The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  Sandra looked up the number and Gates called Clyde Turner, who bought and sold used cars out near Fairy Stone State Park. Gates invited him to drop by the trailer and price the Corvette, claiming they weren’t that anxious to make a deal but really didn’t need two vehicles. A day later, Clyde arrived and walked around the car and stuck his head in for a peek at the interior, checked the engine. Chewing on a toothpick, he offered Gates nine hundred dollars.

  “No fuckin’ way,” Gates snapped. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Clyde? It’s a collector’s item.”

  “Well, it might be if you was Fred or Lamont Sanford,” Clyde drawled. “I’m interested in cars I can sell. Cars that run. This one’s in awful shape, and it ain’t runnin’.”

  “Nope. Not a chance. I gotta have ten thousand, minimum.”

  “I ain’t here to offend you, Gates. No, sir. I’m just tellin’ you what she’s worth to me. If we can do business, fine. If not, we’ll shake hands and leave with no bad feelings. You might do better to try in the paper or with another person ’sides me.”

  “Give me eighty-five hundred, Clyde.”

  “Gates, friend, listen. She’s been beat to death. She’s old. You’re lucky I ain’t chargin’ you to hook to her and drag her off.”

  “Hell, Clyde, a coat of paint, a little body work, a few parts, the car’s mint again.”

  Clyde arched his eyebrows. “Friend, I’m gonna take her for salvage. You want to put her in shape and call me back, we’ll discuss a higher price. I’m thinkin’ of this thing for scrap. You’re lookin’ at serious jack to restore this car—you know that. And you know a ’75 ain’t no big deal to a collector these days. I’ll go a hundred more, but that’s my limit.”

  In the end, after ten minutes of haranguing and foot stomping, Gates relented, gave Clyde Turner the title to the Corvette and watched him tow it away to be stripped down and sold piece by piece, a worn-out hulk, its luster diminished, its low-to-the-ground sleek speed crippled, its engine spent and gummed up for good, the hoses dry-rotting, the wires brittle and unpredictable.

  For months, Kong had been after Gates to increase his productivity, and he agreed a few weeks after the sad Corvette transfer, accepting an advance of five hundred dollars, which he and Sandra paid to a lawyer—together with two hundred and fifty dollars of the car money—to partially finance the custody battle for Jade. Of course, as soon as Gates walked through the mobile home door with a big ol’ bag of Kong’s powder, they phoned Sandra’s mom to babysit for the night and dove into the coke, drinking beer and listening to “Living on a Prayer” at top decibel until Sandra turned blue and melodramatic and they fell into an argument that ended with her chucking an ashtray at Gates, then threatening to leave him for Jade’s daddy, who’d written her from the penitentiary and was eager to reconcile. Gates grabbed her by the collar and slapped the hell out of her, leaving elongated red marks across her cheek. They made up within an hour, had high, wallowing sex that they were unable to finish, and awakened at noon the next day with shredded nostrils and fractured recollections of the prior night.

  Not long afterward on a stagnant July evening, Sandra and Gates stopped by the Old Dominion for a cold pitcher of beer and a small cheese pizza. Their pal Barry was already there, playing pinball, leaning into the machine, bumping it with his pelvis, rapid-firing the flipper buttons, a draft beside him on a table. An old friend and reliable client named Hank Lawless, Jr., had introduced Barry to Gates and vouched for his trustworthiness. As Gates understood it, Barry lived in Richmond, making a living as a long-distance truck driver, but he often showed up with Hank at barbecues and fiddlers’ conventions in Stuart, a good guy who’d always let folks bum a cig or borrow his music. For nearly a year, Gates had been selling him fifty-dollar dabs of cocaine when he was in town.

  Barry shouted hello, and Gates walked over to watch the game and chew the fat. Barry had most of the bonuses lit and a high score, and he earned two extra balls and thousands of points before his run ended. He and Gates talked about Hank and a trip Barry had made to Los Angeles to deliver a load of produce. Barry put another quarter in the machine and started with a new ball. “You able to do anything for me today?” he asked, his tone confidential and hushed.

  “Yep,” Gates answered. “I’m your man.”

  Barry pulled back the silver knob, adjusted his stance, then released it. Chings and plunks and wild caroms and skittering lights commenced again. “Weight?” he asked, watching his shot, not looking at Gates.

  “I’m flush. You name it.”

  “Really?”

  Gates checked the bar for Sandra. She was drinking a beer, chatting with another woman. “Oh yeah.” He rolled out a braggart’s smile.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about tryin’ to locate enough to hold me between trips up here.” He glanced at Gates and the ball got away from him, clipping a flipper and disappearing. “And maybe get a little volume discount.” He gave Gates his full attention.

  “I’ll work with you. You know that.”

  “An ounce?”

  “Cool,” Gates said. “Piece of cake.”

  Barry returned to the pinball game and hunched over the machine, launching his second shot. “How much?”

  “For you, twelve.”

  “Shit, man, I ain’t lookin’ for no tourist price.” He playfully jabbed Gates with his elbow. “You gotta do better than that.”

  “I’m giving it to you for what I have in it,” Gates lied.

  “A grand.” This play wasn’t productive; the ball was retired after only a handful of ricochets and a single trip through a spinning gate.

  “Jeez, Barry. I’m not Goodwill. I’m already offerin’ you a discount.”

  “Best I can do. A thousand.” Barry winked at him. “And I’ll pick up your tab for the pizza and beer.”

  “Man, you’re torturing me here.” Gates paused. “Shit, all right, but don’t you tell a soul what you’re payin’.”

  Barry pressed his thumb and forefinger together and drew them lengthwise across his lips. “Zipped, Gates. Not a word from me.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m goin’ to have to go get the cash. I’m staying at Hank’s, so where should I meet you?”

  “Moody’s?” Gates suggested. “Behind the funeral home?”

  “Ouch. That’s too creepy for me. Let’s try somewhere else.”

  “How well do you know Stuart?”

  “Okay, I guess. Pretty good. I can get Hank to come with me if need be. I’m sure once he hears what’s up, he’ll be happy to tag along and sponge off my bag.”

  Gates chuckled. “No doubt.”

  “What about the fairgrounds, down past the hospital? I’ll just slip in next to the cinder-block building where you buy your ticket.”

  “Sure. Fine with me. How long?”

  Barry rotated his wrist and checked his watch. “Hour?”

  “Cool. I have to make a stop myself, so that’s perfect.”

  Barry extended his hand for a quick shake, entwining his thumb with Gates’s. “Treat me right. I’m expectin’ some kick-ass shit from you.”

  It was twilight when Gates, folded into the Chevette, eased into the entrance road at the fairgrounds, the air still stale and sullen, the day’s heat refusing to budge. He was dressed in a tank top and cutoff jeans, barefoot, drinking a Miller beer, the coke—diluted with a generous sprinkling of baby laxative—tucked beneath his seat, a .22 pistol lying on the console, just in case. Barry was already there, exactly where he said he’d be, and the large lot in front of the fairgrounds was empty. Gates liked the location; the exchange would take place in a spot that afforded them a thorough view in every direction, and a vehicle or two in the lot wasn’t uncommon since people used the flat field inside the gate for Little League practice and pickup softball. He stopped his car so they were window-to-window, facing in opposite directions. Barry was listening to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” but he turned off the music when Gates pulled up.

&
nbsp; “You been here long?” Gates asked.

  “Nah. Five minutes, maybe.”

  “We good to go?” Gates set his beer between his legs. He scanned the lot, the road, the area behind the gate and the small, squat building that housed Rotary Club ticket takers when the fair was in residence.

  “I’ve got the thousand if you’re ready with the coke.”

  “No offense, Barry, but, ah, I need the dollars first.”

  “None taken. Just business, right?” Barry conducted his own quick, tense survey, then handed Gates ten hundred-dollar bills, thrusting them through the window, the cars so close that his arm stretched into the Chevette.

  Gates counted the bills twice. “Awesome,” he said. He knocked back the beer, reached under the seat, took another nervous look around, located the dope and passed it to Barry. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  “You too, Gates.” Barry opened the baggie of coke and studied it. “You’re the man.”

  All hell broke loose.

  A spotlight hit the cars. The wooden shutters on the ticket building crashed open. Vehicles with red and white lights strobing from their grills tore into the entrance, accelerating even as they made the sweeping turn toward Gates and Barry. Two men—cops, fucking cops—leapt out of the building, weapons drawn, crouched, screaming, “Your hands, show us your hands, Gates,” their badges worn like necklaces, STATE POLICE emblazoned in yellow on the black vests protecting them from gunfire. Another officer was sprinting to the scene with a rifle. Barry surged forward in his Firebird, stopped. Spilling out, he aimed a pistol at Gates from behind the door: “State Police. Don’t even think about it.”

  Gates ran. Bolted. A decision, he would later tell his brother, that was his biggest regret in the whole affair. Shoeless and desperate, he jackrabbited, not man enough to salvage even a speck of dignity by raising his hands and swallowing his medicine. As far as the cops were concerned, the futile escape attempt made him the absolute worst kind of coward, and when they gang-tackled him in the fairgrounds parking lot, skinning his knees and staining his shirt with red clay, a crew-cut special agent called him a pussy and bellowed what they all were thinking: “Where the hell you plan on going? Huh?” Two local deputies yanked him up, steered him to a cruiser and stuffed him inside.

  Scared and panicked, with his knees throbbing and trickling blood and his hands cuffed behind him, Gates struggled to balance himself on the rear seat of the police car. He spoke for the first time as he and the cops swung through the serpentine curves that led into Stuart. “Guys, listen. Hey, I’m sorry, okay? Can’t we work something out? I don’t need this. How about a break, some slack?” The road went from left to right, causing his shoulder to hit the door. “Please. I got a mother to take care of and a little girl I’m raisin’. What about them?”

  The officer on the passenger side half turned so that Gates saw him in profile. He was still wearing his bulletproof vest. “It’s not up to us, Mr. Hunt. The courts make those decisions.” The response sounded rote, practiced.

  “Heck, right now, it’s your call. You can do whatever you want.”

  “And we want to take you to the magistrate and charge you with felony distribution.” He twisted a few more degrees in Gates’s direction. “That’s how it is.”

  “Man, there’s no need to be so hard-nosed. Come on. Sir, I’m pleadin’ with you.”

  “Nothing we can do.” The cop fixed him with a cold stare, started to add something but didn’t.

  “This isn’t fair. It isn’t. Shit.” He flicked his dry tongue over his lips. “Maybe I could give you, you know, a little help. Point you to the big fish. I’m not the guy you’re after. I’m way down the line, barely even worth the effort.”

  The officer turned away, ignoring Gates.

  “Hey, why are you actin’ so rude? You could at least answer me.”

  The two policemen began talking to each other about how long it would take to process Gates and where they could find a meal on their way home.

  “You can’t hear me?”

  They continued their conversation and didn’t respond.

  “Hey, okay, you know what, fuck both you guys. I tried to be cool about this, but you can both kiss my ass.” He was crossing into irrational, cornered, dead-end rage.

  They passed the bank, Main Street and the old brick courthouse. The driver flipped on his blinker, and the vehicle sat motionless for an instant while another car passed in the oncoming lane.

  “You assholes will regret this day for the rest of your lives.” Gates’s words were amped and rabid. He began pulling against his cuffs, herky-jerking his shoulders. “My brother’s a lawyer, and you clowns will be lookin’ for work soon. That’s a promise. You hear me? I’ll fuckin’ have your jobs for this. I want your badge number.” He flopped back violently against the seat. “I know my rights, motherfuckers, and I want your names and numbers.”

  “Sure, yeah, you know your rights,” said the driver. “You got us there, Mr. Hunt. I’m Bruce Wayne, millionaire Bruce Wayne, and this is my sidekick, Dick Grayson. We’re badges number one and two. How’s that? Anything else we can help you with?”

  The response made him that much more incensed, and it took a total of five cops to drag him yelling and flailing into the magistrate’s office, where they charged him with disorderly conduct and multiple counts of assaulting a police officer in addition to felony distribution of cocaine. The magistrate, whose house he threatened to burn, denied him bond, and he was incarcerated for the second time in his life, tossed in with the slugs and petty criminals to await his day in court.

  “This is total bullshit, Mason,” Gates railed as soon as the deputy shut the door to the interview room at the Patrick County jail. “Man, this is all so wrong. I’m innocent.” He was wearing an orange canvas jumpsuit but, oddly enough, seemed to have a rekindled interest in his grooming and appearance: he was clean-shaven, his hair was orderly, his nails were trimmed and the short sleeves of his jail outfit were rolled into tight, smart bands at his biceps. It was the afternoon of the day following his arrest; Mason had driven to Stuart from Richmond, briefly visited their mom and then traveled into town to meet with his brother.

  “Oh?”

  “Absolutely.” They were separated by a plain wooden table. Gates leaned forward, closer to Mason, gesturing manically. “This is a mistake.” He widened his eyes, rounded his mouth. “I’m just hanging around at the fairgrounds, shootin’ the breeze with Hank Lawless’s friend Barry, and the damn cops swarm in like the Marines or somethin’. Crazy. They claim they found dope on Barry and they arrest me! How does that make any sense?” He waved his hands frenetically. “You need to set this straight, Mason. Apply some lawyer grease and get me out of here.”

  Mason put his elbows on the table and deliberately lowered his chin into his palms. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

  “Absolutely. Look, I’m no Boy Scout, I’ve done stupid things, broken the law, but not this time. This is some messed-up shit. They didn’t find any drugs on me. None. I can’t help it if Barry’s holdin’ dope and I happen to be there.”

  “This is what you’ve come up with after a night of reflection?” Mason asked impassively.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I don’t know what’s worse: the lack of creativity or the unconscionable lying.” Mason withdrew his chin and sat back against the slatted support of his chair.

  “Mason, I’m your brother, and I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t have anything to do with it. My word on it.”

  “You were in the wrong place, wrong time?”

  “Exactly.” He vigorously bounced his head up and down.

  Mason folded his arms over his chest and made certain his disdain was obvious when he spoke. “Here’s the truth, Gates. Barry is a state police undercover officer who was working with your hopeless friend Hank Lawless. Hank found himself in a jam for buying a bunch of stolen heavy equipment and decided to polish up his junior deputy’s badge an
d cast his lot with the cops. You’re on tape demanding money for the dope, and two other cops watched from the ticket building while you sold an ounce of cocaine for profit. The bottom line is you are guilty as homemade sin and they can prove it. Lying only makes it worse. Hell, you have to know this fellow Barry was a cop—he helped arrest you.”

  “Have you heard this tape they supposedly made?”

  “No. The sheriff was kind enough to give me an overview. And even if they didn’t have the recording, there’re three or four cops standing in line to say they saw you sell cocaine. A thousand dollars’ worth. With a frigging gun in the car.”

  “I got that cash from the Corvette,” Gates declared. “You can check with Clyde Turner.”

  “Yeah, well, Clyde must have copied down the serial numbers and marked the bills, because the money in your car was the same money Barry handed you for the dope.”

  “So you think I’m boxed in?”

  “Yeah—a very precise box, like a coffin.”

  “And you believe them?” Gates asked.

  “What’s not to believe?”

  Gates scooted his chair away from the table and stood. “Shit, Mason, it’s entrapment then. They set me up.” He flung his arms to each side and held them aloft, crucified on an invisible cross. “Pressured me into it. Tricked me, lied to me. That won’t fly. The police can’t operate like that.”

  “I thought you just told me you weren’t involved? Gave me your word?”

  “Well, shit, I guess we got a change of plans if what you say is true. Have to go with what’ll work, right?” He dropped his arms. His palms slapped against his hips. “Entrapment. You know what? I asked that prick Barry, asked him if he was a cop, and he lied to me. I’ll testify to it. They gotta tell you if you ask—the police can’t lie.”

  Mason shook his head, sighed. “First,” he said, nettled and glaring at Gates, “you never did any such thing. Second, even if you did, it doesn’t matter—that’s a damn urban myth. Nonsense. It’s the Dillinger exhibit and bathtub kidney surgeons. They’re working undercover—they’re supposed to convince you they’re not cops. They don’t have to tell you diddly.”