept missing the tiny hook. Slim Jim sat up in the bed and leaned forward to help. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with it, but he finally got the damn strap attached. Shelia glanced over her shoulder at him before tossing her hair back and standing up.

  “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  Slim Jim only grunted. He flopped back against the pile of flimsy hotel-issued pillows that Shelia had gradually been stealing from the cleaning woman’s cart and watched her continue to dress. Shelia shimmied into a denim mini-skirt with rhinestone hearts bedazzled on the back pockets and then started kicking around the mess on the floor, looking for a shirt.

  “So, what else did Legs say?”

  Slim Jim was busy picking at a scab on his arm.

  “Huh?”

  Shelia found a white, ribbed tank top on the floor and shook it out. She held it up to the light to check for stains.

  “Before, you were saying that Legs had called from jail, bitching about some ATF guy talking to Ratface.”

  Shelia pulled the tank over her head and walked to the sink to check herself in the mirror. Slim Jim grumbled and sat up, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. He half-heartedly looked around for his pants.

  “He just said that some ATF guy was questioning Ratface about how we knew that fruitcake preacher.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  Slim Jim glanced up at Shelia, who was turning this way and that in front of the mirror. When she piled her hair up on top of her head, he could see a black streak running down the back of her tank top. He gave her a lopsided grin.

  “I’d get another shirt.”

  “What?”

  “Another shirt. That one has a boot print on the back of it. I must’ve stepped on it.”

  Shelia twisted around, but still couldn’t see the mark in the mirror. She yanked it off, looked at the print and then wadded it up and threw it at Slim Jim’s head. He ducked and smiled. Shelia put her fists on her hips and pretended to glower at him.

  “Well, at least you’re good for somethi
ng. I’m on a double. I would’ve walked around for twelve hours looking like somebody had kicked me.”

  “Hey, I’m here for you, babe. Whatever you need. You want to go again? I’m here for you.”

  Shelia was digging through a pile of clothes next to the TV stand. She picked up a black T-shirt with the bottom cut into fringe and smelled it. She raised her eyebrows over the shirt.

  “No, I do not want to go again. I want to find something decent to wear so I can make it to work less than an hour late this time.”

  Slim Jim shrugged.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Shelia slipped the shirt on and looked at herself in the mirror again. She slid the top over to expose one shoulder and put a hand on her hip.

  “Better?”

  “It’ll do.”

  She twisted her hair up onto into a sloppy pile on her head and began applying mascara. As much as living with Shelia in such close quarters drove him crazy, Slim Jim did like to watch her get ready. There was something domestic about the whole act that he couldn’t deny appealed to him. Slim Jim was forty-two and had never lived with a woman before. He had been engaged once, a long time ago, before he had patched-in to the Scorpions, but the girl had barely even stayed over. There was that, too, with Shelia. She didn’t scamper away in the morning, stumbling out of bed to furtively collect her clothes and call a ride before he could get up and say good morning. Sometimes, Shelia lazed in bed with him, her face wiped clean of makeup, her breath as bad as his, and it was nice. She would snuggle up under his armpit and sometimes he would put his hand into her hair, still crunchy with gel, and they would talk. Or pass a cigarette back and forth. Or just lay there, together, like two people did, two people who liked each other and didn’t have to talk about it.

  “That’s it? That’s all Legs said? You’d think he wouldn’t risk the call.”

  Shelia bent over and raked her hair down, wildly spraying it with an aerosol can. Slim Jim didn’t want to talk about Legs or Ratface anymore, or the stupid agent asking questions, but he knew Shelia wouldn’t give up until he told her everything. She was like that.

  “I guess the ATF guy brought me up. Trying to mess with Ratface’s head by saying he knew I’d run from the cops. It’s fine, though. Ratface wouldn’t never say nothing. It’s not a big deal.”

  Shelia whipped her hair back and stood up straight.

  “Sounds like a big deal to me.”

  Slim Jim sighed.

  “Come here.”

  Shelia was rolling on deodorant. She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “What?”

  Slim Jim pointed to the edge of the bed next to him.

  “Sit.”

  Shelia capped the deodorant and checked her lipstick quickly in the mirror. She padded over to him on bare feet and sat down impatiently.

  “Jimmy, I gotta get going.”

  “I know.”

  He touched her arm. There was a streak of something—mascara, eyeliner, dirt, who knew—and he rubbed at it with his thumb.

  “I just don’t want you to worry, okay? We’re gonna be fine.”

  The impatient look disappeared. Shelia lifted one leg up and twisted around on the bed to face him. Her neon yellow underwear flashed at him and it made him smile. Because she wasn’t trying to be sexy, she wasn’t trying to be anything. Shelia looked up at him in earnest.

  “You sure?”

  Slim Jim pinched her waist, but her expression didn’t change.

  “I’m sure. No worries, I mean it. All you need to worry about is making those tips tonight.”

  He winked at her and she grinned and shoved him before standing up to hunt for her shoes.

  “Want to come by the bar later? Bring me some dinner? Nino’s has half price pizza after nine on Saturdays.”

  Shelia smiled coyly as she balanced on one foot to slip on a dingy white tennis shoe. Slim Jim shook his head.

  “Jesus, woman. Between the mess, the nagging and the constant asking for things, you’re already acting like my old lady. I ain’t even bought a ring yet.”

  He had never quite been able to bring himself to say the word marriage to her, just as the word love was something that he doubted would cross his lips anytime soon, but on mornings like this one, when the sex was good and the light was right, when he could watch her get ready for work and he felt that maybe, maybe, she did depend on him for something, Slim Jim thought that getting hitched might not be so bad after all.

  Shelia smirked at him and flipped him off; he returned the gesture. She opened the motel room door, but quickly turned around to him.

  “Pepperoni and sausage. And whatever else you want, but no…”

  “No mushrooms or olives. I know, I know.”

  He smiled at her and waved her out the door.

  BEFORE CLIVE had been sent down to the records room to rot, he’d sat through his fair share of stakeouts. Mostly, these had involved documenting drug handoffs on street corners and watching the doors of trap houses in The Bluff. He now wondered how many of his fellow ATF officers had ever spent time waiting for a nutso preacher’s bovine nephew to waddle out of a Sir Clucks.

  It was disappointing, but he was pretty sure working out a deal with the Cannons was a no-go. He knew there was something there, something between Sister Tulah and the Cannon family, but until he had more proof than Sherwood Cannon’s dead body and a couple of unidentified shell casings, there wasn’t much to go on. Clive thought that maybe if he had some actual evidence to present them with, the Cannons might cooperate. The Barrow woman seemed halfway reasonable, and he still thought he might be able to get her on board, but it didn’t look like he’d be winning Judah over anytime soon. But was it even worth taking that route? He knew that Tulah and the Cannons were somehow tied together, but he didn’t think it had much to do with bribing state senators for the phosphate mine. The Cannons just weren’t smart enough to get in on a deal like that. No, if Clive wanted the big catch, then he needed information that would lead him to connections above Sister Tulah, not below her. And the only person he could think of who would possibly have information, and also be easily intimidated, wore polyester pants and seemed about as bright as a black hole.

  He had thought to corner Brother Felton at the church again, he’d done a drive-by and seen the same gold Buick in the parking lot, so Clive knew Felton was there, but he was worried about running into Tulah. He’d instead waited down the road until he saw the Buick leave and then tailed it into town. Clive had now been sitting in the parking lot of the restaurant for an hour, waiting for Felton to emerge so he could talk to him alone. Clive couldn’t understand how it could take so long to eat a plate of chicken, and he was just about to give up and barge in the place, when Felton finally pushed through the glass double doors. He was carrying a cardboard takeout container of food, swinging it along by the handle. Clive wasn’t going to miss his chance. He jumped out of his car and followed him. He waited until Felton had gotten himself situated behind the wheel and then Clive came around the back of the Buick and rapped hard on the window.

  For a moment, Clive almost felt sorry for the man. Brother Felton looked like a deer caught in headlights, the box of chicken still balanced on his lap, as he stared, wide-eyed and startled, through the glass. Clive motioned for Felton to roll down the window and after another moment of hesitation, he slowly did. Clive braced himself against the top of the car and leaned in.

  “Remember me?”

  Felton only blinked. Clive pointed to the box in his lap.

  “The chicken here any good?”

  Felton nodded. There was a crumb of biscuit on his moist bottom lip and Clive wanted nothing more than to tell Felton to brush it off, for God’s sake. He stood up straight so that he didn’t have to look directly at Felton’s mouth.

  “Last time we talked, we were just getting to know one another. I think I’d like to take that relationship a little further.”

  Felton swallowed and finally spoke.

&n
bsp; “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I was just poking around last time. Checking out the fire like I said, that kind of thing. But since then, it’s come to my attention that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  Felton craned his neck to look up at him.

  “Huh?”

  Clive shook his head.

  “Never mind.”

  “Denmark?”

  Clive pushed himself away from the car and squinted across the parking lot.

  “It’s from a play. It’s a, seriously, never mind. Just forget I said that. Jesus.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  Clive turned back to Felton.

  “It occurred to me the other day, when I was thinking about this whole mess, that you were the only person who ever admitted to seeing Sherwood dead inside the church. And that we still don’t know who killed him.”

  As he expected, Felton turned even paler than he already was. Clive thought it was laughable to even insinuate that Felton could have killed someone, but it sure did make him squirm. It didn’t matter that the fact was obviously a lie, it only mattered that there was the possibility that the police could say it was true. Clive had seen the hint of that possibility, and all that could go along with it, work wonders in getting people like Brother Felton to cooperate. Felton fidgeted with the handle of the chicken box.

  “I didn’t kill Sherwood Cannon.”

  Clive shrugged.

  “Never said you did. I’m just saying that some people might think so. If they really wanted to look into it.”

  Felton stared up at Clive and, for a moment, a glimmer of defiance flashed in his eyes.

  “Why do you keep bringing this up?”

  Clive didn’t like the look in Felton’s eyes and decided it was time to get to the point.