Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  THE TOWN OF Spencer, North Carolina had once had two industries keeping it alive. One was Spencer Fabrics, a sprawling complex of mostly windowless brick buildings by the railroad tracks on the outskirts of town. That was where most of the town’s population wove and shipped denim for cheap jeans and rougher, sturdier cloth for car seats. The other was county government, as practiced in the old courthouse in the center of town and the municipal complex across the street. In the 1980s, the fabric business went to Mexico and the town discovered, to its surprise, that being the county seat wasn’t enough of a draw to keep a town alive. Vacant, dusty storefronts lined the main street, interspersed here and there with small storefront law offices near the courthouse and bail bondsmen clustered around the decaying jail on the next street over. The jail had been the subject of a report on a Raleigh news station detailing its security problems after two pairs of inmates managed to escape on two separate occasions within ten days of one another. There’d been talk of refurbishing the old structure, or even tearing it down for a new one, but no one could seem to find the money. Wyatt felt for Sheriff Elon Pratt, who he’d met at various law enforcement conferences; he’d known what it felt like to be caught between the public’s demand for safety and its unwillingness to spend any money for it. Politicians like Henry could navigate those waters; lawmen like Wyatt McGee and Elon Pratt never seemed to get the knack.

  Wyatt pulled his truck into the parking lot of the Spencer County Public Safety Building, a mid-sixties structure that spread out in two long wings on either side of a central entranceway. The white paint was old and cracking on the building’s facade, but the strip of grass in front and the hedges beneath the office windows that looked out onto the parking lot were immaculately trimmed, most likely by inmates from the jail.

  The heat of the day hit Wyatt hard as he got out of the truck. He broke into a sweat immediately. The sweat and his roiling stomach let him know he wasn’t fully recovered from last night’s binge. He leaned on his truck for a moment before heading inside.

  The air in the building was frigid from an air conditioning system cranked to full blast, and he was shivering by the time he got to the front desk, where a short, cheerful young woman looked up and gave him a big smile. “Can I help you?” she said.

  Yeah, Wyatt thought, can I just lie down on this cool floor and sleep for a while? “Wyatt McGee,” he said. “To see Sheriff Pratt.”

  The smile never wavered. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I, um, called ahead.” It was technically true. He’d used his cell phone to call the number he still had in his contacts for Pratt’s personal number, but had only gotten voice mail.

  “I’ll check,” the woman said, but as she reached for her phone, a voice from behind her boomed, “Well I’ll be damned. Wyatt McGee.”

  Wyatt looked up as the young receptionist looked around. Elon Pratt loomed in the space behind the desk, a broad grin on his ruddy, weathered face. Wyatt was a big man, but “Bear” Pratt, as he was known to close friends and voters who saw his campaign posters, was a giant, nearly seven feet tall and weighing over three hundred pounds, most of it muscle.

  “Hey, Bear,” Wyatt said. “Don’t know if you got my message.”

  Pratt shook his head. “Hell, I can’t figure those damn phones out. Can’t hardly work the buttons.” He swallowed up Wyatt’s hand in one of his huge ones and smacked him on the shoulder. “Whatever, it’s good to see you, brother. How’s retirement treating you?”

  Wyatt couldn’t help but smile back. To be in Bear Pratt’s presence when he was in a good mood was to be buoyed up on a wave of good cheer. Wyatt had heard that to be on his bad side was utterly terrifying. He hoped he never had to find out. “Retirement’s good,” he lied. “But I’m working on something. A favor for a friend.”

  Bear inclined his head quizzically, looking at Wyatt with narrowed, suddenly shrewd eyes. “Okay. C’mon in the house.”

  Sheriff Pratt’s office was large and untidy. The head of a moose that he’d shot on a vacation in Alaska hung on one wall. Another wall was decorated with pictures of his children and grandchildren, hung in such a haphazard fashion that it must have been done by Pratt himself. The big man settled himself into a desk chair that creaked alarmingly under his weight. “So,” he said, folding his hands across his massive belly, “what can I do for you?”

  “You had an armed robbery a couple days ago,” Wyatt said. “A store out in the country. I saw some video.”

  Pratt grimaced. “Yeah. It was on TV.”

  “So do you know who the subjects were?”

  Pratt’s earlier bonhomie was gone. “Do you?”

  “I think. One of them was a boy named Mick Jakes.”

  “Hold on.” Pratt leaned over and punched a button on his desktop phone. “Alicia,” he rumbled. “Is Garcia in the building?”

  There was a brief pause and the front-desk girl’s voice came back, distorted through the tiny speaker. “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask him to come in.” He leaned back and regarded Wyatt. “Garcia’s the detective assigned to the case,” he said, “Mexican. But he’s a smart little fucker. And you know how those people love to work. Makes him a damn good detective.”

  “Um,” Wyatt said, unsure of how to deal with casual racism and effusive praise in the same statement. His confusion was cut short as Garcia arrived at the office door. He was a short, round man with a military crew cut and a serious face.

  “You wanted to see me, Sheriff?”

  “Yeah.” Pratt motioned at Wyatt. “This is Wyatt McGee. Used to be sheriff in Clark County. He may know something about the robbery at Gary’s.”

  Garcia looked dubiously at Wyatt. “Yes, sir.”

  Pratt levered himself ponderously out of his chair. “You fellas share what you have.” He grimaced. “I got a meeting with some empty suit from some bullshit governor’s crime commission. Just close the door when you leave.” He sighed and lumbered out the door.

  Garcia watched him go, then turned back to Wyatt. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said with careful politeness, “but I’m not sure what your position is here.”

  “I don’t have one,” Wyatt admitted. “I’m trying to find out something for a friend.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garcia said, still noncommittal and trending towards uncooperative.

  Wyatt sighed. “Look, Detective, in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust me either. But here’s the thing. I know Mick Jakes was one of the robbers. I think the other was a kid named Tyler Welch.”

  For the first time, Wyatt saw a glimmer of interest in Garcia’s eyes. “And you know this how?”

  “I recognized him. On the surveillance video.”

  “Yes, sir.” Garcia pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket. “Can you tell me how you know him?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said, “I helped take him away from his mother.”

  SAVANNAH PACED THE floor, waiting for Charleyboy to get home. Across her shoulders, she wore her favorite shawl, a black lace number that an old and nearly forgotten boyfriend had bought for her at a street fair because, he told her, it made her look like Stevie Nicks. That was a lot of years and a lot of miles ago, but somehow the feel of that soft, delicate cloth draped on her skin always brought back good memories and made her feel calmer. It was working today, to a point, although she still caught herself chewing nervously on one of the ends. She took it out of her mouth and sighed. She couldn’t figure out how she was going to get Charleyboy to tell her more about the upcoming meeting between Luther and Gutierrez without tipping him off to the conversations she’d been having with the feds. Maybe, she thought, I should just tell him. Pull him into what I’m doing. Maybe I can make him see… She shook her head angrily at her own foolishness. He’d never go for it. He was too in love with what he thought was the cleverness of his plan. He’d freak out if he thought she’d betrayed him. At best, she could expect another beating. At worst…the thought stopped her. Did she really believe Charleyboy would kill he
r? Sometimes, when he was in one of his true rages, she wondered. Maybe that’s why she’d told the female cop that Charleyboy not getting out of this wouldn’t be a deal breaker. She was a mother. She had to look after herself. And her boys.

  That thought sent her back to the computer to check her messages. No new ones, just the one that had made her heart leap. She scrolled to it again. Mama. We’re on our way to New Orleans. We’ll be in touch soon. Keith is with me. She’d hoped for some further word, some idea of when they’d arrive. She sat down at the keyboard, hesitating a moment before she punched in the address of the house. Can’t wait to see you, she added.

  The sound of footsteps on the front stoop made her leap up, her heart pounding. Could it be them? She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be. Not so soon. It was Charleyboy. She pasted a big smile on her face anyway. “Hey, baby, how was your…” The look on his face stopped her. “What?”

  “You look nice,” he said as he stood in the doorway. “That’s good. We’re going to have company. Is there anything in the fridge?”

  “Some beer,” she said, “and the rest of that bottle of wine. But who…” She heard the tread of other footsteps as Charleyboy stepped aside. She stepped back, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  Mr. Luther stood in her doorway, leaning on a silver-headed cane. She could see the two hulking figures behind him on the stoop.

  “Well, hey there, gal,” he said in a cracked and reedy voice. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of misaligned and yellowed teeth. “Been wantin’ to meet you in person for a while now.”

  “OH SHIT,” Chance said as she saw the big black Escalade pull up behind Charleyboy’s Mercedes. A lean, weathered-looking redneck in jeans, a red wife-beater, and the kind of mullet Chance hadn’t seen since the turn of the twenty-first century got out of the front passenger’s side and opened the door. A second man, twin to the first except for his green sleeveless t-shirt, got out of the driver’s side and walked over to where Charleyboy was waiting. The first man went to the back door and opened it.

  “Mr. Luther,” Winslow said in a low voice as he saw who was slowly getting out of the vehicle. “As I live and breathe.” He picked up the camera lying on a nearby table, focused the long lens, and began taking pictures.

  Chance reached down for her sidearm. “This can’t be good.” She pulled it from the holster and worked the slide.

  “Maybe,” Winslow said, still focused on the tableau on the sidewalk, “or it may be the break we’re looking for.” He noticed what Chance was doing. “Put that damn weapon away, Deputy,” he snapped. “What the hell do you think is going to happen here?”

  Chance nodded toward where the four men were forming up, with Charleyboy in front, Luther right behind him, and the two guards behind him, and heading for the front door. “You think those goons and Mr. Luther are here to deliver the mail?”

  Winslow shook his head. “If someone kills our assets, Deputy Cahill, I guarantee you Mr. Luther will be miles away, with a roomful of witnesses who’ll vouch for him being there all night. And the bodies will never be found. That’s how he works.” He raised the camera again and snapped off some more shots. “Make sure that recorder’s running. Luther’s not dumb enough to kill someone in broad daylight, even if he thinks they’re turning on him. But he is old and cocky enough to say something stupid.”

  Goddamn it, Chance thought. He’s right. And I hate it when he’s right. She picked up the headphones, put them on, and made sure the recorder was running.

  “YES, SIR,” Luther said, looking Savannah up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. “I’d heard you was pretty. But Charleyboy didn’t do you justice.” He turned to where Charleyboy stood, off to the side and looking as if he was going to throw up. “You been hidin’ this light under a bushel, ain’t ya? I guess I can’t blame ya, pretty lil’ thing like ’at.”

  Winslow, you motherfucker, you’d better be watching over me, Savannah thought. The idea helped her find her voice and her smile. “You’re so sweet. Would you like something to drink, Mr. Luther?”

  He turned back to her, swiveling his whole body as if he had trouble turning his neck. “Well, now that you mention it, darlin’, I am a little parched.”

  “We have beer, wine…I could make some iced tea?”

  “Beer would suit me fine,” he said, “as long as it ain’t some fancy brew like those man-bun-wearin’ faggots is drinkin’ these days.”

  She kept smiling. It was starting to hurt her face. “Well, it is local.”

  Luther snorted. “Ain’t been a decent local brew since Dixie Brewery moved to goddamn Wisconsin.” He shook his head. “But I’m bein’ rude. Whatever you got will be fine.”

  “How about your, ah…” She looked at the two bodyguards, still standing stone-faced with arms crossed behind Luther.

  “They’re workin’,” Luther said. “They’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Charleyboy?”

  He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Sure.”

  Without another look at him, she went to the kitchen. She opened the door of the old, rusted, and creaking refrigerator and leaned on it for a second, trying to get her legs to stop shaking. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. You’re not going to die today. Not before you see your boys again. That won’t happen. God isn’t that cruel. She opened three Abita beers with the opener attached to the side of the fridge and took them out.

  When she got back to the living room, Luther was seated on the couch, flanked by his two bodyguards. The two men, who were clearly brothers, never took their eyes off her. It was creeping her out the way they followed her every move, like the attack dogs they were. She handed a beer to Charleyboy, then crossed the room to Mr. Luther and handed him his beer, relieved to see her hands didn’t shake. As she took her own seat in the easy chair, she saw that one of the bodyguards was sitting on the couch cushion under which she’d hidden the burner phone she used to communicate with Winslow. For a moment, she thought she could see an edge of the phone peeking out from between cushion and frame and something in her died a little. But then Luther distracted her by raising his bottle. “To family,” he said in his dry, raspy voice, then turned his beer up and drank deeply.

  “To family,” Savannah and Charleyboy murmured, both confused.

  Luther tipped his bottle back down and grimaced. “Well, it’s cold,” he said. It took a second before Savannah realized he was talking about the beer, and that he was less than satisfied.

  “Would you like something else?” she asked.

  He ignored the question and fixed her with eyes bright and sharp and sunk in his wrinkled skin. “Family’s important, don’t you think? Most important thing in the world, really.”

  She took a drink of her own beer, positioning the bottle in a way she hoped would obscure her face. Oh god, she thought, what does he know about Mick and Keith? “I do,” she said. “I mean, I really do. I think it’s the most important thing in the world.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “’Cause I know we’re not blood kin. But if me an’ Charleyboy are gonna do this business like I think we are, we’re gonna be like family. That makes you family, too. Doncha think?”

  “I’m…I’m flattered.” She took another drink. “Sure. Absolutely.” She smiled brightly, wishing she had something sharp nearby to plunge into his heart.

  He took another drink. For someone who clearly didn’t like the beer, he was sucking it down at a good clip. “I unnerstand you been lookin’ for your boys. The ones the gummint took.”

  Her hand tightened on the worn arm of the easy chair, fingers nearly digging through the threadbare fabric until she willed them to relax. She took a sip of her beer to catch her breath before answering. His sharp eyes were focused on her, the eyes of a hunting hawk perched on a dead branch and waiting for the rabbit to break cover. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She smiled and inclined her head, raising her beer in a salute. “You’re very informed.”

  His smile was as insincere as her
s, but not nearly as charming. “I have to be, in my line of work.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “I never really got what your line of work was.”

  “Bullshit,” he said, the word making Charleyboy flinch a little. “I know Charleyboy here. He can’t keep his damn mouth shut. Not when he thinks something big is about to happen. He can’t resist braggin’ about it.”

  “I didn’t,” Charleyboy protested. “I swear.”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t believe you, boy. But you okay, as long as you keep it to pillow talk, Charleyboy. ’Cause now that I met your lil’ gal here, I feel a lot better. I think she’s got sense enough to keep her mouth shut. Ain’t that right, Savannah?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Luther.” She gave him another smile. “Besides, who would I tell? I don’t have many friends here.”

  He drained off the last of his beer and stood up, leaning hard for balance on the silver cane. “You got one now, gal,” he said. “You got one now. You need any help, for findin’ your boys or anything else, you just call Mr. Luther.”

  She stood up as well, hoping her long skirt kept anyone from seeing how her legs were shaking. “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good.” He advanced on her, his two goons behind him. “Now c’mere and hug my neck.”

  Oh god, she thought, then steeled herself. It’ll be like hugging Aunt Jessamyn when you were little, she tried to tell herself. The one with the warts and the chin hairs. You just have to get through it.

  It was worse, much worse. The hug went on about ten seconds too long, and it ended with a shaky, guttural “mmmmhmmmmm” of pleasure that made her crave several long, hot baths. But she endured it, and when he broke away she managed not to gag on the sour, medicinal old-man smell and give him the most difficult smile of her life so far. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Luther,” she said.