Like Lions

by Brian Panowich

  What kind of asshole does this kind of thing with his own kid around?

  Darby already knew the answer to that question. He was standing in front of a trailer that belonged to precisely that kind of asshole. Darby hoped this wouldn’t be a family affair. The bike belonged to Sonny’s boy, Reggie, but the kid could be anywhere. Darby keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Cricket, I’m not getting a response at the door, but there is definitely something rotten in the crock pot. I’m going to go scope it out some. Five-minute check-ins.”

  Static.

  “Copy that, Darby. Five minutes. Be careful.”

  “Aw, you worried about me, girl? I like it. Don’t worry, I’ll be done here in no time and you can show me over a pizza and Netflix how concerned you are about me.”

  “Just focus, Darby. Five minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Deputy Ellis backed down off the brick stoop, took out his weapon and walked around to the side of the trailer. He stepped over a rusted-out wheelbase and avoided some fresh dog shit. He held his free hand over his nose and mouth to fend off the pungent odor of both chemicals and feces. The air was thick and hazy, but he could see a shed twenty or so yards around back, a makeshift building made out of galvanized steel sheeting, nails, and particleboard. A shop-light hung free in the wide entrance connected to a long, bright-orange extension cord that snaked through the grass and disappeared behind the trailer. Darby shook his head, and wiped at his eyes. The shed was an open-air cookhouse and apparently Sonny Cole didn’t care who knew about it, because it was up and running at full steam. Darby could see two men in their skivvies wearing nothing else but gas masks standing just inside the shed, pouring something from a huge plastic jug into an even bigger plastic tank. Darby wiped at his eyes again and watched as the two men set the jug on the ground, but after a clearer look, he realized it wasn’t two men at all. It was two boys—two very young boys. It wasn’t Sonny Cole. It was his son, Reggie, and another kid about the same age.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered and slipped the Glock back into his holster. “It’s a bunch of damn kids.” He grabbed the radio on his shoulder, but before he could key it up, the sound of a shotgun being racked froze him in place.

  “Git yer hands off that radio, boy, and put ’em straight up in the air before I blow the back of that pretty blond head off.”

  Darby did, but not before pressing a small orange button on the side of the lapel mic. The distress call went right to dispatch—and right to the sheriff. “Sonny, now listen here—”

  “Uh-uh. Not another word. I ain’t playin’ neither. Now back yer ass up until I tell you to stop.”

  Darby took a hesitant step backwards.

  “That’s it. Keep movin’. C’mon now.”

  Darby took another step, and then another, and then one more, until he was back around the corner and the shed was out of eyesight. His heart dropped when he felt metal press into his spine.

  “Feel that, boy? I reckon that’s far enough. Now turn around real slow and keep those paws where I can see them.”

  Darby turned and lowered his hands a few inches. Sonny raised the shotgun to his shoulder.

  “Put them fuckin’ hands back up high, the way they were.”

  “Sonny, I’m a sheriff’s deputy now. You don’t want to do this.”

  Sonny took a step forward, shoving the shotgun in close to Darby’s face. “Didn’t I just tell you to shut the fuck up?”

  Darby winced and closed his eyes as Sonny looked him up and down, and saw the deputy’s badge. He laughed, and lowered the gun a few inches. “Well, look at that shit. Clayton done made a snot-nose punk his deputy? He really must be as fucked-up as I heard.”

  Darby slowly opened his eyes. Sonny Cole was as thin as a fence post, and he stood there holding that heavy long gun, staring at Darby through a cheap dollar store pair of swimmer’s goggles. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of filthy Levi’s and combat boots. And although Sonny Cole was a black man, he was shiny bald, and the patchwork of gray and bluish prison tattoos that covered his light skin made him look more like a Nazi skinhead—a Nazi skinhead about to go for a swim.

  “Sonny, I ain’t out here looking for trouble, but I can’t allow what them kids are doing back there to go on.”

  “I’d say the minute you decided to come here, pretending like you got some kinda say-so about what happens on my property, you came lookin’ for trouble.” Sonny kept the barrel of the rifle about a foot from Darby’s chest and the deputy kept his hands in plain sight.

  “Your boy is back there cooking dope, Sonny, and I’m a sworn deputy of this county. That means I do have some say-so about what you’re allowing to happen back there, and you holding that gun on me like that is enough to get you locked up again—maybe this time for good.”

  Sonny just stood there twitching and chewing on his lip.

  “So why don’t you lower the gun, and let’s put a stop to all this while we still can. I ain’t looking to come down on your family, man. I’m just trying to keep the peace here.”

  Sonny’s dark eyes glazed over under the plastic goggles, and he just continued to twitch and chew until he started to smile. His smile turned to a chuckle, and then to a full-on belly laugh.

  “Keep the peace? Are you shittin’ me, son? You been watchin’ too much Gunsmoke or something. There ain’t no peace to keep up here. That badge don’t mean shit no more. Hell, your boss—the sheriff? He’s the one callin’ the shots up here now. He ain’t no fuckin’ lawman no more, and neither is your dumb ass, so go ahead and climb your white-boy ass back into that shit-trap over there and git the fuck off’a my land before I seriously have to—”

  The screaming coming from behind the trailer caused both men to turn and look. One of the boys was yelling. Darby and Sonny both moved to the edge of the trailer to see Reggie running straight at them, holding his gas mask in his hand. The other boy was nowhere in sight, but a flash of flame blew out from the entrance of the shed and another scream came from inside. When the second boy appeared, he was engulfed in fire. He only made it out of the shed a few feet before dropping to his knees. Darby only made it a few feet toward Reggie before the explosion knocked him backwards and everything went white—then black.

  8

  MEADOWS FUNERAL HOME JUST OUTSIDE BONEVILLE, GEORGIA

  “Did they really just dump JoJo’s body right there in the front yard?”

  “I heard it was right on the front porch. In broad daylight even.”

  “That’s balls.”

  “That’s not balls, man. That’s straight-up crazy.”

  “Hell, they treated Coot’s boy like a flamin’ bag of dog shit. They might as well have rang the bell and ran.”

  “Whatcha’ mean? Like nigger-knockin’?”

  “Watch your mouth, Donnie, or I’ll nigger-knock your fronts out.”

  “Shit, Tate, that’s not how I meant it.”

  “Ain’t no other way to mean it, you prick.”

  “Will you two keep your voices down, and show me and my mother some respect?” Coot Viner glared at his cousins, Donnie and Tate, and both men went back to ignoring each other and trying not to look indifferent about JoJo’s passing. Neither of them liked the little shit that much anyway. His own father could hardly stand him. He was always running his mouth about something. He had always been the type that if he heard you’d been to the moon and back, he’d been there twice already. Everyone knew he’d end up like this sooner or later. It was just a shame he had to take Clyde Farr and the rest of the boys with him. It wasn’t like the whole family hadn’t told him to stay clear of North Georgia, but he was Coot’s only son so they all had to play the part. More importantly, he was Twyla’s only grandson, so they kept their opinions about the boy to themselves for her sake.

  “Sorry, Coot. I didn’t mean no disrespect.”

  “I don’t care if you meant it or not, Donnie.” Coot took a swig from a silver flask and rubbed at his nose. “A
nd the next time you wanna throw words like nigger around in front of Tate, church or no church, I’m gonna let him stomp a mud hole in your repugnant ass. Now apologize to him, too—quietly—and then shut your trap.”

  Donnie looked down at his dingy work boots and rubbed them together. Coot leaned over him and waited.

  “Sorry, man.”

  “I said to him, dumbass, not me.”

  Donnie turned to Tate. “Sorry, man.”

  Tate sat up a little straighter in the pew, crossed his arms and puffed his chest out. He liked having Coot take his side for once, even though Coot said the word nigger more than anyone else he knew. “Damn right, you’re sorry.”

  Coot sat back and yawned. No one else in the cramped chapel hall said anything, as the preacher delivering the eulogy droned on and on about how JoJo’s suffering had finally come to an end. A few heads nodded in agreement right on cue like puppets, but Coot just stroked his white-blond goatee, and yawned again. He knew all that mess about a great reward waiting in the afterlife was a load of shit. Dead only meant dead—no more, no less—just dead. Anyone pretending to know any better than that was just a damn fool trying to make sense of their pointless existence.

  The obese preacher had dark, wet stains on the armpits of his powder-blue shirt and kept wiping at the sweat running down his forehead. He looked more afraid of saying the wrong thing in front of the deceased’s clan than he did worried about his eternal soul. He was just following the same old script he used on everyone who cut him a check for his services. He was a cereal-box preacher—all sugar and tooth decay, dressed up like a can of soup to look wholesome and good for you. He made Coot ill. He hadn’t been inside a church, or a chapel like this one since grade school, and regardless of the reason for being there now, he couldn’t wait to get the hell out. There were enough gaudy plastic flower arrangements around the simple wooden casket holding his son’s body to crowd a landfill, and Coot hoped that was exactly where they ended up when this circus was over. He didn’t want any of that garbage coming back to his house, although he knew his mother would want it to.

  He slumped down on the uncomfortable wooden bench to get some shoulder room and stretched his legs. His suit was secondhand. It used to belong to his father, but it wasn’t cut right and itched like crazy. He pulled at his collar to loosen the clip-on tie biting at his Adam’s apple and began to feel even more claustrophobic. He was wedged into the front-row seat reserved “for family” between his two cousins and his mother. It was a good thing these places sat the mother of the deceased on the aisle seat, because it allowed room for Twyla’s portable rolling oxygen tank to be close to her without all the plastic tubing getting tangled all over everything. Every few minutes or so, the old woman would lift her veil and hold the breathing mask to her nose and mouth to ward off the emphysema. Twyla Viner was old as dirt and not in the best shape, but Coot was convinced the tough old bird would outlast them all.

  She also had yet to shed a single tear.

  That irritated Coot. He figured had it been his sister, Vanessa’s, son lying in that pine box, his mother would be a blubbery mess, but there she sat shrouded in that look of I told you so that made Coot want to fill a few pine boxes of his own. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his whiskey, but Twyla reached over and put a cold, frail hand on his knee. The skin on her knuckles was as thin as paper. She peered through the flimsy black curtain of lace obscuring her face and silently warned him to keep the flask put away. That irritated him, too, but he did. She leaned her head slightly onto his shoulder and wheezed a little in his ear. He knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.

  “Where is your sister, Daniel?” she whispered.

  Coot looked back over his shoulder, across the faces of his friends and the sea of people there only to kiss his and his mother’s ass, to see if his little sister had slipped in and taken a seat in the back. She had not.

  “I don’t know, Mama, but she said she’d be here, so she’ll be here. You know Bessie May. She don’t operate on the same schedule as the rest of the world.”

  “Her nephew is dead, Daniel. Your son.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  “My grandbaby is dead.”

  “I know, Mama.” Coot put his hand over hers.

  “She should be sitting here with us.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  Twyla lifted her head off his shoulder and took a deep hit off her oxygen mask. She pulled her hand away from Coot’s leg, but not before giving it the motherly “good boy” pat he’d grown to hate, and they both went back to listening to the Jesus-crispy salesman. This part—the church bit and all the preacher’s hoopla—this was all for Twyla. She needed it, and Coot allowed it. His part would come later. After the food got eaten back at the house, and the liquor got drunk out by the pond, that’s when his time would come. That’s when he’d get to plan the real party, and the thought of that was the only thing keeping the rage building just under his skin contained. He sat and waited until the sweaty fat man at the podium said his final “Amen.”

  9

  THE COMPOUND

  One of Scabby Mike’s men, a younger man with a scar that circled his left ear and a massive pink goiter on his neck, came into the war room and set a pitcher of iced tea, a bowl of farm-fresh apples, and a sleeve of red Solo cups on the table.

  “Thanks, Tank.”

  “No problem, Mike.”

  How hospitable, Clayton thought. Southern gangsters still retain their raisin’.

  “How about something with a little more teeth?” Clayton said, waving his empty beer bottle at Tank.

  “You got it, Mr. Burroughs.”

  Tank left the room and Clayton retuned his attention to the men at the table.

  “Now then, Leek, how about we get right to it? Why are you here?”

  “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, Mr. Burroughs, but I think you already know why we’re here.”

  “Then let’s not presume anything. Talk to me like I’m a five-year-old. Straight answers to straight questions.”

  Bracken let a slight smile invade his stony face.

  “Is something funny?” Clayton could feel his heart racing, but kept his exterior hard.

  “No, Mr. Burroughs, no disrespect. It’s just a bit jarring, how much you remind me of—”

  “Of who? My brother? Listen, let’s clear that up now. I’m not my brother. Halford was a selfish prick that didn’t care about anything or anyone but himself—and he was a drug dealer, who turned this mountain into a haven for other drug dealers. It’s important you know the distinct difference between us before you go to reminiscing.”

  Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Tank retuned with a jar of pecan hooch and a rocks glass already filled with a half-inch of the clear white lightning. He set them both on the table and Clayton wasted no time draining the glass. No one said anything until he set the empty glass back down. “I’m nothing like my brother.”

  Moe motioned for Jay to slide him the jar of shine.

  “No,” Bracken said. “You aren’t like your brother. I was going to say you remind me of your father.”

  Clayton wasn’t sure he cared for that comparison either, but he said nothing. His face flushed red from the whiskey, and rode out the after-burn. He’d forgotten how powerful the shine up there could be; still he motioned for the return of the bottle. Once Moe poured himself a nip, Jay slid the bottle back to the man at the head of the table.

  “Listen, Leek. The Feds raided all the cookhouses you and Halford had up here. They’re shut down—permanently. The marijuana crops are dried and fried, and now this whole place is on the government’s radar. It’s over up here, so even if I had any interest in allowing that kind of commerce to begin again, and I don’t, I couldn’t if I wanted to. The jig is up. Bull Mountain is a bust.”

  “I’m aware of all that, Sheriff. We aren’t looking to reestablish production of anything in your mountains.”

 
; Clayton looked at Mike and poured another drink. That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear at all. He studied Leek’s face, but could read nothing. He’d also forgotten how fast the shine could dull his senses. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Straight answers to straight questions.” Bracken repeated Clayton’s own words. “Bottom line?” he said. “My club still needs access to the routes we spent years building through here into Tennessee and the Carolinas. Alabama we can handle on our own, but Halford and his father had cultivated a relationship with your state police, Georgia Highway Patrol, and all the other state-level law-enforcement agencies that operate in this region. Those relationships are quickly drying up. You’re in a unique position to help us maintain those relationships, even more so than your predecessor.”

  “My predecessor?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Burroughs. Again, I mean no offense, I’m simply trying to be delicate here. I mean your brother.”

  Clayton waved it off. “And my unique position is that I happen to be the county sheriff.”

  “Yes. We’ve spent a lot of time and money building a vast blind spot stretching from Valdosta to Gatlinburg, and this area is crucial to our business, seeing as it’s the gateway to so many other regions that we do business in. We need that blind spot to stay blind, and we need the guarantee of safety we’ve received in the past to continue our operations.”

  “What operations?”

  “That’s our concern.”

  “No, you’re making it the concern of everyone who lives here by wanting to travel through our mountains. It’s a fair question that everyone in this room needs to have answered to know whether it’s something to even continue talking about. I’ve already told you I won’t help reboot the meth trade up here, even if that just means my office turning a blind eye, while you hustle it through. If that’s what we’re talking about here, then it’s no different than what you had going on before, and my answer is no.”