Rumrunners

by Eric Beetner

  “C’mon in.”

  Wyatt stepped in. A Stanley by marriage when his dad hitched on to one of the two Stanley sisters. Hopelessly ugly girls with great big tits and an overeagerness to prove to men that they were talented beyond their looks. Henrietta and Olive Stanley popped the cherries of more guys in Iowa than any brothel west of the Mississippi. Most guys visited once and moved on, immediately assuming they could do better. Most of them should have stuck around for the practice.

  Wyatt’s father did stick around with Olive and he’d been a happy man. His astigmatism led many to assume that he had never in his life had sex with his own wife with his glasses on and that accounted for much of their happiness.

  Wyatt had been a helpful up-and-comer and in recent years had moved into Hugh’s inner circle of confidants, often times only by virtue of being the nearest warm body.

  “You heading out?” Wyatt asked.

  “Time to turn in.”

  “You think any more about the McGraw deal?”

  “I agree they’re sniffing around like a dog in heat but what am I supposed to do?”

  “Let me handle it.”

  “Handle it.” He scoffed. “Still with so much to prove, huh Wyatt?” Wyatt’s eyes swept the floor. “I can’t go knocking off everyone who might hurt us. There’d be no one left. Besides, I still say they can help us out.”

  “But at what price?”

  “Less than what I would pay to anyone else and right now, that’s key.”

  Hugh snapped off the desk lamp and walked to the door. Wyatt lifted the old man’s overcoat off a coatrack and helped him on with it.

  “Whatever you say, Uncle Hugh. Just promise you’ll let me know when you want me to take care of it.”

  “Oh, you’ll be first to know.” Hugh patted the kid’s back, condescending. All these young guys loved playing gangster. The family didn’t get where it was by thinking of themselves as tough guys and crooks. The Stanleys were businessmen and should act accordingly.

  Hugh pulled a hat onto his head, protecting the thinning gray from the night chill. These kids, he thought. All the class went out of this business with the speakeasies.

  Goddamn shame.

  Despite the hat and overcoat a coldness grabbed him. The spooked feeling hit him somewhere down in the bottom of his spine. He stopped by the open car door Wyatt held for him and looked over his shoulder. Somewhere, out in the night, bad news was coming.

  16

  The police knocked at six-thirty a.m. Tucker’s morning erection hadn’t even faded.

  He shouted from behind the closed door. “Who is it?”

  “Police officer, Mr. McGraw. May we have a moment of your time?”

  They weren’t beating down the door, that had to be a good sign. The smell of cops sent Calvin rushing off the couch to the kitchen out of sight. Milo appeared at the entry to the hallway, his sleeping bag wrapped around him.

  Tucker opened the door wondering how good he could be at lying and knowing he was about to find out.

  “Mr. McGraw?” said one of two officers on the doorstep, both in blue uniforms and the speaker sporting a cop mustache while the other apparently hadn’t gotten the memo.

  “Yes.” Tucker hadn’t yet moved his body to invite them in.

  “Is your father Webb McGraw, sir?”

  The question spun Tucker’s thinking one hundred eighty degrees. “Yes. Why?”

  The officer, Shultz read his name tag, removed his hat. Tucker knew why before he spoke.

  “I’m afraid your father was found dead, sir.”

  From the kitchen Tucker heard the sound of a beer can cracking open.

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Dead for sure?”

  Shultz turned briefly to his partner who would not meet his eyes. “Yes, sir. He’s been murdered. Homicide is on the case now.”

  Tucker wasn’t sure if he should fake surprise. It certainly wasn’t what he felt.

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “No, sir. The thing is…” again the partner would not throw Shultz a life line. “Only part of his body was found.”

  Tucker blinked twice. He didn’t want to ask so he waited Shultz out. Shultz gave in first. “Just his head. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir.”

  From the kitchen came Calvin’s angry voice, “Goddammit,” and the smash of dishes in the sink. Tucker was mildly impressed that the old man’s hearing was still so sharp.

  Tucker answered the questioning look from the two officers.

  “That’s my granddad. Webb’s father.”

  The officers nodded in sympathetic understanding. The snap and fizz of a second beer can opening filled the silence.

  “Mr. McGraw we need you to come identify the body. I know it’s early—”

  “I thought you said there was no body.”

  “Well, no sir but…I guess that’s what we usually say. You’re right though. Identify the head, I suppose.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, sir. We can wait until you’re changed, of course.”

  “Gimme a minute.” Tucker closed the door on the cops. He passed by Milo in the hall without a word. He changed into the same jeans he wore the day before and threw some cold water across his hair to slick it down.

  He stepped into the doorway of the kitchen. Calvin was on his third beer, Tucker could tell by the two empties on the counter. In the sink was a broken coffee mug and two smashed plates.

  “You heard all that?”

  Calvin nodded then tipped the can upside down, draining it.

  “So I’ll go identify him. You’ll stay here?”

  Calvin stared through the floor, back in time. “Fucking Stanleys.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to talk about that when I get back.”

  Tucker left his grandfather in the kitchen. Milo waited by the door, still wrapped in his sleeping bag.

  “They really found just his head?”

  “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.” Tucker nodded toward the kitchen. “Try to make sure he doesn’t break anything else.”

  Milo nodded.

  The two cops leaned against their cruiser as Tucker emerged. They each straightened up and put on their hats.

  “Do I ride with you?” Tucker asked.

  “You’re welcome to drive yourself but we’d be happy to give you a lift.”

  Tucker thought about the offer for a moment. He felt in his pocket and found the keys to the Superbird. He thought about setting them aside and finding the keys to his own car, but then he ran a finger over the key’s rough edge and the ridges made a small chill run up his arm. “I’ll drive,” he said.

  When he turned the key the rough gurgle of the engine seemed to him a much more satisfying sound than the thin cracking of beer can tabs.

  The ritual at the police station played out with as much respect and dignity you could give a severed head. Tucker could tell the cops were thrown by the uncommon nature of the “body.” No one would look him in the eye.

  Webb’s head was given a full slid-out tray in the refrigerated section of the medical examiner’s office. A full-length sheet covered it. The flat white sheet seemed odd with its single bump.

  The coroner pulled the sheet back, careful not to look again himself and for the first time all eyes were on Tucker.

  “It’s him.”

  The head was quickly covered again.

  There were questions. Who do you think could have done it? Did your father have any enemies? What did your father do for a living?

  Tucker learned he was quite adept at lying. Calvin would be proud, would give credit to his genes.

  When he left the station Tucker let the wheels on the car spin a bit, getting to know the full depth of the big V-8 engine.

  Calvin never passed out. Not in over sixty years of drinking. You might think he was, but all you had to do was poke him or say something disparaging about Hank Williams and he’d be up and alert, if not s
ober.

  Milo sat on the couch, dressed and gnawing on a hangnail, as Tucker walked in. Three steps in the door he heard a cascade of empty beer cans hit the linoleum floor in the kitchen.

  “He’s out of beer again, I think,” Milo said.

  Tucker peered around the corner into the kitchen where Calvin lay face down on the kitchen table, a ruin of PBR cans at his feet. Tucker stepped up behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder. Calvin sat up fast, like a firecracker went off. He spun his head and saw Tucker. He kept staring at his grandson through slitted eyes.

  “It was him,” Tucker said.

  “Of course it’s him. Who else?”

  “If you thought he was dead this whole time you sure didn’t say it.”

  “I don’t say the sky is blue every time I walk out the door, do I?”

  Tucker got a Dr. Pepper from the fridge. It was, indeed, empty of beer again. “They’re investigating for murder.”

  “Stanley.”

  “You think it was them?”

  Calvin raised his voice. “I know it.”

  “How do you know it?”

  “You know how many heads been found over the years in Johnson county? A bunch. An assload. A bushel. You know how many bodies they found to go with those heads?” Calvin squinted his eyes tighter so that Tucker was convinced he couldn’t see a thing. “None. Zero.”

  Calvin tried tilting a can to get one last drop. It came back empty. “Stanley M.O. right there. That’s what you got.”

  “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Who? Hugh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not too attached to that head of yours, are you?” Calvin let out a cackling laugh and set his head down on the tabletop again.

  Tucker retraced his steps to the front door, stopping by the couch in front of Milo.

  “I’m dropping you back off at your mom’s.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell her any of what’s going on quite yet.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tucker opened the door and held it for Milo who picked up his overnight bag from the floor and walked outside looking to Tucker like a young boy again, a vision that had been fleeting lately.

  Tucker steered the Plymouth confidently through the streets.

  “Dad?” Milo said. “Grandpa’s really dead, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Someone killed him?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  Tucker downshifted. “I have no idea.”

  Tucker stopped the car long enough for Milo to get out and didn’t wait around to see him walk to the door. Even the slight possibility of being stopped for questioning by Jenny held absolutely zero appeal.

  He made the trip across town to Hugh Stanley’s office in fifteen minutes and had no more idea what he was going to say than he did when he left.

  Unlike Calvin, he gave his name to the blonde receptionist and waited to be seen. The wait gave him another four minutes to think, but when the blonde told him to go in he still had nothing.

  Hugh looked beyond Tucker, expecting to see Calvin. When no one else entered the room he turned to Tucker with a question on his brow.

  “Where’s Cal?”

  “Home drunk. My dad’s dead. The cops came by this morning.”

  “Aw, shit. I’m sorry as hell to hear that.”

  “All they found was his head.”

  Tucker studied Hugh’s reaction but saw nothing. “His head?” Tucker nodded. “Damn. Webb didn’t deserve that.”

  “My granddad seems to think that’s how the Stanleys have been known to do it.”

  Hugh stiffened at that. “Does he now?” Tucker nodded again. “Did you tell as much to the police?”

  “No. I told them a bunch of bullshit.”

  Hugh laid his palms flat on his desk and pursed his lips, thinking. “Headless body, huh? Or I guess the other way ’round.” He let out a long sigh and slapped his open palms on the desktop. “Well, I was afraid of this. This might be Kirby.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yep. Things have been a bit…strained between us of late. I don’t know what his beef with your dad might have been, but if anyone is following the old Stanley missing body trick it’s Kirby.”

  Tucker swayed on his feet. He felt no sense of justice in knowing who was behind it, only more confusion. Hugh looked up from his desk as if he expected Tucker to thank him and go home. When Tucker didn’t go anywhere he continued.

  “I’ll look into it. You know the damn cops aren’t going to get anywhere. Especially if Kirby is behind it. They haven’t found one of those bodies yet. Even I don’t know where they are. I always said they’d find Jimmy Hoffa before they found that stash of corpses.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Hugh took on the demeanor of a loan officer who had to say no; gracious but firm.

  “What do we do? We don’t do anything. I said I’d look into it.”

  “I want to speak to him.”

  Hugh laughed. “You better hope your insurance is paid up. If he’s so worked up and angry at the McGraws he won’t care which one of you is in his sights. I’d steer clear if I was you.”

  Tucker clenched and unclenched his fists. Unchanneled energy raced through him. He knew Calvin would have been tearing the place apart, demanding answers and payback. An eye for an eye. A brother for a son. All Tucker could think to do was call the police, but then they’d know he lied that morning and he’d have to admit to the other illegal activity he’d played a part in over the past week.

  “Tell you what,” Hugh said. “That debt you owe me hardly seems fair now. Why don’t you do one more job for me and we’ll call it even. Pay off the note, as it were.” Hugh waited for an answer. Tucker stood in quiet turmoil. “It’s a drive. Up to the Canadian border. Just a pickup job though. We’ve got a delivery coming over and all you’d need to do is bring it back down here. Job done. You go on your merry way. What do you say?”

  Tucker’s inability to make any coherent decision stayed. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “Sure, sure. I understand. Talk it over with Cal. Let me know by tomorrow. The delivery is being made Tuesday night.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. And hey, listen, sorry as hell about Webb. Kirby he’s…well, when he gets a notion, not much can stop it. Not sure what the hell Webb did to him, but it must have been something.”

  Tucker left the office feeling like he’d had his pocket picked. He’d been given the name of his father’s killer and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Tucker thought back ten days to when Mr. Bardsley called the office to cancel his fire insurance, the biggest tragedy of the week. The stress that phone call caused him. The loss of one policy’s worth of revenue became a make or break moment. Such simple times, thought Tucker.

  He sat behind the wheel of the car, the peaks and valleys of the grip providing comfort to his fingers. The bucket seat cradled him. The gearshift was sturdy when he needed it. He began to understand.

  A turn of the key and the engine spoke to him.

  Here were answers. Here was his father come back to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and tell him things would be all right.

  Tucker drove home, planning. He started small. First up—a plan to get Calvin sober.

  Hugh filled a tumbler from the wet-bar across from his desk. He reached under the display bottles for the good stuff. A bottle of genuine Iowa corn hooch. Paint thinner bouquet and a rusty nail aftertaste. A man’s drink. A man who could make the tough decisions.

  Hugh sat back down, smoothed his tie back into place and pressed the intercom button. The blonde answered.

  “Call Wyatt. Tell him he was right. I need something handled. I don’t want to talk to him in case the little prick gloats.”

  17

  Tucker sat in the dark having the argument with himself as a so
rt of dry run for the argument with Calvin. Trouble was, he couldn’t decide on which side of the line he stood. Go or not go? Tell Stanley to fuck off or work for the men who killed his father?

  There was the question of trust. Would they really cancel the debt? Would Kirby not come after them next? It sure as hell seemed like Hugh had no control over his brother. Black sheep had never come with sharper horns than Kirby Stanley. Tucker felt for all the world like he was bent over with a bright red target painted on his ass, waiting for those horns to dig in deep.

  The sound of his granddad’s snoring filled the house with a gentle fuzz playing out in a rhythm like the house had been transported to the beach. The thought made Tucker have to piss.

  Standing over the bowl he nearly lapsed into tears for his father, but never quite made it over the edge. If there was anything so un-McGraw-like he didn’t know it. To cry would be the same as riding a bicycle to work, a case of moonshine tied to the handlebars.

  Tucker walked out to the couch and watched Calvin sleep. He then lay down on his own bed and had no recollection of falling asleep until the next morning when he woke. He walked into the living room and found Calvin sitting up on the couch, hunched forward with spikes of his white hair gripped in his fingers.

  “Morning.”

  Calvin grunted a greeting.

  “I’ll get you some coffee and as aspirin.”

  Calvin grunted approval.

  A half hour later and two plates of eggs down the hatch, Calvin was a transformed man.

  “Okay, kid, I can take it now. What did you all talk about in my absence?”

  “Well, it’s like this: Hugh said it was Kirby.”

  Calvin looked off, his mind calculating. “Hmm, that sounds about right.”

  “He didn’t know why and he didn’t exactly seem like he was gonna do anything about it.”

  “Hugh doesn’t do anything about anything. Man might be fifteen years younger than I am, but he’s older than I’ll ever be.”

  “He offered us one last job to take care of the money we owe him.”

  “We don’t owe him shit.”