Willie jerked from the fantasy as if he’d been shocked in the ass by a cattle prod.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You had that stupid, faraway grin on your ugly mug and judging from your banana wood there, I’m guessing you were thinking about Halle.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Man, I’m telling you, we should pick her up sometime. She’s always wandering around town. Take her down to the lake…take her down everywhere.”
An image flashed of Halle at the hands of a fat animal like Bub and his stomach rolled. He flicked the cigarette toward the truck. Right now, Bub ogled over Halle and joked around. But eventually he’d quit joking and his pea brain would try to turn fantasy to reality.
“Don’t even think about it, Bub.”
“Or what?” Bub must’ve been feeling better and clambered forward, dropping his boat-feet to the ground. He demonstrated the unwavering loyalty of a dog, but even a dog could turn and kill the man holding his leash. To set things to order, the master pulls on the leash and the dog obeys. Willie needed to yank on Bub’s leash.
Willie reached on to the porch rail and picked up his butterfly knife. With practiced dexterity and a glimmer of sunlight on silver, he exposed the blade, locked the handles together and threw the knife at Bub’s feet. The blade buried itself inches from his toes. Bub’s fleshy jaw hung open. Willie puffed as wide as his skinny chest could expand.
“Touch Halle and I’ll cut your balls off. Got it?”
Bub closed his mouth. He kicked the knife over and winced back on to the truck bed, scooching back like a crab while holding his side. “You’re a crazy sumbitch, you know it?”
Willie played the part of the powerless pawn working under Shane, and it felt good to throw his weight around. He nodded and went back to the house. Dollar signs rolled as he shattered the sheets of Devil Ice and bagged the results. With those dollar signs translating to bills in his pockets, he floated back to Halle and picked up with the imagined scenario in the pickup truck. This time, instead of sex, the two of them left Warsaw together for the bright lights of Kansas City.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Howie Skaggs teetered on the side of his bed, holding his throbbing head in his hands. With his eyes clamped shut against the piercing daylight blasting through the smoke-yellowed windows of the trailer, he grabbed his cigarettes off the end table. Without opening his eyes, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in as the nausea stirred in his belly. He glanced at the clock and groaned. He’d been in bed all day and now had only an hour to get to the cook house by six o’clock or Willie would have his ass.
Hank Williams, Jr. nailed it; the hangovers hurt more than they used to. A few years ago, he could've pounded the same amount of beers at the bar as he did last night and been right as rain today. But the mileage on his body since then had taken a toll. He had a vague recollection of dancing with Marcie Wallows to the music blaring from the blown juke box speakers at the Turn It Loose. He opened his eyes and touched the top of his head, wincing at the bump and the memory of Daryl, Marcie’s husband, busting a pool cue across his noggin for groping his old lady while they grinded to some techno-pop garbage. Bub threw the man into the parking lot. Howie glanced to his swollen knuckles. He and Bub took turns pummeling the guy’s face raw. When Daryl slid down the side of a rusted out pickup with half an ounce of consciousness, Howie walked back in the bar and picked up where he left off with Marcie. Either she didn’t know her husband just got his ass kicked like a narc at a biker rally, or she didn’t care.
Someone hammered on the door to the trailer. Probably Willie there to get him back to the cook house. Howie slid to the edge of the bed, trying to find the will to stand. The door thundered again.
“All right, all right,” Howie shouted, recoiling at the reverberations in his beer-soaked brain. “What the hell is so important?”
He flung open the trailer door and froze. Not Willie, but Bear with his paw on a holstered pistol. Randy Daniels, one of the local deputies who everyone called Sad Dog, leaned against the squad car, his sturdy arms cradling a shotgun. A pale hulk with a thickset face, and cropped, red hair, Randy wore his patented “don’t fuck with me” look. Howie was one of the few people in town who knew why people called Randy “Sad Dog,” but it wasn’t worth the ass beating Randy would lay on him if he told anyone.
“We need to talk, Howie,” Bear said. “Mind if I come in?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Howie stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “What’s up, Bear?”
“You’re up,” Bear said. “You and that shit heap Bub beat the hell out of Daryl Wallows last night. He’s up in Clinton in a hospital bed with his jaw wired shut and three broken ribs.”
Howie cursed internally. Bear’s sights had locked on him and wasn’t about to let it go. His mind did a quick inventory of the trailer. His unlawful pistol and a couple of stones of Devil Ice he’d pilfered from the cook house sat on his dresser. Shane’s angry face floated across his mind’s eye. He was in deep, deep shit.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Howie said.
“Yeah, you do. You okay? You look nervous all of a sudden. Something inside I need to be worried about?”
“Nah,” Howie said, anxious to get Bear away from the trailer. He tried passing Bear, appearing casual. “Let’s go to the station and talk about it.”
Bear stopped Howie in his tracks with an arm to his shoulder. “Hey, you ain’t getting in my car in your goddamn boxer shorts. Go cover up that little dick with some clothes.”
Howie turned and glanced over his bony shoulder. Bear breathed down his neck. He should’ve known they wouldn’t let him go in by himself. He tried to dart inside and pull the door shut, but Bear grabbed it, stepping inside and pushing Howie back.
“Hey,” Howie yelled out as Bear passed. “You ever hear of unlawful entry?”
“You a fucking lawyer now? You invited me in. Besides, it’s pretty rude to try and slam a door in a cop’s face, Howie.” He crushed Howie against the wall with his substantial bulk. “What have you got to hide in here?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, eyes cast down, praying Bear wouldn’t look to the bedroom. The freaking gun and baggie sat in the open. No such luck. Bear saw them and smiled.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Bear said, clamping on Howie’s neck. Daniels caught him as Bear shoved Howie out the door. “Cuff him, Sad Dog.”
Daniels face-planted Howie on the uncomfortably warm hood of the Crown Vic and Howie grunted as the handcuffs bit into his wrists. Wearing only boxers, there was nothing to frisk so Daniels pulled him upright and leaned him against the car. Things crashed and banged inside his trailer for a few minutes before Bear came out with the butt of the pistol in one hand and the bag of Devil Ice in his other. A pair of jeans and a shirt draped over his arm. He tossed the clothes on the ground when he got to the car.
“Jesus God,” Daniels said. “This guy smells like ass.”
“He’s getting ready to smell a hell of a lot worse,” Bear said, examining the pistol. He handed it to Daniels who checked it to ensure it wasn’t loaded and placed it on the hood of the cruiser. Bear held up the baggie, the afternoon sun lighting up the red rocks like a half-ass prism. “What’s this?”
“It ain’t mine,” Howie said, ashamed the lamest and most tired excuse crossed his lips.
“Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t. Where did you get it?”
“How should I know if it ain’t mine?”
Bear grabbed Howie’s face, digging his powerful fingers into his cheeks.
“Don’t dick with me, Howie. Where did you get it?”
A million comebacks flooded Howie’s brain. Should he continue to plead ignorance, or maybe try feeding Bear enough information that he might cut Howie loose? It took a few seconds to conclude silence was the only response to guarantee Shane wouldn’t slice his balls off and feed them to his mountain of a bodyguard. He clamped his l
ips together.
“Nothing?” Bear said. “Fine, we’ll take you in and have a little discussion. You’re on probation, right?”
Howie had six months remaining from a previous illegal weapon and meth possession charge. He’d served fourteen months in the county jail with no desire to go back. But he didn’t answer Bear.
“Well,” Bear continued, releasing Howie’s face. He put a thick finger under Howie’s chin and raised his head so their gazes locked. He dangled the Devil Ice in front of him. “You better start figuring a way to help yourself out, Howie. I don’t know what this red shit is yet, but I’m guessin’ it ain’t Jolly Ranchers.”
Bear motioned to Daniels who wrestled Howie to the back of the squad car and shoved him inside. They climbed into the front and talked as if Howie wasn’t even there.
“Well, what do you think?” Daniels asked.
“I think some heads are gonna roll over this, Sad Dog.” Bear held up the baggie and flicked the rocks inside. “Some heads are gonna roll starting with this shithead in the back.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
About the time Bear pulled Howie out of his trailer, Jake pulled up to the Hospice House entrance. The single-story, cream-brick building rested at the back of a long, macadam driveway that set it apart from the traffic of Highway 50. Jake crept up the drive, the thick pine trees on either side thinning out until the building spilled in front of him. He stopped at the entrance, shut off the engine and stared across his old man to the front door. He’d phoned ahead to the director to let her know he was on his way. Stony’s gaunt face rolled from the window. Bloodshot eyes squinted at him.
“Where are we?” Stony rasped, his bony hands tightening over his stomach. Though it had been a decade since Jake heard the man’s voice, the mere sound of it raised his blood pressure. The last conversation involved him saying “Hold on” when Jake made a rare call to talk to Janey.
“Hospice in Sedalia,” Jake said.
Stony’s thin lips curled upward into his patented shit-eating grin before a coughing spasm racked his body. It took a good minute for the fit to pass.
“Aw, man.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fucking Hospice? Am I that bad off?”
“Yeah, you are,” Jake said. He focused on a crushed bug on the windshield, hands alternating between his lap and the steering wheel. Another coughing spasm lurched Stony forward. He covered his mouth with the sleeve of his gray shirt and Jake noted specks of red as he pulled his arm away.
“How long you been home?”
“Couple of days.”
“Staying long?” Stony asked.
Jake ground his teeth. When the hell would someone come out and get him? “Just long enough. Not a day more.”
Stony reached a shaky hand to the door and pushed himself up in the seat. He squinted across the cab.
“You doing okay? You look good,” Stony said, his demeanor catching Jake off guard.
“Doing fine, Stony,” Jake managed, his white knuckled hands squeezing the steering wheel.
“You got your mother’s eyes. I ever tell you that?”
“I don’t recall too many lucid father and son exchanges in our past.”
Stony chuckled a couple of breaths before erupting into a cough that rocked his body. Jake waited for this spasm to pass and handed him a bottle of water. Stony managed a couple of sips, wiping a bit from his chin with the back of his hand.
“You ain’t gonna get many lucid conversations with me past this one either. I’m so doped up I’m lucky if I remember my goddamn name half the time.”
This civil exchange with his father put Jake in an emotional upheaval. Your mother’s eyes…his self-deprecation. It did nothing but raise Jake’s hackles. Why did it take the decrepit old bastard crawling into his death bed to become civil? Jake sure as hell wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“I’ll make sure they spell it right on your tombstone,” Jake said. Pain on Stony’s face from the shot flashed, followed by a knowing huff of resignation. His old man knew it. Too little, too late.
“You know what I keep dreaming about? Playing catch in the front yard with that scuffed up, old football you got for Christmas when you were six or seven years old.”
“Ten.”
“Took you a year to be able to catch two in a row. Taught you good, didn’t I?”
“It was either catch the ball or get your boot up my ass. Guess either I was a slow learner or your foot got sore.”
Stony’s gaze moved from Jake’s face to the gold ring sitting in the cup holder next to him. He picked it up, a smile breaking across his face.
“Damn,” he said. “Haven’t seen this in a long time. Figured you took it when you skipped town. And you kept it all these years to remember me by?”
“No. Just wasn’t going to let you do any more damage to anyone else with it,” Jake said, turning his gaze from the windshield to see his father’s smile disappear. Jake needed to get him out of his truck before he screamed.
As if on cue, a couple of nurses in bright, flowery scrubs emerged through the front door with an empty wheelchair. Jake waited for Stony to pop the ring on his finger. Instead, he caressed the rough surface and dropped it back in the cup holder.
Jake got out of the truck and opened the passenger door. The two nurses worked together to load Stony’s bony frame into the wheelchair. They pointed across the lot to an empty space in front of a line of evergreens where Jake could park and disappeared with Stony into the building.
As Jake pulled forward, he resisted the urge to gun the motor and careen out to the highway and disappear. Just hearing Stony’s raspy, three-pack-a day-for-forty-years voice box grate syllables in his direction cracked the door of past shadows. Jake had worked hard over the last decade to push them into a room of their own, to contain them and not let them wash him away. Now, with a few spoken words, the waste of welfare opened the door.
Jake drove into the parking spot, absently rubbing his knee. He had to see this through. If he bailed now, Janey would hunt him down. Stony would continue to haunt his dreams. The sound of the pipe shattering his kneecap would echo in his ears. He’d keep seeing Nicky in every junkie he met in Kansas City.
He hopped out of the truck and slammed the door too hard. As his boot heels beat relentlessly on the parking lot, his resolve built. With each step toward the entrance, his certainty solidified this was meant to be. It might be hours, it might be days, but Jake would be there when he drew his last phlegm-filled breath. When Stony died, Jake wouldn’t need that room of past shadows any longer. He would be free.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Halle Holden dropped her backpack on the couch, the old sofa groaning in protest under the weight of textbooks. She’d skipped cross country practice, telling Mr. Monroe she suffered from “female issues”—her excuse when a rare bout of laziness rolled through her. Today, she couldn’t handle the track coach’s running regimen he probably pulled off the Internet. Mr. Monroe may be a decent Biology teacher, but he was a lousy track coach.
She checked out each room, thankful her mom wasn’t home from Hospice. Lately, they’d butted heads anytime Halle explained her teenage rationale for doing whatever she did. You’d think being a straight-A student and on the Varsity track and cross country teams as a sophomore would buy her a little leeway from an occasional beer, joint or slightly missed curfew. Her mom cut her zero slack.
She donned her favorite pair of running shorts and a tank top, and admired herself in front of the floor-length mirror in her tiny bedroom. She twisted to and fro, admiring her muscled legs and how her ass looked in the aqua shorts. The summer of running those Ozark hills paid dividends. The boys at school already noticed how she’d grown over the summer. Even her big crush, Senior Mason Dell, did a double take yesterday when she passed by. At least that’s what her best friend Alicia said.
On her iPod, Sara Bareilles asked how big her brave was as Halle trotted out the front door, down the driveway and o
n to the chipped pavement of Poor Boy Road. She figured she could work in a quick three or four miles before meeting Alicia at their spot. Hang there for a couple hours and be home before her mom got back from her shift. Perfect.
The late school bus rumbled by as she hugged the side of the road. A lone face peeked from the back of the bus, little hands pressed against the dusty glass. Tyler Garrett gave her a wave with his little elementary school hands. Halle gave him a big smile and waved back. She babysat for Tyler on occasion, his house not far from the place she and Alicia discovered a few months ago.
It looked abandoned when they first approached, knee high weeds growing around a sunken, wooden porch. A thick layer of dirt and grime covered the windows and a screen door hung on for dear life by one hinge, rapping gently against the flaking front door. There were no cars, no lights, no sign of life anywhere. She and Alicia squirreled around the outside, wiping away the dust into makeshift peepholes in the windows. The place was furnished, but no doubt abandoned.
They didn’t venture inside that day, but over the ensuing weeks became brave and wormed their way in through an unlocked back window. The dusty pictures on shelves and old bills scattered on the floor clued them in there wouldn’t be an angry owner barging in.
Halle jogged at a brisk pace along Poor Boy Road, thinking of the bonding memories she and Alicia forged at the old house over the last five months. She giggled recalling their first marijuana smoking experience. Stoned to the bejesus and talking about boys. She reached the hidden path to the drive and ducked below arching tree branches, not thinking twice that the normally closed green gate lay open. She ran through dark shadows that mixed on the dirt path with spatters of light piercing the thick tree cover.
Rounding the last curve leading to her secret house, she expected to spot her Alicia sitting on the lawn chair waiting for her arrival. Instead, a white panel van and a familiar rusted out pickup truck were parked in front of the house. She slowed to a walk, panting hard, each step slower than the one before as her brain worked the scene in front of her.
Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1) Page 9
