Blacktop Wasteland: A Novel

by S. A. Cosby

  “Well, we appreciate your business,” Beauregard said. He continued to his office.

  “I’ll keep coming here until you close down, Beauregard,” Mrs. Burke yelled. Beauregard didn’t break his stride. He went into the office and closed the door behind him. The mountain of bills on the desk had gotten higher. It was like financial plate tectonics. He sat down and began going through them. He divided them into two different piles. Thirty days past due and final notice. He had a credit card with about $200 left on it. He could use that to pay the light bill. But that would burn up his budget for supplies. He wasn’t robbing Peter to pay Paul. They had both ganged up on him and were mugging him.

  An hour later there was a knock on the door.

  “Yeah,” Beauregard said. Kelvin came in and shut the door behind him.

  “Mrs. Burke told me to tell you if you’re here in three months, she will get us to change her brakes,” Kelvin said.

  “I should thank her for the vote of confidence,” Beauregard said.

  “So you gonna show me?” Kelvin asked.

  “Show you what?”

  “Don’t play with me, man. Come on, show me what you been working on under that big-ass tarp in the corner,” Kelvin said.

  Beauregard leaned back in his chair. “It’s just a little personal project,” he said.

  Kelvin laughed. “Bug, I know it’s for a job. I just wanna see it. You been working on it day and night for a week and a half. The other night I drove by around three A.M. and the lights were still on. Come on, let me see this masterpiece, then we can lock up and go over to Danny’s for some liquid lunch. It’s been a pretty slow day,” he said.

  Beauregard sighed. “Alright, come on,” he said.

  They went back out into the shop area and walked over to the far corner near the used oil container. He pulled the tarp off the car with a flourish. The body had been painted a dark navy blue. Nothing extravagant, just serviceable. Kelvin noticed the windows and the windshield were slightly opaque.

  “You put homemade bulletproof glass in the windows,” Kelvin said. It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yeah. Fixed up some run-flat tires too,” Beauregard said. He opened the driver door and popped the hood. The motor was pristine. Kelvin let out a low whistle.

  “V6?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I rebuilt it from the top down. Got some extras in there too,” Beauregard said.

  “Ha, I bet you do. Shit, man, I wish I was driving it. She looks legit. I bet she get up,” Kelvin said.

  “Yeah. She got some legs. I burnt up all my credit with Bivins Auto Supply getting her straight,” Beauregard said. He slammed the hood down and took a step back from the car.

  “Feel good, don’t it? Getting ready for a job,” Kelvin said.

  “No,” Beauregard lied. It felt better than good. It felt right. It was like he had found a comfortable pair of old shoes that he had thought were lost forever. Intrinsically he knew that was a problem. It shouldn’t feel good or right. The list of things that should bring him joy should begin with his wife and children and end with something benign like an upcoming fishing trip or going to a see a legal drag race. But what should be and what was rarely aligned.

  “Let’s get that beer,” he said.

  The music in Danny’s was as dark as the décor. “Hey Joe” by Jimi Hendrix was pumping through the surround sound. Danny’s had a fancy new LED illuminated jukebox, but someone had decided Jimi’s old tale of murder and woe was apropos for some day drinking. Beauregard ordered a Bud Light and Kelvin got a rum and Coke.

  “You sure you don’t need some help on this?” Kelvin asked.

  Beauregard sipped his beer. “I’m sure,” he said.

  Kelvin threw back his drink. The ice cubes clinked together. “Alright. Just saying you keep me in mind,” he said.

  Beauregard sipped his beer again. “Yeah. I think this is gonna be a one-time thing. Everything goes right we can make some improvements to the shop. Add an auto body department. Compete with Precision for the next round of county contracts,” he said.

  “Yeah, I hear you. Don’t mean we can’t do a little something on the side,” Kelvin said.

  “Actually, that’s exactly what it means,” Beauregard said. He finished his beer and slid off the bar stool.

  “Hey, man, I didn’t…” Kelvin’s voice trailed off.

  “I know you didn’t,” Beauregard said. He leaned forward and put his mouth close to Kelvin’s ear. “If anyone asks, I was at the shop all day this coming Monday and Tuesday.”

  “You didn’t even have to tell me that. I already know what time it is,” Kelvin said.

  Beauregard patted him on the back and headed for the exit. As he approached the door a tall gangly white man stepped through. A mop of unruly brown hair sat on his head like a designer dog. His wide brown eyes were rheumy and bloodshot. The man gave Beauregard a brief glance before sidling up to the bar. As he passed, Beauregard noticed a red birthmark on his neck that bore a passing resemblance to a map of the United States. The birthmark ran in the man’s family. His father and his two uncles had sported the exact same birthmark in the exact same place. That was how they had acquired their nicknames. Melvin’s father had been Red, and Melvin’s uncles were White and Blue. The Navelys had been what passed for bad around Red Hill back in the day.

  Melvin Navely sat two seats down from Kelvin at the bar. Beauregard heard him order a gin on the rocks. When he raised the glass to his lips he noticed Melvin’s hand was trembling. Beauregard wondered if it was the d.t.’s or seeing him as he entered the bar that made Melvin’s hand shake. Despite Red Hill being such a small town, they didn’t run into each other all that often. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Melvin Navely in the last fifteen years. Did Melvin consciously avoid him? Beauregard thought it was possible. He didn’t blame the man.

  He wouldn’t want to see the person who ran his father down walking around free either.

  TWELVE

  Monday morning, Beauregard woke up at six. He put on a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He dug an old pair of sunglasses out of the nightstand. He left his wallet on the nightstand. Kia was lying on her side with her legs tucked up to her chest. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She turned and kissed him back.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He stroked her hair. “I’m heading out,” he said.

  Kia opened her eyes. “It’s today, ain’t it?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I might not be home till late,” Beauregard said.

  She sat up and kissed him on the mouth. “You just make sure your ass comes home,” she said.

  “I will,” he said.

  They stared at each other and spoke with their eyes.

  Don’t get killed. Don’t get caught.

  I won’t. I’m built for this. It’s all I’ve ever been good at.

  That’s not true. You’re a good father. A good husband. I love you.

  I love you too.

  He went in and kissed his boys too. Then he headed for the shop.

  * * *

  Beauregard slipped into the Buick and fired her up. It didn’t sound as impressive as the Duster, but it was almost as fast. He had taken it out last night for a test drive. It handled smooth, taking the curves like a tango dancer executing a balanceo. He eased her out of the garage, got out and pulled down the roll door, and headed for Reggie’s trailer.

  Ronnie and Quan came out on the second honk of the horn. They were dressed identically in blue coveralls. They both carried plastic grocery bags with the IGA logo prominently displayed. Ronnie got in the passenger’s seat and Quan climbed into the back seat. Ronnie was uncharacteristically quiet. Quan was humming a tune Beauregard recognized as “Regulate” by Warren G and Nate Dogg. He backed up next to Quan’s car, then headed down Reggie and Ronnie’s driveway. The Buick had tags from another old Buick in Boonie’s yard and a counterfeit inspection sticker. Beauregard kept it well under the speed limit a
s they drove out to Cutter County. They would be fine unless some overeager Johnny Law decided to racially profile them and run the plates.

  “Did you get everything I told you to?” Beauregard said.

  Ronnie flinched like he had been kicked in the nuts.

  “Huh?”

  “The ski mask and the grease paint and the surgical gloves,” Beauregard said.

  “Oh yeah. We paid cash like you said. Got the mask at different stores than the grease paint, on different days.”

  “Good. You guys both straight?” Beauregard asked

  “Yeah. I didn’t even have a beer this morning,” Ronnie said.

  Quan didn’t respond.

  “Quan?” Beauregard said.

  “I’m straight, nigga,” Quan said. He spoke clearly and distinctly. His voice was even and clear. He pronounced each syllable with articulation so sharp you could have sliced bread on it.

  “This thing got a radio?” Ronnie asked. Beauregard pulled on to Town Bridge Road and headed for the interstate. He had on a pair of black driving gloves with holes over the knuckles. He flexed his right hand and pushed a button on the radio in the center of the console. “Ante Up” by M.O.P. started to fill the car.

  “Well, that’s appropriate,” Ronnie said.

  The AC in the car did not work. Beauregard cracked his window and a torrent of wind barreled into the Buick. He felt his heart begin to pound. It felt like a dogfish flopping on a pier. The sky was so dark it looked like dusk. A blanket of clouds obscured the early morning sun. Another old hip-hop song came on the radio and Beauregard felt himself nodding his head before he realized the title of the song. “Mind Playing Tricks on Me” by Houston trio the Geto Boys. He remembered when that song first came out how Kelvin wanted a copy of the tape so bad he convinced Beauregard to hitchhike with him to the mall in Richmond and try and steal one. Beauregard had gone to the arcade and hustled some white college kids on Pit-Fighter and earned enough money to buy the tape. Kelvin had asked him why they didn’t just take it.

  “My Daddy says a risk always gotta be worth the reward. That tape ain’t worth getting caught at the door,” he had said.

  “He told you that?” Kelvin had asked.

  “Nah, but I heard him talking to Uncle Boonie.”

  He knew why that memory had come to him. He didn’t need six years of overpriced psychoanalysis to understand his own mind. The diamonds were worth the risk. Even if Ronnie was shady and Quan was shaky. The reward outweighed the risk by a metric ton. Beauregard merged onto the interstate and hit the gas.

  The parking lot of the shopping center was nearly empty when they arrived. There were two cars in front of a Chinese restaurant two doors down from the jewelry store. There were five cars in front of the jewelry store itself. The rest of the parking lot was bare. The clouds had cleared, revealing a cerulean sky. Beauregard thought it looked like someone had spilled watercolors across the heavens. He drove past the store and parked so that he was facing the exit. He took a deep breath. “Time to fly,” he said as he expelled the breath.

  “Huh?” Quan asked.

  “Nothing. Check your guns. Make sure they loaded. Put on the makeup. One minute to make sure no heroes get in the mix. Two minutes to open the safe and grab the diamonds and some other pieces out of the display case. One minute to get back here to the car. Four minutes. At five minutes, I’m leaving the parking lot. You hear me?” Beauregard said.

  Ronnie and Quan opened their bags and took out cans of white grease paint. They pulled on their latex gloves and light camo hunting masks. They both pulled out their pieces.

  “I hear you, man. We’ll be back quicker than a hiccup,” Ronnie said.

  “Quan, you hear me?” Beauregard asked. He studied Quan’s reflection in the rearview mirror. A backwoods Grim Reaper was sitting in his car.

  “I hear you, man,” Quan said, over-enunciating each word.

  “Are you fucked up?” Beauregard asked.

  Quan shoved the .38 in his pocket.

  “Nope.”

  Beauregard turned around and leaned over the seat. “Look at me.”

  Quan raised his head. “Nigga, I said I’m straight. Damn, let’s just do this,” Quan said.

  Beauregard rubbed the thumb on his left hand against his forefinger.

  “Four minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds. That will give us a two-minute head start on the cops that are three streets over. Get in, get out, get gone,” he said. An old Irish bank robber he had worked with on three separate occasions had coined that phrase, but Beauregard never forgot it. That Irishman had been a professional. These boys were not in his league. They weren’t even playing the same game.

  “I got it,” Quan said.

  Ronnie adjusted his mask. “Let’s shake, rattle and roll,” he said. He opened the car door and hopped out. Quan climbed over the seat and followed him after slamming the door shut.

  Beauregard watched them hurry across the parking lot. Fifteen steps to the door from where he was parked. He had come back up here a few days ago and counted the steps from the door to the closest parking space. He checked his watch. It was 8:15.

  He gripped the steering wheel.

  “Time to fly,” he whispered.

  THIRTEEN

  Ronnie felt like he was in a movie. Everything around him seemed electric. Shimmering like scenes coming out of a projector. He had scored a tiny miniscule amount of coke the night before. This morning he had done two lines. Just enough to sharpen his senses. He realized now that had been a mistake. He felt overwhelmed by all the stimuli around him. He thought he could hear his eyelids click when he blinked. His skin felt raw and exposed as a nerve in a broken tooth.

  Fuck it. Get this money. Blue suede shoes, motherfuckers, he thought.

  Ronnie pushed through the door of the jewelry store with his shoulder. He had his gun in his right hand and his plastic bag in his left. The overhead recessed lights bathed the sales floor in a sepia tone. The display cases were laid out in an upside-down U shape. A long case at the rear of the store served as a sales desk. The cash register sat on the far left side. Two long cases ran the length of the store on both sides. A huge picture window took up most of the front of the store. Jenny was standing behind the desk with a stocky woman in a shaggy crew cut. They were talking to an older white woman in a rainbow-colored sundress. Her long white hair was plaited into two long pigtails. To his right a young black man was leaning over one of the display cases, obviously deep in thought.

  “You know what time it is! Get on the floor and shut your goddamn mouths!” Ronnie screamed.

  “Get on the ground or they gonna be cleaning your brains off the fucking ceiling tiles!” Quan screamed. At first no one moved. The young black guy didn’t even raise his head.

  “NOW!” Ronnie screamed. The young man dropped to the floor so quickly he might have stepped through a trap door. The older white woman took longer but she too got down on the floor. Jenny and the heavyset lady, who had to be the manager, also got down on the floor. Ronnie rushed over to the desk. The two of them were on all fours about to lie flat on the floor.

  “Come on, Red, you and me going in the back,” Ronnie said. The manager hopped up faster than her size would have suggested.

  “Don’t you touch her!” she said. She put herself between Ronnie and Jenny. Ronnie nearly took a step back. The ferociousness in her voice was palatable. Her eyes were bugging from their sockets and a vein was pulsating in her forehead. As a rule, Ronnie didn’t believe in hitting women. He had enough Southern hospitality instilled in him as a kid that he found the idea distasteful. Under normal circumstances he would never put his hands on a lady. However, these were not normal circumstances. Not by a long shot.

  Ronnie struck the manager just above her right eye with the butt of the .38. A divot the width of a popsicle stick appeared above her eye. Blood spewed from the wound like water from a broken faucet. The manager fell forward, grabbed at the counter, and fell to the floor. Ronni
e grabbed Jenny by the arm and pulled her up to her feet.

  “Keep an eye on them!” Ronnie barked.

  Quan nodded his head vigorously. Ronnie dragged Jenny into the back room.

  Once they were through the door that said EMPLOYEES ONLY, Ronnie pulled Jenny close.

  “Did you deactivate the alarm?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t. Lou Ellen was here when I got here. She was supposed to be off, but she traded with Lisa.”

  “Fuck. Does the alarm run through the safe?” Ronnie asked.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Jenny said.

  Ronnie almost hit a woman for the second time in his life. “Just open the damn thing,” he said. Jenny wrenched her arm free and navigated her way through three wide metal worktables and past a large metal desk. She stopped at a large gunmetal gray safe nearly as tall as Ronnie. She punched a few buttons on a keypad on the front of the safe. A green light started flashing on an LED screen on the door. Jenny pulled on the handle.

  Nothing happened.

  “Try it again!” Ronnie hissed. Jenny punched in the combination again. The green light flashed. She pulled the handle.

  Nothing.

  “Get out the way,” Ronnie said. He pulled on the handle. At first it didn’t seem like it was moving. He pulled harder. The door started to open, painfully slow. It was heavy as hell. He put his gun in the pocket of his coveralls, dropped his plastic bag and used both hands to open the door. Inside the safe were six shelves lined in black fabric. On the first shelf were three bundles of cash. Ronnie picked up his bag and threw all three bundles into the former grocery sack. He didn’t know the money was going to be in the safe, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. On the next three shelves were ledgers, files and random papers. On the sixth shelf was a nondescript brown box the size of a pencil box. He grabbed it and ripped open the stiff cardboard lid. It flew up and Ronnie was greeted by the prettiest sight his eyes had ever had the pleasure of viewing. The box was full of uncut diamonds. Each one was as big as a good-sized raisin.