by S. A. Cosby
“Mama, that policy counts as an asset. That asset counts against your Medicaid. Now you’re behind on your payments to the nursing home. Do you hear what I’m saying? They talking about kicking you out of here,” he said.
“And you and Little Miss Big Booty don’t want me dirtying up your fancy double-wide, right? You know she never brings the boys up here to see me? I’ve seen Ariel more than I’ve seen Darren and Javon and her mama don’t even like black people anymore,” Ella said. Beauregard grabbed a metal chair from the corner and sat down close to his mother’s bed.
“That ain’t just on Kia. We’ve both been real busy and I’m sorry for that. Mama, look, you know I asked you when you first got sick to come live with us. You said no. You said you didn’t want to live under my roof, under my rules. ‘What it look like, a mother letting her child tell her what to do?’ Remember saying that? Now it’s just … you need a lot of help now. More than we can give you.” He reached out and touched his mother’s free hand. The skin felt like crepe paper. Ella took another drag on her cigarette and moved her hand to her lap.
“You said it but you didn’t mean it,” she said. Her voice was a low sharp rasp. Beauregard leaned back in the chair and stared up at the acoustical tiles in the ceiling. He’d gone down this particular road a thousand times over the years. He didn’t need a map or a signpost to see where it was headed.
“Mama, we going to have to get rid of that policy. Ain’t no way around that because you ain’t got anywhere else to go,” Beauregard said. Ella took another long deep drag off her cigarette.
“If your Daddy was here, I wouldn’t need to be in no nursing home. If he hadn’t walked out on me when I needed him the most I wouldn’t be here sitting in my own piss. I’d be in my own house with my own husband. But when it came to handling his responsibilities we both know Anthony Montage was about as useful as a white crayon, don’t we?” Ella asked. Beauregard let the question hang in the air between them.
“He left me too, Mama,” he said. His deep baritone had dropped four octaves. The words seemed to emanate from his chest, not his mouth. If Ella heard him she wasn’t in the mood to acknowledge it.
“He should have never walked out on me. Goddamn black bastard. He promised me he would always take care of me,” Ella mumbled. Beauregard saw her eyes begin to glisten. He stood up and put the chair back.
“I gotta go, Mama,” he said. Ella waved her cigarette toward the door.
Beauregard walked out of the room, down the hall and out of the nursing home. He would have to ask Mrs. Talbot how his mother was getting cigarettes. He couldn’t stand watching her smoke. It didn’t revolt him. He just couldn’t stand watching her do that to herself. He was more disturbed by her eyes welling up with tears. He could count on one hand how many times he’d actually seen his mother cry. She gave up her tears as sparingly as she gave out compliments. If she was weeping, she was in terrible pain. Either spiritually or physically or both. Ella Montage was not an easy woman to love but seeing the reality of her fragility pierced him in places that were soft and frightened. It was like someone had shot him in the stomach then shoved their thumb in the hole.
By the time he got to the garage, it was lunchtime. Kelvin was sitting at his desk eating a cheeseburger with the radio turned up to eleven. A Stevie Wonder song was warbling through the busted speakers. Kelvin had his feet up on the desk as he bobbed his head in time with the music.
“Get your feet down,” Beauregard said as he entered the office.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. I figure I could put my feet up since I was the only employee who had actually done some work today,” he said between bites. When Beauregard didn’t laugh, he moved his feet and put the burger down. “Hey, you alright?” Kelvin said.
“Just got done talking to Mama,” Beauregard said.
Kelvin sucked in a breath. “Aw man, Aunt Ella being her usual wonderful self?” Kelvin said.
Beauregard grabbed a beer out of the mini-fridge. Even though he had chided Boonie for day drinking, he needed something after dealing with his mother.
“There was some mix-up with her insurance and they might be kicking her out the home. Unless I can pay it off,” Beauregard said. His head was beginning to throb.
“Did you, um, go see Boonie?” Kelvin asked.
“Yeah. He ain’t got nothing. So I’m right where I started. Nah, actually it’s worse cuz I gotta pay the nursing home,” Beauregard said. He killed half the beer with one sip.
“That’s one of the perks of having your own business. Beer for lunch,” Kelvin said.
Beauregard chuckled. “I see you got Shane’s truck up on the rack. What was it?” he said.
“Fucking velocity boot. I was hoping it was the rack and pinion. Don’t worry, I already ordered it,” Kelvin said.
Beauregard finished his beer. “Alright, let’s get on this damn transmission,” he said as he tossed his beer in the trash.
“Oh hey, a guy came by saying Ronnie Sessions was looking for you. I think it was Ronnie’s brother. He never did get you straight about that thing with the horse, did he?” Kelvin asked. Beauregard sighed. He was sighing an awful lot these days.
“No, he didn’t.”
Ronnie Fucking Sessions. The mastermind behind what Bug liked to think of as the Fucking Horse Job.
Ronnie had approached him one night out at Wonderland. The way Ronnie had told it, some fancy-ass horse breeder out of Fairfax was selling a healthy young thoroughbred to some famous trainer in Kentucky.
One of the farmhands at the breeder’s ranch was buying OxyContin from Ronnie’s cousin and had let the cat out of the proverbial bag while making small talk during a transaction. Ronnie had come sidling up to Beauregard to help him steal the horse and sell it to another trainer in South Carolina so he could put him out to stud. Beauregard had taken the job, then set about planning it out because, as Ronnie said, he was an idea man. Beauregard was the details guy. Beauregard had gone out to Fairfax and studied the breeder’s farm, the horse trailer, the hitch on the trailer, the weight of the horse, everything. He ended up building an exact replica of the horse trailer, right down to the fist-sized dent on the right side. Put the equivalent of the horse’s weight in sandbags in the trailer. When the boys towing the trailer stopped to get something to eat at the same diner they always stopped at when transporting a horse for the breeder, Beauregard and Ronnie were waiting. The fellas parked around the back of the diner and went inside. Beauregard and Ronnie parked next to them, towing their fake trailer covered in a tarp. Under the weak sodium arc lights in the parking lot of the diner Beauregard and Ronnie switched the trailers. It was just past midnight in the middle of nowhere in the Roanoke Valley when they pulled out of the parking lot and hopped on the interstate headed for South Carolina.
“Goddamn if that won’t work just like a fucking magic trick!” Ronnie had said as they jumped on I-85.
Unfortunately, what Beauregard didn’t know, what no one outside of the breeder and his vet knew, was that the horse had a fairly serious medical condition. A condition that required a certain type of medication. Medication that was in the pocket of one of the boys they had left behind at the diner. Rich Man’s Folly was as dead as Dillinger when Ronnie and Beauregard had reached South Carolina.
Beauregard had not been pleased.
“I ain’t got nothing to say to Ronnie Sessions,” Beauregard said. It was a simple sentence but Kelvin felt the weight of the ominous intent that clung to it like a shadow.
By the time they got the transmission out, the heat in the shop had reached Saharan levels. They were both soaked in sweat despite the air running at full strength. The transmission had fought them every step of the way. Beauregard had busted one of the knuckles on his right hand after it slipped off of a socket wrench. Kelvin wiped his face with a red shop rag. Beauregard had the sickly sweet scent of transmission fluid so far up his nose it felt like it was infecting his brain. Kelvin looked at his watch.
&n
bsp; “Shit, it’s almost five. You want to call it for today? That torque converter is all the way fucked anyway,” he said.
“Yeah. But we gotta get here early tomorrow. I wanna get both of them outta here so we can get paid. I owe Snap-on a grip and the light bill is two weeks past due,” Beauregard said.
“Damn, do you ever feel like Jean Valjean?” Kelvin asked. Beauregard squinted at him. “Cynthia likes the movie. Anyway, I’m gonna get gone. See you in the morning,” Kelvin said.
Beauregard grabbed his own rag and began to wipe his hands. He only succeeded in moving the dirt and grease to different locations. Kelvin headed for the door. Halfway there he stopped.
“Hey, Bug. We gonna be alright. You’ll figure something out. You always do,” Kelvin said.
“Yeah. See ya tomorrow,” Beauregard said.
After Kelvin left, he started closing down the shop. He turned off all the lights except for the one in his office. He lowered the roll-up doors. Turned off the air compressor and the overhead air handler. On his way back to his office he stopped by the Duster. He ran his hand over the hood. The metal was warm to the touch. Like it was alive. His father had left the car at his own mother’s house when he went West. It had sat in the backyard for five years while Beauregard was in juvenile detention. When he got out, his grandmother Dora Montage had handed him the keys and the title.
“Your Mama wanted to sell it to Bartholomew for scrap. I wouldn’t let her do it. Her name might be on the title but this car belongs to you,” she had said.
Beauregard remembered how strange it felt hearing Boonie’s Christian name. He walked around the front of the car and got in the driver’s seat. He ran his hands over the steering wheel.
His father was dead. He was sure of that now. Probably buried in a shallow grave or chopped up and tossed in a river by the same kind of men he had worked for as a driver. Just another job to killers who didn’t care he had a son who loved his bad jokes. Anthony Montage always seemed so full of life it was difficult to accept the fact he was dead. Beauregard had no doubt that if his father was alive he would have come back by now. Most of the folks around here who wanted him dead were either in prison or the ground. When he hadn’t shown up for Grandma Dora’s funeral, Beauregard had finally believed he was gone. Kia wanted him to sell the Duster. He could probably get at least twenty-five grand for it if he spruced up the paint job. That was never going to happen. She didn’t understand that the Duster was his father’s tombstone. Beauregard let his head rest against the steering wheel. He sat that way for a long time.
Finally he got out, turned off the light in the office, and headed home. He had forgotten to call Kia. He called on his cell as he was pulling out of the parking lot. She answered on the first ring.
“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t call on your break. But we closed up a little early so I’m headed to get the boys,” he said.
“They wouldn’t let me work a double. They actually cut me a little early so I already got the boys. We at the house,” she said. There was a pause. “Beau, there are guys here. They were waiting when we pulled up. They said they friends of yours. I told them to wait on the porch,” she said.
Beauregard gripped the steering wheel so hard his hand ached. “What they look like?” he said. His tongue felt thick and unsuited to his mouth.
“They white. One got long brown hair. The other one got a bunch of Elvis tattoos running up and down his arm,” she said.
Beauregard’s vision got blurry for a second. He gripped the steering wheel even harder. “Alright. I’m a be there in like ten minutes.”
“You want me to tell them you on your way? I told them you wouldn’t be home till seven. They said they was gonna wait.”
“No. I’ll talk to them when I get there. Just give the boys something to eat and I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.
“Okay. Love ya.”
“Love you too,” he croaked. He hung the phone up and put it in the cup holder.
Beauregard stopped at the intersection of Town Road and John Byrd highway. He reached over and opened the glove box. There were no cars behind him and only a few passing him in the other lane at the stop sign. Lying there in the glove box mute as a stone was a Smith and Wesson .45 caliber semiautomatic. Beauregard rooted around in the glove box and found the clip. He took out the gun and the clip and slammed the clip home. He had gotten a concealed carry permit when he had opened the shop. Back then, a lot of people paid him in cash.
Beauregard thought about the clichéd scene in every crime movie where the main character who has gotten out of the “Life” buries his weapons under a hundred pounds of concrete only to have to dig them up when his enemies come knocking at his door.
He understood the appeal of the symbolism for filmmakers. It was just unrealistic. You were never out of the Life completely. You were always looking over your shoulder. You always kept a gun within reach, not buried under cement in your basement. Having a gun nearby was the only way you could pretend to relax. He had a gun in every room of the house. They were like good friends who were always down to do bad things.
Beauregard didn’t know why Ronnie Sessions had come knocking at his door but he was going to have his friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson ask him.
FOUR
Beauregard saw a faded blue Toyota sitting behind Kia’s Honda as he parked his truck. He slipped the .45 into his waistband near the small of his back. He could feel the butt of the gun and the textured cross pattern on the grip against his skin. He got out and walked toward his house. Two men were sitting in the white plastic lawn chairs arranged on the porch. He didn’t recognize the one with the long hair. He figured he was Ronnie’s brother. They both stood when they saw him approaching. Ronnie stepped down off the porch first and extended his hand.
“Beau, how the hell are you, man? Long time no speak,” he said. He was almost as tall as Beau so that put him around five eight or nine. He was thin but wiry. Veins pressed against the skin of his left forearm and bicep. He had a full sleeve on his right arm from his hands to his shoulder. The tattoo was a time line of the history of Elvis Presley. On his shoulder were images of gold-blazer-wearing Elvis. On his bicep and tricep were multiple Elvises from the sixties. The forearm was fat Elvises in the sequined white jumpsuit wearing Polynesian leis. The images continued until they reached the back of his hand. There in full color was an Elvis with a halo and wings. Angel Elvis. Ronnie was wearing a black T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. That was all Beauregard had ever seen him wear. It didn’t matter if it was 100 degrees or 0. Beauregard wondered if he even owned a shirt with sleeves.
Beauregard grabbed Ronnie’s left hand with his right. At the same time he reached behind him and slipped the .45 from his waistband. He put the barrel against Ronnie’s stomach.
“Why are you at my house? My children in there. My wife. Why would you come here? We ain’t got nothing to talk about. So now you gonna leave,” he said. He spoke softly so that only Ronnie could hear him. His brother was standing on the second step on the porch just out of earshot.
“Hey, now hold on, Beau, I ain’t mean no disrespect. Goddamn, man,” Ronnie said. His blue eyes were open wide. His black goatee had more gray in it than Beauregard remembered. His temples had gone white too, giving him a redneck George Clooney look.
“Go, Ronnie. I don’t want my family to see me splatter your guts all over the driveway. How did you even find my house?” Beauregard asked.
“Marshall Hanson told me where you stay. Look, man, I didn’t know the goddamn thing had horse diabetes or whatever the hell it was,” Ronnie said.
“But you should have known, Ronnie. That’s the problem. Now leave.”
“Beau, just wait a minute.”
“My boys are here. My boys, Ronnie. What we did ain’t got nothing to do with them. I don’t bring that shit around my kids,” Beauregard said.
“Come on now, Beau, just hear me out.”
Beauregard pressed the barrel into Ronnie’s stomach.
Ronnie winced.
“I got a line on a job, Beau. A big one. One that can set us up for a long time. A long goddamn time,” he said.
Beauregard eased up on the gun just a hair. Sweat dripped into his eyes. It was almost sundown and the heat hadn’t slacked off at all. He felt like he was standing in an oven. Beauregard looked over Ronnie’s shoulder and saw Kia peeking through the front window. The window of their house. He remembered the day the company brought the double-wide down. He and Kia had held hands as they watched the crew set the trailer on cinder blocks.
Beauregard pulled the gun away from Ronnie’s stomach. He clicked the safety into place with his thumb. He let go of Ronnie’s hand.
“What kind of job?” Beauregard said. The words tasted sour in his mouth. The fact that he was even entertaining this fool for one second told him how much his back really was against the wall.
“Can you put the gun away so we can talk? You gonna like what I have to say,” Ronnie asked.
Beauregard eased up a little more.
“Come on, at least hear me out. Cuz I need ya, man. I need the Bug.”
Beauregard put the gun back in his waistband. He looked over Ronnie’s shoulder again. Kia was gone. “Meet me at my shop in thirty minutes,” he said.
“Alright, alright, that’s what’s good, man. You won’t regret it,” Ronnie said. He motioned for his brother, who hustled over to the car and hopped inside. Ronnie got in the passenger side. Beauregard went to his window and squatted down on his haunches.
“I lost $3,800. That’s the cost of retrofitting the trailer and my time. So what you got better replace that first. And Ronnie? Don’t ever come to my house again. I’ll shoot you next time. No questions asked, just a bullet in your guts,” Beauregard said. He stood.
“I gotcha, bruh. Sorry, it’s just I’m … uh, I’m just really hyped about this. You gonna get your money back and then some. I know I owe you, man,” he said. Beauregard didn’t say anything so Ronnie thumped his brother on the shoulder.
“Let’s go, Reggie,” he said.
