Blacktop Wasteland: A Novel

by S. A. Cosby

  There were nights he would cruise around and find a race on his own without Kelvin. Mostly young kids with some aftermarket overseas windup toy of a car. Other times he took the Duster and blew it out on a backcountry road. Passing by the trees and the raccoons like a comet running on high-test. He’d get up to 160 before slamming on the brakes and drifting to a stop. No matter how fast he went or how many races he won it didn’t compare to driving for a crew. Being behind the wheel with the cops behind you and the road in front of you while everyone around you was wishing they had worn brown pants. It was a high that couldn’t be replicated with drugs or drinks. He’d tried both and they didn’t come close.

  They had never spoken about it, but he was sure if he could talk to his Daddy he would have felt the same way. The words “need for speed” should have been burned onto the Montage family crest. Along with a skull and crossbones.

  He locked up the garage and hopped in the truck. As he drove away the sun cast elongated shadows against the front of the garage. Narrow black fingers squeezing the building in their grip.

  SEVEN

  Beauregard navigated his way down a pothole-filled dirt road that the county in their infinite wisdom had decided to name Chitlin Lane. When Virginia went to a statewide emergency GPS system, they required any road, lane or cul-de-sac with more than three residents to have an actual name. The county administrators decided to fully embrace the stereotypical Southern ethos and name all the side roads with names that sounded like rejected country song titles. They thought it might help tourism. The only problem with that was that Red Hill was no one’s destination. It was a place you drove through, not to.

  Wild blackberry bushes lined the lane, interspersed with the occasional pine tree or cypress. The black sky was moonless. The truck creaked and groaned as it rolled over the rough terrain. He passed a dilapidated one-story ranch and two newish double-wides similar to his own. Finally, the lane widened into a clearing with a rusty single-wide smack dab in the middle. The blue Toyota was parked near the door beside a tricked-out Bonneville with 24-inch rims and a matte black paint job. Beauregard parked behind the Bonneville, got out and knocked on the door of the trailer.

  Ronnie Sessions opened the door and smiled at Beauregard. Beauregard didn’t return the smile. Ronnie stepped aside and beckoned for Beauregard to come in.

  “Quan just got here. We was about to have some beers. You want one?” Ronnie asked. Beauregard surveyed the living area of the trailer. A huge brown couch covered in threadbare suede upholstery dominated the room. It was too big and too ostentatious for the small structure. It had the feel of a yard sale find that was shoehorned into the single-wide. A heavily scarred wooden coffee table composed of rough-hewn planks of timber sat in front of the couch. An easy chair sat at the head of the coffee table. Sitting in the chair was a chubby black guy with a forest of tiny braids protruding from his scalp. He was wearing a baggy T-shirt that was two sizes too big. On his feet were the latest incarnation of a washed-up basketball player’s most enduring legacy. His jeans were so baggy they could have been pantaloons. He had a wide face that was slick with sweat. An unruly goatee covered the lower half of his face and threatened to envelop his mouth.

  Across from the couch was a love seat. It was covered in a bright red and yellow floral print. Beauregard thought it looked like a clown had vomited on it. Reggie was sitting there next to a large white woman with a rat’s nest of green and blue hair. Whoever had dyed her hair had missed a few places. Blond spots dotted her head like cheetah print. A wooden chair sat at the end of the coffee table nearest to Beauregard.

  “No,” Beauregard said. He sat down in the wooden chair. Ronnie grabbed three beers out of the fridge and handed one to Reggie and one to the black man. Beauregard figured he was Quan. Ronnie plopped down on the couch and opened his beer.

  “You got somewhere to be?” Beauregard said to the large woman sitting next to Reggie.

  She scrunched up her face. “Uh … no. I mean not really,” she said.

  “Yeah, you do,” Beauregard said.

  The woman turned her head from Beauregard to Reggie then back to Beauregard.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “Reggie, go on and take her back to Wonderland,” Ronnie said.

  Reggie opened his mouth, closed it then opened it again. “Come on, girl, I’ll take you back,” he said finally.

  “I thought I was spending the night again?” she whined. Her eyes pleaded with Reggie. Reggie stood.

  “Let’s go. I’ll just crash up there with you,” he said. The woman didn’t seem like she was going to move at first. She crossed her legs at the ankles and her arms across her ample bosom.

  “You deaf? Get the fuck up,” Ronnie said. The woman flinched. Huffing and puffing she pulled herself off the love seat and got to her feet. Reggie shot Ronnie a dirty look, but Ronnie was studying the top of his can of beer.

  “Let’s go, Ann,” Reggie said. He headed for the door. She followed him without saying a word.

  “I bet people scream ‘Godzilla!’ when they see her walk into Walmart,” Quan said. He tittered at his own joke, then sipped his beer. Beauregard caught his gaze. Neither one of them said anything for a few seconds. Beauregard turned to Ronnie.

  “Three things. One: We don’t talk to nobody about this but the five people that already know about it. Not no girl you might meet in the club. Not some homie you trying to impress. Not your mama or your daddy. Nobody. Two: When it’s done, we stay away from each other. We don’t go get drinks to celebrate. We don’t go to Atlantic City as a group and hit the slots. We go our separate ways and we stay separate. Three: The day it goes down, we are all straight. Don’t get high. Don’t pop no Oxy. Don’t smoke a blunt. Nothing. If y’all can get down with that, then I’m in. If not, I walk right now,” Beauregard said.

  Quan and Ronnie exchanged bemused glances.

  “Alright, Ethan Hunt. I feel ya,” Quan said.

  “Hey, man, that works for me,” Ronnie said.

  Beauregard sat back in his chair and put his hands on his knees. “Then let’s get to it,” he said.

  He listened to Ronnie talk about the job for twenty minutes before he held up his hand and stopped him midsentence.

  “You haven’t checked the place out, have you? Does your girl know the code to the alarm system? How far from the interstate is the store? How many ways are there other than the interstate to get away? Is there some construction going on down there? How often do the police patrol that part of town? Is there a lock-down system? Who knows the combination to the safe other than the manager?” Beauregard said.

  This time it was Ronnie’s turn to hold up his hand.

  “I get it, okay? We need to do some recon on the place. Jenny can get the alarm code, but the way I figured it, nobody will have a chance to hit the alarm. We get in, we get the diamonds, we get out.”

  “You have to take more than the diamonds in the safe,” Beauregard said. He flexed his left hand. His knuckles popped like knots of green wood in a fireplace.

  “Why you say that?” Quan asked.

  “Because if you only take the diamonds, the cops will know it was an inside job. And I bet there ain’t more than five or six people that work at this store,” Beauregard said.

  Ronnie stared up at the ceiling.

  “That’s a good point,” he mumbled.

  “Man, fuck all this ying-yang. We go in there, blast the ceiling, them motherfuckers do what we say do. Or we ventilate they ass,” Quan said.

  He reached around to the small of his back and pulled out an enormous nickel-plated semiautomatic pistol. Beauregard thought it might be a Desert Eagle.

  Quan held the gun near his face. “I got the gat, so I make the rules,” he said. He punctuated each syllable by shaking the gun.

  “Put that thing away,” Beauregard said.

  Quan smiled. “Don’t worry, big man, I got the safety on. I know how to handle it,” Quan said. He tucked the gun back in his wais
tband. Beauregard figured it was a miracle of physics that the gun didn’t fall to his feet every time he wore those baggy-ass jeans.

  “We gonna need new guns too,” Beauregard said.

  Quan rolled his eyes. “Nigga, this my favorite gun.”

  “That’s why we need new ones. How many bodies on that one? How many robberies? You think the cops don’t keep them shell casings?” Beauregard asked.

  Quan seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Where we gonna get new pieces from?” Quan asked.

  Beauregard rubbed his palms over his thighs. “I know somebody. We can get two pieces for five hundred. But before we get to that I need to go to check the place out.”

  “Damn, nigga, five hundred? I thought we was the ones doing the robbing,” Quan said. Beauregard glared at him. The other man held his gaze. Eventually Quan looked away. Beauregard got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed a can of beer. He went back into the living room and sat at the end of the love seat near Quan’s chair. He popped the tab and took a long sip. The beer was cold as ice and chilled him all the way to his belly.

  “You know, I had this friend who had a Chihuahua. Little nasty ankle biter. Every time I came around, he would bark and bark and bark. Bare his teeth and shit. But if I stomped my feet at him, he would run and hide under the couch,” Beauregard said. He set the beer on the coffee table close to the edge.

  “Why the fuck you telling me about some dog, man?” Quan asked.

  Beauregard didn’t respond. Instead he tipped over the can with his right hand. Beer splashed over Quan’s sneakers and pants. Cursing, he jumped up out of the chair. At the same time, Beauregard jumped up too. He grabbed Quan’s gun from his waistband near the small of his back. Clicked off the safety and let the gun hang loosely by his side. Quan spun to his right until he was facing Beauregard. Beauregard heard a strangled cough come from the couch as Ronnie choked on his beer.

  “Because you remind me of that little dog. You yap and yap and talk a lot of shit, but I think at the first sign of trouble you might just piss your pants. Or run. Or both. Ronnie say you good people. He says he knows you. He trusts you. That’s fine. But I don’t. You talk like this a movie. It ain’t. It’s real life. My life. And I ain’t putting it in your hands. So, I’m going to check the place out. I’m going to get the car. I’m going to take us to get the guns. You don’t like that, then I walk. Cuz I ain’t trying to wake up to three hots and a cot because you gonna ball up like a baby when the work goes down,” Beauregard said.

  He ejected the clip from the Desert Eagle and then racked the slide to eject the one in the chamber. It rolled across the vinyl-covered floor and came to rest against the far wall. He tossed the gun and clip onto the couch next to Ronnie.

  “You got a problem with that, we can handle it. Or we can get this money. It’s up to you,” Beauregard asked. The AC wheezed as it struggled to cool the rectangular box. Quan scowled at Beauregard but didn’t say a word for nearly a full minute. He glanced at Ronnie then turned his attention back to Beauregard.

  “Oh, we gonna handle it, motherfucker. After. But for now, let’s talk about making this money,” he snarled. Beauregard sat back down. Quan waited for what he thought was an appropriate amount of time before he sat down as well.

  “Alright then. Like I said, I’m gonna go check out the place tomorrow. Ronnie, can you talk to your girl and find out if she knows the alarm code and the combination to the safe? Once I scope the place out, we can go talk to my boy about getting strapped. The two of you should be able to come up with five bills for the pieces,” Beauregard said.

  “Sure, sure, I can talk to her. You need the address of the store, though,” Ronnie said. He dug around in his pocket for a piece a paper. He pulled out an old receipt and grabbed a pen off the coffee table. Beauregard shook his head.

  “Don’t write nothing down. You said the store is in Cutter County. I think I can find it. We’ll meet again in a week to get the guns. That will give me enough time to get some wheels and make some modifications. We’ll only use burners from here on out. Keep your mouth shut and your head down,” he said.

  “What we do with the pieces after we done?” Quan said.

  Beauregard tilted his head toward him. “If you don’t have to use them, you can keep ’em. If you do, we break ’em down and toss them,” he said.

  Quan rolled his eyes. “Five hundred down the drain,” he said.

  “What, you want to make it a family heirloom?” Ronnie asked.

  “Just a waste of money. That’s all I’m saying,” Quan said.

  “I don’t think you get what’s going on here. Armed robbery in the state of Virginia is a Class 5 felony with a mandatory minimum of three years with a maximum of life. That’s if no one gets hurt. The guns are just tools. Tools break. Tools get lost. Don’t get attached to them,” Beauregard said.

  “Sound like you talking about people,” Ronnie said.

  “Same difference,” Beauregard said. He stood. “I think that’s all we gotta talk about right now.”

  “What kind of car you gonna get?” Ronnie asked.

  “What difference do it make?” Beauregard said.

  “It don’t. I was just curious,” Ronnie said.

  “Can you get a BMW like in that movie with the motherfucker from England? The Transformer,” Quan said. Beauregard closed his eyes.

  “It won’t be a BMW,” he said. He ground his teeth together. “I’m out.” Beauregard turned and headed for the door. He opened it and was just about to step out when he stopped. “You wanna see me after the job, that’s fine. But if I see you coming and you ain’t smiling and friendly, it ain’t going to go well,” he said.

  He stepped through the door and into the night. A few moments passed, and they heard his truck start. The trailer was silent save for the shuddering AC and the slight hum of the overhead light fixture.

  “Hey, man, he takes this shit seriously. I don’t think he was trying to disrespect you,” Ronnie said finally.

  “Man, give me my fucking gun,” Quan said.

  * * *

  Beauregard parked his truck next to Kia’s car and got out. The air was still stifling hot. The house was dark save for the porch light. Beauregard unlocked the door and made his way through the shadowy interior toward the bedroom.

  Kia was spread across the bed like a Botticelli painting. A thin white T-shirt and zebra-striped panties were her only accoutrements. Beauregard took off his boots and let his pants fall to the floor. He pulled his shirt up over his head and let it fall to the floor as well. He eased his body down to the bed, snaked his arm over Kia’s stomach.

  “That night you came home with that bullet wound, I asked you how much more of this we was supposed to take. You said the juice was worth the squeeze. Do you remember what I said?” she asked.

  “You said that was the dumbest shit you had ever heard,” Beauregard said. Kia grabbed his hand and pulled his arm tighter around her body. He could feel the warmth from the small of her back against the bottom of his belly.

  “But you was right. It was worth it. We got the house. We got the garage. We got out, baby. We got out. And now you wanna go back, and I’m telling you this time the juice ain’t worth it,” she said. Her voice hitched a few times and Beauregard knew she was crying.

  “If there was any other way, I would do it differently,” he said. He spoke directly into her ear.

  “Sell the garage. Take a job at the tire plant over in Parker County. Start selling vacuum cleaners,” she said.

  He moved closer to her and squeezed her tight. “It’s gonna be alright. I promise,” he said.

  She squirmed against him and rolled over onto her back. “I shouldn’t have said that about your Daddy. I’m sorry. But that’s something he would tell your Mama. You can’t promise that it’s gonna be okay. You don’t know that. What if it ain’t? Then I have to tell your sons stories about you the way people told you stories about your Daddy. Because memories fade,
Bug,” she said.

  Beauregard ran his index finger down the length of her face and under her chin. He tilted her head up and kissed her cheeks. The salt from her tears lingered in his mouth. He had no rebuttal to her argument. Things might go south. The job might fall apart. Anyone who was in the Life knew that was a possibility, but he didn’t dwell on those kinds of thoughts. He had survived this long because he never envisioned himself behind bars. He refused to see that as an option. Five years in juvenile detention had given him focus. Sharpened his mind to a deadly edge. He would never be at the mercy of anyone who controlled his freedom again.

  Beyond the vanities of his own ego, he could see that his wife was also right about memories. He thought about his father all the time and yet his Daddy’s voice seemed to grow more and more faint. Did he sound the way Beauregard remembered or was there more vibrato in his speech? Did he have a scar on his right hand or left hand? His father’s face was becoming blurred around the edges in his mind. Unless he was sitting in the Duster, Anthony Montage was a shade who spoke in whispers. Sitting in the car brought everything back into crystalline clarity. If he went through with this job, would his sons have to sit in the Duster to recall his face? Would they even want to?

  “I promise you. We will be fine,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed her on her mouth. At first her lips were set in a hard line but slowly they opened, and her tongue slipped into his. His hand slid up her thigh until he touched her in the center of her body. She shuddered and pulled away from him.