by Eric Beetner
Closing in on the Canadian border Tucker got tired of the small talk.
“So we do this and then what? How do we get close to Kirby?”
“Well, I figure with Hugh on our side we offer to hang around and do a few jobs for actual money. He’ll trust us and we’ve proven ourselves so he’ll jump at the chance to get us some work.”
“That doesn’t get us any closer to getting the guy who killed Dad, if it was Kirby himself or someone he hired. And then what? Call the cops? What? Enough with the driving. No more jobs. Why can’t you retire like everyone else your age?”
“Okay, look, I haven’t thought out that far ahead yet. I’m not a big planning kind of guy. I’m used to getting an assignment and completing it. Someone else does all the logistics. I’m not a goddamn detective.”
“That’s obvious.” Tucker shifted in his seat, the drive taking its toll on his backside.
“The thing I’ve learned over the years is that opportunity presents itself. And when it does you grab it. If you go looking for it then you’re on a damn snipe hunt and you’ll get lost in the damn woods.”
“So your plan is to wait. Wait for an opportunity.”
“I don’t even know what you want to do. Do you want to kill Kirby for killing your dad? Do you want to send him to jail? You know damn well he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger or firing up the chainsaw to separate Webb from his head, right? So do you want to find the guys who actually did it? And then what? Why don’t you tell me for a change.”
Tucker had no answer.
Calvin turned his attention back to the dark highway before them. “So you can see why I’m flat out stumped myself.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I just want to be done with this. Maybe after this we should walk away.”
Calvin flexed his fingers, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. Maybe we should. I didn’t think I was allowed to speak that plan out loud.”
“I may not have been around as many years as you but the thing I’ve learned is that sometimes it’s best to know when you’re beat. Maybe the Stanleys are untouchable. It’s why they’ve stayed in business so long. Who are we to make them pay?”
The Plymouth’s guttural V-8 sounded a little weaker. The gear change a little less musical. The road outside pointed north into blackness and dark pools of inky nothing spotted the landscape on either side of them. Never before had Calvin felt like he was driving to nowhere.
His son’s death would go unpunished. He’d head back to Omaha, with no money in his pocket and no justice. The taste of the driving life had gone suddenly sour in his mouth. Even the brief visit to his glory days was tainted now.
He looked down at his map. A straight shot into Baudette. The meet-up took place in an hour and a half. Perfect timing.
They’d get there and drive back the delivery under cover of darkness. Dawn would break as they passed back into Iowa. Most likely. A sunrise would be a cruel joke though. Where was an eclipse to plunge the world into darkness when you needed one?
Outside Baudette the Superbird crunched into the gravel parking lot of a Gas N Save sounding like a marathon runner on the twenty-fifth mile.
Across the lot a pair of headlights flashed on and off, the Bird had been easy to spot for the car meeting them. Tucker steered the Plymouth to the far side of the lot and parked beside a mid-80’s Cadillac.
Tucker put his window facing the driver of the Caddy and rolled it down for a smack in the face of late night Minnesota air. Spring or not, the bite of the far north remained.
The Cadillac window powered down and a late-thirties man in a worn brown leather jacket and a high widow’s peak smiled out with stained teeth. Beside him in the passenger seat was a dark-skinned black man in a black leather jacket and sunglasses. The single overhead lamp in the parking lot didn’t give off enough light to attract a single moth, but this guy was protecting his eyes from the glare.
“You the guys?” the driver asked.
“I guess we are,” Tucker said.
“RJ,” he said about himself then threw a thumb over his shoulder to his sidekick. “Jones.”
Jones lifted a hand in an imitation of a wave.
“Tucker and Calvin.”
RJ got out and opened the back door to the Caddy. “We’ll take you from here. Easier than having you follow us in the dark. You’ll never find it.”
Tucker and Calvin looked at each other, each one waiting for a last second reason from the other to back out. None came. They got out of the Superbird.
Jones was out and watching from the far side of the Cadillac. “Sweet ride. Shame to leave a beauty like that behind.”
Tucker wasn’t exactly sure how the man could see the car behind his shades but if any car could be seen it was the bright orange muscle car.
“It’s all yours. Just don’t take it to Iowa. Someone’s looking for it.”
“And it’s not hard to find,” Jones laughed.
Tucker looked back over his shoulder at the car he’d hated so much at the start. His McGraw genes were right below the surface now, migrating closer to the top the deeper he went into the criminal life. He felt a sadness at leaving the car behind. The feeling surprised him.
He shut the door and took a last glance at the obnoxious rear spoiler, the brown paint clinging to the seams like dirt under a fingernail and he listened to the engine knocking after nearly eight solid hours of driving with stops only for gas and drive-through fast food. On this trip, the Bird had eaten better than they did.
Tucker climbed in the back seat first and Calvin slid onto the big bench seat next to him.
RJ swung himself behind the wheel. “Okay boys, let’s go make us some money.”
20
“You don’t mind me sayin’, pops,” RJ said as he caught Calvin’s eye in the rearview, “you look like quite a vintage model for a job like this.”
“I don’t mind. I wear my vintage proud.”
“It’s just when we said we could drive this load down ourselves they said they were sending up two of the best men for it. I was kind of expecting some young hot-shit guys, y’know?”
“I was hot shit and still am, son. My shit don’t ever grow cold.”
Jones laughed. “I like you, old timer.”
“I’m glad about that, but it wouldn’t make a rat’s ass of difference if you hated my guts. I’m here to drive.”
“Well, okay then,” RJ said.
The sound of the Cadillac didn’t inspire anything in Tucker. A McGraw only reacted to power and coiled aggression. The Caddy seemed all about simple transportation and a pillow of soft shock absorbers that made them feel like they were driving a waterbed.
Tucker watched the back of RJ’s head, a discreet but undeniable mullet nestled on his neck like a sleeping squirrel. Jones lit up a Tiparillo or some other kind of mini-cigar. The sight allowed Tucker to finally identify the smell that permeated the upholstery. His first thought was maybe a dog had vomited in the back seat. The longer that Tiparillo burned the more he wished for the car-sick dog.
They wove down unlit country lanes. Calvin studied the landscape as if trying to memorize it. Tucker saw a sign for a lakefront camping area before they turned off down a dirt drive. A chorus of frogs welcomed them to one of Minnesota’s lakes.
The last cabin in a row of six fronted the water and parked next to it was a white cube truck. Bigger than a van, smaller than a semi. More or less a pickup with a metal box mounted on the back.
As soon as the Cadillac’s headlight swept the truck, the doors opened and two men got out wearing heavy coats and wool knit caps.
“Thar she blows,” RJ said. “The white whale.”
Tucker was surprised RJ knew the reference.
The Caddy emptied of its four passengers and the six men all met in the headlight glow.
“Which one is Jones?” said one of the men in the wool caps.
Jones raised his hand. The man tossed a set of keys and Jones snatched them out of the air with precision. T
ucker had no idea how with those sunglasses on.
Calvin pushed his hands down into the pockets on his light spring jacket.
“Any message?” Jones asked.
“Only to be careful not to fuck Mr. Parsons. Mr. Parsons don’t like to be fucked. But Mr. Stanley knows this. Might be worth repeating though. Good advice never gets old.”
“My granddad used to say never trust a Canadian in a wager or a fight,” Calvin said. Tucker turned to him with surprise. The two men in the caps smiled. Calvin grinned, “Wanna hear a good one? A Canadian is walking down the street with a case of beer under his arm. A friend of his sees him coming and asks him, ‘Hey, Dave, whatcha got that case of beer for?’ He says, ‘I got it for my wife.’ ‘Wow,’ says the other guy. ‘Great trade.’”
The group laughed, all except Tucker.
“Good one,” RJ said.
“Yeah,” said the man in the wool hat. “At least we don’t fuck our sisters and start foreign wars we can’t win.”
More laughter.
The two men turned and walked off toward the water. Jones held out the keys to Tucker. Calvin stepped between them and took the keys.
“My turn to drive.”
“You boys follow us out. We’ll get you back on the main highway. You driving back tonight?”
“Yep. The man says he wants it back ASAP. We oblige.”
“Okay then.”
Tucker heard a small outboard motor start up and the sound of a boat moving across the water headed north.
He and Calvin got in the truck.
“What was all that about?” Tucker asked.
“Giving them shit is all. Part of the game.”
“I guess.”
The engine turned over another uninspiring sound. Ten more hours of that yet to come.
The ride had gone from waterbed to bed of nails as the cube truck bounced down the rutted back road away from the lake. Tucker turned down the heater which the Canadians had blowing like a blast furnace. For men who lived just south of the tundra those guys were lousy at dealing with a little spring chill.
“I always hated the long distance hauls. More than once I got the ’roids,” Calvin said.
“I feel like that is a legitimate risk on this one.”
“Yeah. It’s not gonna be pleasant. Once we’re back on solid asphalt it’ll be better. These things are made for longer jaunts.”
“Is it wrong if I say I kinda miss the Plymouth?”
Calvin smiled. “Not wrong at all, boy. I’ll know you’re human. You don’t miss a car like that you probably don’t cry at Sophie’s Choice.”
“Wait, you cried at Sophie’s Choice?”
“Hell yeah. And The English Patient. And what was that one about the dog?”
“Huh.” Tucker let that sink in.
Up ahead the taillights of the Cadillac swung left and became steady. Paving ahead. Calvin piloted the truck around the curve and picked up speed to match the Caddy as it coasted along in the Minnesota night.
“I tell you, it’s gonna bother me until I’m in my grave that I don’t know exactly what happened to Webb,” Calvin said. “I still say he didn’t steal that truck.”
“Me too. Not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it.”
“Guess I don’t need to worry too much about the McGraw family reputation anymore. This is the end of the line.”
“Yeah. This is our last trip.”
“We shoulda brought champagne.”
Calvin and Tucker smiled. Calvin watched the lights on the Cadillac glow, wishing he had that one last drive with his son.
Up ahead the brake lights burned red on the Cadillac and RJ’s arm waved out the window, ushering them to pull over.
Calvin eased the truck to the shoulder behind RJ and Jones.
“What do they want now?” Tucker said. “Exchange addresses for Christmas cards?”
“Just wrapping things up. We know the way from here.”
RJ left his door open as he walked toward the truck. Jones got out and stood on his side of the Caddy, oozing smoke out of another Tiparillo.
RJ knocked on the door of the truck, but it sounded odd. Not the knock of a man’s knuckles. Hard. Metallic.
Calvin rolled the window down. “We got it from here. Thanks.”
“I’m afraid I’m gonna ask you boys to get out,” RJ said. He lifted a gun high enough for Calvin and Tucker to see it. He waved the tip, an impatient look growing on his face.
21
Calvin opened the door slowly, showing his hands the whole way. Tucker raised his hands and began sliding across the bench seat toward the open door.
“Come on down boys,” RJ said. “Got one last bit of business to do.”
The truck idled loudly, nearly drowning out the frogs and crickets of the Minnesota night. Tucker followed Calvin’s lead and moved slowly to stand on the shoulder. Jones had come around the Cadillac and stood by the trunk in the light of the truck’s headlights, his Tiparillo glowing orange clenched between smiling teeth.
RJ waved the gun around like he forgot he had something deadly in his hand. He seemed to be remembering some speech he was supposed to make.
“Mr. Stanley thanks you for your years of service. I hereby relieve you of your duty. We’ll take the truck from here.”
“Why didn’t you kill us back there?” Calvin asked, a contempt in his voice.
“As much as I wanted to toss you in the lake and be home before one, it’s bad form to kill your workers in front of the competition. Makes us seem unstable. They might question if they were to get their money back. We can’t have that.”
“I see,” Calvin said. His mouth stretched to a taut line. “You know, Tuck, I was really mad I missed when you kicked ass on those jackoffs down at your place.” RJ bent the gun down to aim at Calvin, unsure where this monologue would go. “I’d like to return the favor though. I wish like hell I had those hedge trimmers right now.”
“That’s a hell of a goodbye,” Jones said.
“You had to be there,” Calvin shouted across the space between them. He turned back to RJ. “So are you telling me I have to spend eternity at the bottom of some nameless Minnesota lake?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Brother, that’s a damn shame.” Calvin clutched at his chest. He grunted like he’d stubbed his toe. “Shit!” He sank to one knee. The three other men watched him enact the telltale signs of a heart attack. “Tucker,” he said through clenched teeth.
Tucker dropped his hands and stepped forward.
“Tucker,” he said again. RJ crept closer as well. “My left arm.”
“Well, I’ll be a horny toad,” RJ said.
That same left arm supposedly pulsing with pain from the stoppage in Calvin’s heart shot out and clamped down over the pistol in RJ’s hand.
Calvin spun the wrist around and fired a shot into RJ’s hip using his own finger to do it. RJ howled and bent. Calvin stayed on one knee, keeping RJ between him and Jones. He turned his head to Tucker.
“Kill the lights.”
Tucker squat-walked back to the truck as Jones’ first shot rang out. Jones sidestepped along the soft shoulder, retreating backward along the driver’s side of the Cadillac as he fired blind. Literally blind with his sunglasses still on.
Calvin wedged a finger into the trigger of the pistol and fired again, this time into RJ’s gut. He let go of the pistol and fell flat to the ground. On cue the lights on the truck went dark. Jones fired twice more but hit nothing.
The frogs went quiet. Calvin looked up from his position on the ground, brought the gun up and fired at the tiny dot of orange glowing up ahead.
A choked off yell sounded and the orange dot went dead. The sound of Jones’s body falling to the gravel of the shoulder reached Calvin and Tucker as a puff of dust caught the Cadillac’s headlights. Calvin slipped forward and hugged his back against the Caddy. Near the back bumper he looked down the length of the car to see Jones’ body laid out near th
e front tire. Steam rose from the open head wound.
Calvin turned and stood straight, facing the truck.
“Turn ’em back on.”
Tucker obliged. RJ writhed in the dirt under the spotlight of the truck’s glare. The engine in idle covered most of his scratching in the dirt. Calvin stood over him, gun at the ready.
“Stanley put you up to this?”
RJ’s face tightened as he grimaced. He seemed to be willing his teeth to clench harder, his eyes to shut tighter in some futile attempt to make the pain go away.
He managed, “Yeah. Stanley.”
“For that bit of honesty I won’t kill you. Start walkin’.”
RJ’s eyes flew open. Calvin inferred the question, What the fuck are you talking about?
“Start walking, I said. Now.”
RJ rolled over on one side keeping a hand over his bleeding gut. It took several attempts to stand and Calvin didn’t help at all. Tucker watched from inside the truck like the scene before him was a little play in the bright spotlight of headlamps.
Calvin pointed with the barrel of the gun. “Go on.”
RJ knew better than to stand around and question it. He limped off in the direction Calvin pointed and only a few feet off the shoulder they could hear him splash into shallow water. The sloshing water sounds mixed with the sucking noises of his feet slurping in and out of the mud as RJ made his way across lake ten thousand and one.
Calvin watched him go for a minute then stepped up into the cab of the truck.
“Not exactly chopped off fingers, but it’ll do.”
Tucker was more than happy to be a spectator. “Jesus Christ, that was close.”
“Sure was.” Calvin handed Tucker the gun. He put it in the glove box as Calvin dropped the white truck into gear and began to pull out.
“Wait,” Tucker said. Calvin stopped the truck. “Keys.”
Tucker dropped down out of the truck and walked over to the Cadillac. He stepped across Jones’ body, careful not to look down, and reached inside to take the keys from the Caddy. He left the lights on.
