Shotgun Boogie

by Steve Brewer

  "That's discrimination!"

  Clyde laughed. "That's the way it is out here in this so-called civilization. Everybody's all for freedom of speech until you disagree with them. Wear a swastika and you're automatically considered a threat to the public order."

  Daryl frowned.

  "Wear two, and you might as well be Satan himself."

  The kid liked that. His frown turned upside down and he nodded his big bald head.

  "That's why we get the tats," Clyde said. "To show people we're serious about our beliefs. It's a sacrifice we make, a ritual, just like people who get baptized."

  "I got baptized when I was nine," Daryl said. "In an actual river."

  "Really? What happened when the preacher ducked you under? Did you see God?"

  "I got water up my nose. Came up sputtering and coughing."

  Clyde laughed.

  "Wasn't funny at the time. The ceremony was supposed to be dignified and all. And there I was, hacking like the preacher had tried to drown me."

  "What did the preacher do?"

  "He made some little joke about it, I didn't really hear, and everybody sort of laughed politely. I was so embarrassed."

  "Damn."

  "I went back to this little tent they were using for a changing room and sat on a stool there by myself while other people got their turns in the river. I couldn't understand why God had let me choke up like that in front of everybody. I was doing this for Him, and it was like He laughed right in my face."

  Clyde wasn't laughing now. "Tough thing for a kid to face."

  "My faith was shaken before it ever got any traction. Things kind of went downhill after that, too. My folks got divorced later that same year, and we had to move to a different school, one fulla niggers and spics. It sucked."

  One beer left in the minibar. Clyde handed it to Daryl, who popped it open and took a deep, eye-watering gulp.

  Clyde cracked open the last miniature of Jack Daniels. They were out of ice, so he didn't bother with his smudged glass. He sipped the whiskey right out of the little bottle. Warm all the way down.

  "You were left adrift," he said to Daryl. "Aimless."

  "That's right."

  "You were still that way when you showed up on my doorstep. Searching for something to believe in, something that was missing from your life. A purpose."

  Daryl's wide face split into a smile. "I found it, too. My life, my real life, began the first time I ever shook your hand."

  Clyde felt a bubble of emotion well up within him, a fondness for his loyal lieutenant. Such an unfamiliar sensation, he had to shrug it off.

  "I believe you're drunk."

  "I believe you're right." Daryl laughed. "We can't go out and get drunk, so we brought the nightlife in here."

  "Safer that way," Clyde said. "This city's crawling with cops who would love nothing better than to hassle people like us."

  "More discrimination."

  "Aw, hell, who cares? That's like whining because the sheep won't let us into their flock. And you know what becomes of sheep."

  "Mutton," Daryl muttered.

  "That's right. After they're fleeced."

  "And the sheep have no idea what's coming."

  "Until it's too damned late."

  Daryl nodded his big head. He always beamed when Clyde got revved up like this. Always Clyde's most appreciative audience, first to clap, last to leave.

  If only he had a whole army of willing Daryls, Clyde often thought, he could carve out his own empire. A breakaway nation with secure borders, a safe haven for the white man. Then Clyde would be the bouncer at the velvet rope, saying who enters and who gets turned away to face the depredations of a collapsing society. While the outer world was reduced to rubble, Clyde's selected whites would breed inside the Anglo Brotherhood nation, busily multiplying while keeping the bloodlines pure. No mutts, no misfits. Only superior beings such as himself.

  It was such a clear vision, it sometimes overwhelmed him. Always just beyond his reach.

  "That's why these guns are so important, Daryl. They're a new beginning for us, a way to fence out the sheep while we wolves flourish."

  "Until we begin to expand our territory," Daryl said. "Then we can—"

  Someone knocked on the door.

  "Ah." Clyde got to his feet. "That must be Duvernay. About damned time."

  He stumbled as he crossed to the door in his sock feet.

  "You all right there?" Daryl said.

  "I'm fine. Just not used to walking on carpet."

  Truth was Clyde felt dizzy drunk. He swiped at his walrus mustache with the back of his hand, then leaned close to the door to peer through the peephole. A stern-looking man in khaki clothes and a gray jacket stared back at him. He had short, steel-gray hair and pale blue eyes and a jaw like a granite monument to manhood. He looked like a high-school principal dressed in the janitor's clothes.

  Clyde slipped the Luger out of his belt.

  "Hey," Daryl said, but Clyde shushed him.

  "Just stay there in your chair, you big drunk."

  He grinned to show Daryl he was only kidding, then he tucked the Luger behind his hip and opened the door a few inches.

  "Duvernay?"

  "That's right."

  "I've been calling you for hours."

  "I know. I finally had to turn off my phone."

  "Say what?"

  "Am I coming in, or do we have this conversation in the hall?"

  Clyde opened the door wide, showing Duvernay the Luger as he did so. He gestured with the pistol for the colonel to enter.

  "Put that thing away," Duvernay said. "Right now."

  "You don't tell me what to do with my own gun—"

  "Put it away or I walk away and you never see me again."

  "Jesus, why are you so—"

  "You're drunk," Duvernay said. "I can smell it on you from here. Drunken men should not handle firearms."

  His tone was so reasonable, Clyde could think of no argument. He shrugged and tucked the Luger back into his belt.

  "Okay now?"

  Duvernay's expression didn't change, but he did come inside the room and close the door behind him.

  "This here's Daryl. He's my second-in-command."

  Daryl waved from his armchair, but made no effort to sit up straighter.

  Duvernay gestured at the little bottles lined up on the dresser. "You boys have been ripping through that minibar."

  "Nothing else to do," Clyde said. "You said wait here for your call, then you went incommunicado."

  Clyde stumbled over that last word, but his meaning was clear enough.

  "Sorry for the delay," the colonel said. "There's been a slight hitch in the delivery."

  Duvernay still stood just inside the door, ramrod straight as he delivered the bad news. "The shipment is here in Albuquerque, but it's not quite in my possession."

  Clyde blinked a couple of times, trying to focus. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "A hitch, like I said. I thought I'd have the shipment in hand by now, but I'm waiting on a call."

  "Well, how long are we supposed to wait here, cooped up in this fucking hotel room?"

  Duvernay stiffened slightly, but maintained his stoic demeanor. He seemed like the most solid thing in the room. Certainly more solid than Clyde, who felt swimmy from the booze.

  "This is a very nice hotel room," the colonel said. "Nicer than your usual accommodations in the mountains, I'm sure."

  Daryl hooted his approval, which didn't help matters. Clyde kept his drunken scowl aimed at Duvernay.

  "Why don't you boys order up some supper? You could use some food on your stomachs."

  "I guess I know what I—"

  "Anything you like," Duvernay said. "On me. I'll settle up with the front desk on my way out. The room's on me, too."

  "Well, now," Clyde said, "that's different. We don't mind the delay so much if somebody else is picking up the tab."

  "My pleasure."

 
"Yeah," Daryl said, "that's mighty white of you."

  Clyde didn't think it was possible for Duvernay to get any stiffer, but the man did a perfect imitation of an ironing board as he said, "Excuse me?"

  "Ignore him," Clyde said. "He's drunk."

  "No, he brings up something that needs to be said. I don't believe in white supremacy. I think people of all colors are stupid pieces of shit until proven otherwise. That includes you two. I don't want to hear your dogma and I don't care about your politics. We're strictly doing business. Clear?"

  "Why sure—"

  "I decided to sell you this shipment for one reason only. You were the highest bidder."

  "That's the American way," Daryl said.

  "Damned straight it is. This little hitch changes nothing, except I pay the tab for your overnight stay."

  "As you should," Clyde said.

  Duvernay smiled without showing any teeth.

  "I hope to have your merchandise in hand sometime tomorrow morning. I'll call you when it's ready and tell you where you can pick it up."

  "All right."

  "Do you have the cash?"

  "Right there in the closet," Daryl said.

  Clyde gave his lieutenant a drop-dead look, but Daryl didn't seem to be registering subtle messages at the moment.

  "I told him," Clyde said to Duvernay, "to stay away from the tequila. It don't play nice with the other liquors. But he didn't listen."

  Duvernay took two steps to the closet and opened the louvered door. The overstuffed blue flight bag stood on the floor where they'd left it.

  "Not very secure," he said.

  "Long as we're here watching it, that's not a problem," Clyde said.

  "I suppose that's true." He paused, looking at the floor for a moment, then back up at Clyde. "Order some room service and have a good night's sleep. I'll be in touch in the morning."

  "We'll be waiting," Clyde said.

  Duvernay went out the door without looking back. As soon as it shut behind him, Clyde hissed at Daryl, "Why'd you say the money was in the closet?"

  "Ain't that where you put it?"

  "Yeah, but he didn't need to know that. What if he comes back here, trying to steal that money?"

  "We'll shoot him in the head," Daryl said.

  "We've got to sleep sometime. He might think it's easier to take the cash in the middle of the night than it is to deliver those guns as promised."

  "He said the guns are in a trailer somewhere."

  "Yeah," Clyde said, "but he didn't seem to know where. And we're right here, sitting ducks, with the Anglo Brotherhood's entire treasury in that suitcase."

  Daryl finally straightened in the armchair, which creaked with the effort of holding him up.

  "What are you saying, Clyde?"

  "I'm saying we'd better order some coffee with that dinner. It's gonna be a long night."

  Chapter 31

  Jackie Nolan woke the next morning with a sunbeam in her eyes and her mother's arm draped across her chest. Marge snored softly, as she had most of the night while Jackie lay awake, worrying. She'd taken some comfort in those regular breaths, a metronome of Mom.

  She hated to wake her now, but Jackie had a lot to do today, and she needed to get started. She eased Marge's arm out of the way, then climbed out of bed and padded to the bathroom of the motel room, finding her way by a shaft of daylight spearing between the curtains.

  "Jackie?"

  "It's okay, Mom. I'm right here."

  Marge sighed and settled back onto her pillow. Once she was still, Jackie went into the bathroom and peed and brushed her teeth and ran wet fingers through her short hair. By the time she came back out, Marge was sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered.

  "I don't know where I am, Jackie. I don't know this place."

  "It's a motel room, Mom. We checked in last night."

  "What are we doing in a motel?"

  Marge's hand clutched at the bedspread, faster and faster as she got agitated.

  "Take it easy, Mom. We're only going to be here a few minutes, then I'm going to take you to see Rose again."

  "Rose?"

  "The nurse? You ate spaghetti at her house last night?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  Jackie sighed and tried to summon patience. "I've got some things to do this morning. Rose is going to look after you while I'm busy."

  "I want to go home."

  Jackie had known this was coming. She'd cooked up a plan during the night, and she launched into it now.

  "We can't go home," she said. "Don't you remember? The termites?"

  "What?"

  "We've got termites under the house."

  "Oh, no!"

  Jackie winced. She hated lying to her mother.

  "It's all right. They're going to gas the whole house and get rid of them. But we can't go home until they're finished."

  "I don't like it."

  "I know."

  Jackie grasped Marge's arm and helped her up, then guided her into the bathroom and showed her the new toothbrush. Marge seemed to know what to do with it, so Jackie stepped out of the tiny bathroom. She left the bathroom door open, though, so she could hear her mother running the water and flushing.

  Jackie pulled on her clothes and boots, then shook out Marge's dress so it was ready for her when she emerged from the bathroom. She slipped the dress over Marge's head and pulled it down into place, then held her coat open for her to slip in her arms.

  "No coffee?"

  "We'll pick up some at a drive-through."

  Marge nodded. Jackie zipped up her own jacket and they went out into the morning cold. The sun had cleared the snow-frosted Sandia Mountains already, and the cloudless sky was turquoise blue. A winter breeze was blowing, though, and it nipped at their cheeks as they crossed the motel parking lot to the El Camino.

  "Jackie?"

  "Yes?"

  "When did we get termites?"

  "I don't know, Mom. They didn't tell me when they moved in. I just know the bug man says it has to be done."

  "How long until we can go home?"

  "Couple of days. But I'm going by there this morning to get some more clothes and stuff before they start."

  "Termites?"

  "Yep."

  Marge shook her head, worrying over the fiction, making Jackie feel worse.

  She got her mother situated in the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. The El Camino started right up, as always.

  After they were under way, Jackie said, "Mom?"

  No answer. Marge was staring straight ahead, watching the traffic, but Jackie was sure she could hear her.

  "I hate to do this," she continued, "but I'm going to need to use your charge card today, okay?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Your credit card? I've got to pay the bug guy to get rid of the termites."

  Nothing from Marge.

  Jackie said, "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

  Chapter 32

  ATFE Agent Romeo Sandoval sat in his federal Ford in the parking lot of a South Broadway wrecking yard, directly across from Duke City Truck Salvage. The Crown Vic's heater was running and he had his jacket buttoned up to his neck, but he still felt chilled.

  Romeo had never liked winter. He knew Albuquerque's climate was mild by most standards, but that whistling wind could slice you up. He didn't know how people survived in snowy climes like New England. When he saw people shoveling waist-deep snow on the TV news, he always thought: Why the hell do they live like that? Why don't they move? But then, he supposed lots of them would move to Albuquerque, and it was already too crowded for his tastes.

  He checked his wristwatch. Duke City Truck Salvage should've opened fifteen minutes ago, according to the sign on the door, but no one had shown up yet. Anyplace else, you might figure something was wrong, but New Mexicans tend to be casual about time. He decided to give them another five minutes before he ventured out into the cold wind.

  Romeo knew he
was probably wasting his time. One trucker told another trucker that he'd heard something about Duke City Truck Salvage. That's about as circumstantial as it gets. But he wouldn't be doing a thorough job unless he checked it out. And Romeo was nothing if not thorough.

  Besides, he didn't have any other avenues to pursue. Those two trucks had vanished into the night. The dead cowboy in the motel room might have been the driver of one, but so far nobody had reported him missing. Something strange was going on at that truck stop, something beyond mere theft, but Romeo couldn't seem to grasp hold of a thread that led anywhere.

  Which left him here on South Broadway, staring at a salvage business which likely had no connection to the stolen trucks. But why hadn't they opened this morning?

  Sighing, he cut off the engine and climbed out into the morning chill. A truck roared past as he tried to cross the wide street, throwing swirls of cold, gritty air in its wake. Romeo loped across the road to the front of Duke City Truck Salvage. Cupping his hands to his face, he peered through the tall windows, but he could see no one in the dark office.

  He walked around the corner of the building to the driveway that led to the two-acre lot out back. The lot was full of semis of various sizes and makes, parked cheek to jowl, as well as a few other vehicles, but nobody was moving among them. The three doors in the oversized garage were closed tight.

  The chain-link gate was the kind on wheels. It was secured by a padlock and a thick chain, but there was room for Romeo to squeeze through. He walked around the lot for several minutes, and no one emerged from the buildings to challenge him. It was a little eerie.

  Only one vehicle matched the descriptions of the stolen trucks, a twenty-year-old Peterbilt that was parked between two larger rigs toward the back of the lot. Romeo climbed up to the cab, but the door was locked. He peered in the window, but there was nothing inside to indicate this was the truck stolen from the dead cowboy. It looked, in fact, as if the interior had been wiped down recently.

  Romeo hopped down to the ground and made another circuit of the lot, blowing into his cold hands as he walked. Still nobody around, and nothing else here that would seem to point to the truck-stop thefts. He'd given up and was headed for his car when he noticed a back door to the office, right next to where it connected to the garage. The jamb beside the doorknob was splintered.