by Steph Post
Ramey tried to yank her hand away again, but Judah gripped her tighter. She sneered at him.
“You’re quite the philosopher this early in the morning. Haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet and you already think you know everything that’s going on in my head.”
“No.”
Judah’s voice was low and steady.
“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, Ramey. But I know you’re hurting. And I don’t know if yesterday scared you, or made you mad, or what, but I know it made you feel something.”
The smoky gray cat with the mangy tail came out from underneath a parked car across the street and sauntered down the road. Judah watched its shoulders move through its ragged fur and kept his eyes on the animal so he wouldn’t have to look at Ramey.
“And I know this show ain’t over. There’s still a rough road ahead of us and you keep saying you want to go down it with me. But if we’re gonna do this, if we’re gonna walk side by side to wherever this leads us, then we got to be honest with each other. That’s what you been telling me all along.”
Judah watched the cat and waited. The animal slipped underneath the shade of another car and Judah watched the space where it had been. A skein of sweat was forming between his and Ramey’s palms, but still he wouldn’t let her go. Finally, he looked up into her face. Her mouth was set in a rigid line and her eyes were lost. Judah sighed.
“Ramey Barrow, if you never pick up another gun. If you decide to just walk away. If you decide to walk away from me right now, and never look back, and never have no more to do with me in all your life, I’m still gonna love you as much as the first day I saw you, when you were five years old and you showed up in my yard, chucking rocks at squirrels. You understand?”
Ramey’s shoulders heaved and then her hand relaxed against Judah’s. Some of the tension went out of her face and her arms and she rested her head on Judah’s shoulder.
“When I started shooting, I wasn’t thinking. It was just you. And the gun in my hand. And they went together somehow. I had to stop them from hurting you. That was all.”
“You mighta saved my life, Ramey. I know you don’t want to think about it like that, but I might not be sitting here with you right now if you hadn’t started shooting.”
Ramey’s voice was quiet.
“I coulda killed those men. I coulda killed you.”
Ramey lifted her head from Judah’s shoulder and let go of his hand. She lit another cigarette and slid off the table. Judah watched her back tighten again.
“I wasn’t aiming to, but that don’t mean it couldn’t have happened. Or I coulda shot you. Or one of them coulda shot me. Jesus Christ, one of them could show up here right now and put a bullet in us both. What the hell have I gotten into?”
“I mean it. You can still walk away.”
Ramey waved her cigarette in the air, as if she was lecturing the empty pavement before her.
“I’ve carried a gun on me most of my life. Daddy made sure I knew how to shoot by the time I was ten. I been to ranges, I shot deer, I plunked away at tin cans and beer bottles like it was nobody’s business. I even pulled that little 9mm out a time or two.”
She turned back to Judah and crossed her arms over her chest.
“But I’ve never pulled the trigger with another human being standing in my way.”
Judah shrugged.
“Well now you know. It ain’t the same thing as just taking a gun out and waving it around and saying a few words. And shooting at people ain’t like they show it on TV, neither. It’s something different. You gotta be right with the fact that you might take a life, even if you don’t intend to. And you gotta be aware that once you pull the trigger, you’ve set your own self in the crosshairs for somebody else.”
Ramey narrowed her eyes.
“How would you know? You ever shot somebody before?”
Judah shook his head.
“No. But with my family, with some of the things I’ve done, I had to think it through enough times. It’s something I had to come to terms with a long time ago. I guess I’ve just been lucky so far.”
“I guess I just ain’t.”
Judah stood up and shoved his hands in his back pockets.
“I wish I could say I could make it better. I wish I could say, let’s run away. Let’s get outta here. Let’s pick up, go somewhere, let the chips fall, try to be happy. All those things you probably want me to say, even if you won’t admit it.”
Ramey opened her mouth to speak, but Judah wouldn’t let her.
“I wish I could. But you know I can’t. And you know I won’t. But there’s a reason that Levi’s wife lives in a fantasy world of soap operas and little dogs. And that my mama would clean Sherwood’s guns, but never ask questions. I heard my mama tell my Aunt Imogene once that the less she knew about what Sherwood did, the better.”
“I ain’t gonna be like that.”
“I’m just saying…”
Now Ramey wouldn’t let Judah speak.
“I know what you’re saying. And you can save it. I made my choice when I showed up at The Ace last week. I made my choice when I took you to Hiram’s and I made my choice when I started tailing those bikers and when I pulled the trigger at The Pit and now I’m making it again. I’m with you.”
Ramey’s eyes were dark, but her voice was strong.
“Am I rattled? Yeah. And I’m scared. And I’m pissed off. More than you know. But I’m with you. And this is the last time I’m gonna waste breath explaining that to you. Now, do you understand?”
Ramey dropped her cigarette to the hot pavers and stamped it out. Her jaw was trembling, but she held her chin up defiantly. Judah wanted only to take her into his arms and hold her, to run his hands through her hair, down her back and tell her that it was all going to work out. That it was all going to work out in the end. Instead, he squinted up in into the sun-blasted, piercing blue sky and frowned.
“You know this is gonna turn worse for it gets better.”
Ramey nodded.
“I know.”
“And I can’t promise you a happy ending. I want to, but I can’t.”
“I know that, too.”
Judah watched a second hawk swoop into the wake of the first. He finally looked away and met Ramey’s eyes. Behind them were fear, and determination, and the fierce gaze of unwavering loyalty. Judah had no choice but to accept what she was offering and be grateful for it.
THE WAITRESS who greeted Sherwood at the Mr. Omelet on Friday morning was one of his favorites. She had long legs, long hair and wore her shirt unbuttoned one lower than the restaurant uniform required. Add to that a push-up bra and barely legal status, and Sherwood had all the eye candy he needed for nine o’clock in the morning. He watched the butt of her tight black pants as she languidly led him across the restaurant to his usual booth in the back. He pinched her upper arm as he slid into the maroon vinyl seat and she winked at him before slapping the plastic menu down in front of him and turning on her heels. Sherwood craned his neck to watch her walk away and then smiled to himself.
He flipped the sticky menu over to the breakfast side and ran his eyes down the list of items. He knew the menu by heart, could recite it forwards and backwards in his sleep, but he still read it every morning and considered his options. He had just decided to order the number twelve special when a voice spoke from the booth behind him.
“Do you know who I am?”
Sherwood gently set the menu back down on the table in front of him and slid to the edge of the seat. He was bracing himself to stand up when he heard the voice again.
“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Cannon.”
The voice was slow in rhythm, but biting in tone. It belonged to someone who had utter confidence in herself and her actions. Someone who had the upper hand and knew it. Sherwood froze.
“I have a man sitting in a vehicle out in the parking lot with the window rolled down and a gun pointed at the entrance of this establishment. He knows what you
look like and he’s been instructed to shoot you on sight if you walk out of that door before I do.”
Sherwood didn’t move.
“There’s a man on the back exit as well. So sit down and don’t do anything stupid.”
Sherwood considered this for a moment and then slid back to the middle of the seat. He clasped his hands on top of the plastic menu and waited. The back of his booth shook and then a heavy woman with strikingly pale eyes meandered around the seat and wedged herself into the space across the table from him. She too rested her bloated hands on the table top, so Sherwood knew that she was playing fair. At least for the moment.
One of the waitresses started to come by the table to drop off a mug of coffee and take Sherwood’s order, but he shot her a warning look. The girl abruptly went to another table and Sherwood turned his attention back to the woman sitting across from him. She licked her pale pink lips with a gray tongue before speaking again.
“Now I’ll ask you again. Do you know who I am?”
Sherwood nodded.
“I’m gonna assume you’re Sister Tulah Atwell, that crazy preacher lady from up in Kentsville. You run one of them Bible-thumping, snake-swinging churches.”
Sister Tulah frowned.
“I don’t swing snakes, Mr. Cannon.”
Sherwood leaned back against the booth.
“Well, then, what do you do?”
“I deliver people’s souls to God. And I look after their business interests.”
Sherwood sneered.
“You mean, your own business interests.”
Tulah’s pale eyes flashed for a moment.
“So you do know who I am.”
Sherwood leaned over and glared at Sister Tulah.
“I know enough to know that I should be reaching across this table right now and wrapping my hands around your fat neck.”
Sister Tulah returned the glare.
“And then you must also know enough to be aware that engaging in such capricious actions would be unwise.”
Tulah glanced around the restaurant before turning her eyes back on Sherwood.
“I offer my condolences for your youngest son, Mr. Cannon. Such a tragedy. I heard there’s a possibility he might not live. I’ll be sure to pray to our Lord for his survival.”
Sherwood grit his teeth, but didn’t miss a beat.
“What do you want, you old hag?”
“My money.”
Sherwood’s face was blank.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do. And you’re going to return it to me. Unless you want one of your other boys ends up lying in the hospital next to his brother. Or in the ground, for that matter.”
A tinge of color rose to Sherwood’s cheeks.
“You gonna threaten me?”
“Do I need to?”
They stared at one another for a moment, neither one looking away, neither one backing down. Finally, Sherwood cleared his throat and settled himself on the squeaking vinyl.
“You’re a smart woman, preacher lady. And you’ve obviously done your homework on me, so try again. What’re you offering?”
Sister Tulah pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes.
“Fine. I want that money back. Now. And in exchange, I’m extending the invitation for you to enter into business with me.”
Sherwood laughed.
“Do you even know how much money we’re talking here? Maybe you don’t, since I don’t recall you being present when it came into my possession.”
“I am fully aware of the amount in question, Mr. Cannon.”
Sherwood picked up the edge of the plastic menu and snapped it a few times against the table.
“Business with you, huh? What, like being an altar boy or something? Maybe you want me to feed the snakes or stand around and catch people when they start falling over like bowling pins?”
Sister Tulah’s jaw tightened.
“I said before, there are no snakes in my church.”
“Oh, right, right. No snakes. Maybe you just cut the heads off of chickens or sacrifice goats, or something.”
“I think you are mixing up your religions, Mr. Cannon. And I, for one, don’t find it funny. God’s work is not something to be trifled with.”
Sherwood grinned darkly.
“You mean your work.”
Tulah dipped her chin and huffed impatiently.
“Perhaps you have time to sit here and play at this all day long, but I do not. Again, if you know as much about me as you claim to know, then you are aware of what I’m offering.”
Sherwood thought about this a moment and then titled his head to the side.
“How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you ain’t just blowing smoke up my ass?”
“Because, money aside, I could use someone like you. Someone who can take care of things that need to be taken care of. Someone who isn’t afraid to partake in certain questionable situations. I have societal obligations that prevent me from taking part in all aspects of my business and it would be beneficial to me to have someone like yourself on my staff.”
“Someone to do your dirty legwork for you?”
“Someone who would like to earn a lot more money than they currently do.”
Sherwood waved a waitress over to the table and pointed to the number twelve special on the menu. When the girl asked Tulah if she wanted anything, she received only a dangerous stare for an order. Sherwood waited until the waitress had left to continue the conversation.
“I want twenty percent of every gig I’m involved in. No matter how small my role is. Blanket twenty percent.”
Sister Tulah laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Fifteen.”
Tulah’s pale eyes narrowed again.
“You do understand how generous I am being here, correct?”
“How so? I have the money you want.”
“And I am agreeing to leave your family alone. To look past your sin of taking from me what is rightfully mine. I’m allowing you to walk away from this building alive.”
Sherwood started to speak, but clamped his mouth shut as the waitress brought a ceramic white mug to the table and poured steaming coffee into it. Tulah glared at the girl until she scurried away again. Sherwood raised the cup of coffee to his lips and blew on it.
“Ten percent, then.”
Sister Tulah nodded.
“That’s better.”
“And I’m keeping ten thousand of that cash for myself. Ten percent and ten thousand. Deal?”
Sister Tulah watched Sherwood slurp his coffee. Her mouth was curled in an expression of disgust, but eventually she dipped her head in agreement. Sherwood set his coffee down and reached across the table to shake on it. Tulah looked down at his hand as though it was a worm writhing on the table.
“We have an agreement. Bring the money to the Last Steps of Deliverance tomorrow afternoon and come alone. I know that I don’t have to worry about one of your sons, but I had better not catch even a glimpse of the other two. And mark my words, Mr. Cannon. It would be extremely imprudent to not hold up your end of the bargain.”
Sherwood withdrew his hand.
“You threatening me again, lady?”
Tulah slid awkwardly out of the booth and stood next to the table, eyeing Sherwood with that same look of disgust.
“I don’t know if you believe in God, Mr. Cannon. And I don’t know if you’ve ever been baptized.”
Sister Tulah leaned down so that her face was uncomfortably close to Sherwood’s.
“But trust me, you have no desire to ever, ever be baptized by me.”
JACK O’ LANTERN pulled his motorcycle up next to Long John’s Cadillac and cut the engine. Slim Jim rode up too far on the other side of him and then backed his bike up parallel to Jack’s. Slim Jim switched his motorcycle off and they sat together in silence, straddling their bikes and eyeing the dilapidated singlewide wedged back into a stand of pine tre
es. To reach the trailer, Jack and Slim Jim had ridden along the back roads, down a cow path and a winding dirt trail that twisted through the tangled oak, pine and palmettos. Even though the place was technically out in the back end of the middle of nowhere, Long John was paranoid and had made sure the trailer was as camouflaged as possible by the heavy, drooping pine boughs. The trailer was beige and white, with rusted trim and black garbage bags stretched and duct-taped across the windows. It was balanced precariously on a row of cinderblocks and had a ramp made of plywood and two-by-fours leading up to the front door. The smell of ammonia and burnt plastic reached them even from fifteen feet away and Jack’s eyes began to water.
Slim Jim pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number while Jack O’ Lantern scanned the trees, looking for movement. Slim Jim snapped the phone shut and shoved it back in his pocket. He frowned and looked over at Jack.
“He ain’t answering.”
Jack O’ Lantern nodded, keeping his eyes on the trees.
“Could be right in the middle of a batch. Course, he never picks up his phone for shit anyway. Might as well just go on in.”
Jack O’ Lantern threw his leg over the seat, but Slim Jim didn’t move.
“You ever walk in there when he’s neck deep in fumes?”
“No.”
Slim Jim shook his head.
“Trust me, you don’t want to. I made that mistake once and he nearly flayed me alive. We don’t go in there when he’s working.”
Jack O’ Lantern looked at the closed trailer door and considered Slim Jim’s advice. Slim Jim knew Long John better than anyone. When Slim Jim’s father ran out on his family, back when he and Jack were just kids running around the clubhouse yard chasing each other with wrenches and screwdrivers, Long John had stepped in and been a father figure of sorts. He had helped Slim Jim build his first bike and taken him on his first run. He had vouched for him when the time came for him to patch up. Long John was from the old guard, he had been Oren’s vice president, but had stepped down when Oren died. Before he lost his leg, he was considered the wildest man in a fight. Now, he stayed out of the fray, but had found a talent for chemistry. He could put down twenty beers on an all-night run, but stayed away from his own product. Long John said he loved to make it, but hated to taste it. Jack would have trusted no one else with the Scorpions’ only reliable source of income.
