My life got jump-started the night all those storms rolled
through the county awhile back, the ones that dropped the tornado that wiped
out most of Greenville . If I’d been
smart, I would have hunkered down somewhere safe and rode them out. Instead, I’d
borrowed trouble. Or maybe it had borrowed me.
I was nursing a beer in the 8-Ball Lounge that night,
waiting for Thurston to show with my money. Gil had on the Weather Channel
instead of the usual Sports Center
The wind howled like a banshee as Dizzy came in through the
back door. The reinforced steel echoed through the barroom as it slammed back
in place.
“Raining yet?” Gil asked him.
“No, but it’s blowing something fierce. Wouldn’t be
surprised if we saw a twister.”
“Sounds like one just touched down in Greenville .”
Gil nodded toward the TV.
“Good thing you built this place like a bunker, Gil.”
“With the only liquor store in twenty miles, what choice did
I have?” He smiled.
“Hey, Diz, have you seen Thurston around tonight?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I heard just before I left the Legion post
that he got himself arrested. Way I hear it, he was loading up crates from the
Oyster Shack into the bed of his pickup when the sheriff pulled up. Didn’t even
have them under a tarp. Must have thought no one would notice with storms.”
I rolled my eyes. That would be about Thurston’s style. Rob
Peter to pay Paul then stiff the Lord himself.
“Anybody bail him out this time?” I asked.
Diz looked at me like I was crazy as he headed back toward
the billiard room. “With Janie gone now, who the hell would?”
Not me, that’s for sure. Even if I wasn’t dodging collectors
myself, he owed me enough as it was. Besides, he’d probably been tying one on most
of the afternoon to pull a stunt like that. He’d need drying out or he’d likely
be a handful. Thurston could be mean as a snake sober but drunk was a whole
different kind of party. A couple months back, he’d shot a man who’d been
ragging him about his name in the 8-Ball parking lot. Got him in the leg. Self-defense,
or so he said. Not that they’d ever found the gun. And nobody’d seen a thing. The
advantage of being born into the right side of the family, I guess. But with my
aunt gone, so was his protection. Not that it had ever extended to me. I’d
spent half my life getting punched in his headlock. Until the day I’d stood and
fought back that had earned me my nickname. Since then, he listened to me.
Mostly anyway.
“Hey, Gil, one more on my tab.” I shook the empty longneck.
“It don’t sound like it’s safe for me to go back to the Airstream just yet.”
Gil shot me a glare as he walked over. “You need a shelter, Brass,
you better get down to the high school. If you’re looking for charity, try the
Methodist church. Otherwise it’s cash only or get the hell out.” He thunked his
cracker-whacker onto the bar to show that he was serious.
Driving home, the Duster nearly twice got blown into a
ditch. That would’ve been about a perfect nightcap. I still had the letter I’d
found in my PO Box saying my unemployment would go dry after one more check.
Seven years degreasing aluminum tubing for that Norwegian outfit and six months
is all I get. Thanks for nothing, governor. I might have voted for you, too,
and would’ve considered it again if I could’ve ever dragged my ass down to the
courthouse to register. But that would’ve meant the bill collectors would know
exactly where I was.
The wind was swirling like a stew pot by the time I eased up
the dirt road to the lot I rented. My acre of paradise in the middle of
puckerbrush, up and behind the woodlot for the organic mushroom farm. Water and
a septic tank thrown with the rent, with a discount to keep my eyes open for
any drunk college students out shrooming from the state university.
In the glow from drop light on the pole, I could see the
door to the Airstream had been tagged as I pulled up. A plucky little
Watchtower jammed beneath the door ruffled in the wind but stubbornly refused
to fly. Goddamned Witnesses. Like they didn’t have nothing better to do. Why
the hell they’d trek all the way out here every Friday was beyond me. I suspected
Aunt Jane had given them directions before she’d died in a last ditch effort to
make sure at least some of the family would be reunited one day. My granddad
would’ve loaded them up with buckshot. Which is why he left the Airstream to me
and not her. Aunt Jane had been pissed. She had some delusion about extended
family vacations on the road, though that was a mild one by her standards.
The lights from town gave a greenish cast to the clouds
moving low and fast overhead. The high school was looking like a real
possibility before the night was through. The wind snatched at the Duster’s
door before I’d slammed it shut with a squeal. I was just grabbing the
Watchtower to add to my collection for lighting the grill when the hair on my
neck began to rise.
The wind picked up to a sudden scream. The drop light on the
power pole flickered. I cussed up a storm as I fumbled with my key. Just as I
jammed it in the lock, lightning and thunder exploded in an arc-welder of deafening
bright white light. Pink and green flames danced atop the power pole. The drop
light showered glass across the lot. A sign from God, Aunt Jane would say.
Just then something crashed into the Duster. I edged back over
to find a massive dent in its hood, a new one. Lying in the dirt near the front
tire was a blue metal lockbox with one corner slightly crushed. Where the hell
had that come from? Had it just dropped out of the clouds? As I stood there
staring at it with the wind plucking at my jeans and shirt, the sky opened up.
I snatched up the box and sprinted across the dirt that quickly turned to mud.
The wind ripped the door from my hand as I opened it,
slamming it against the Airstream’s body. Trees and branches snapped and
crashed throughout the woodlot as I fought the door closed from inside. Even
then the Airstream rocked and rolled like a bass boat caught in a thunderstorm
on the lake. I hoped the tie-downs held.
I dug up a flashlight and set to work examining the lockbox
as I waited out the storm. It was light and didn’t rattle much when I shook it
but enough to let me know there was something inside. The box itself was a
touch rusty with three numbered brass tumblers by the latch like the cheap bike
lock I had growing up. I thought about scrounging up a screwdriver when I
remembered how easy those were to pick. I ran through every number one at a
time on each dial, testing the lid for looseness with each stop. I could’ve
done it the hard way, it was only like a thousand combinations but I didn’t
know how long the flashlight would hold out. A dozen clicks later, the lid
popped open.
Inside were just some papers. God sure had a twisted sense
of humor dropping this on me. Hardly seemed with my effort but now I was
curious. And I didn’t have much better to do until the power company came out
to repair the line which wasn’t likely before I paid that third and final
notice.
The first page was some kind of receipt spotted with brown
mold that made my nose itch. I quickly set it aside. The second was a shiny
financial newsletter, slightly less spotted, touting gold as insurance against
a coming calamity that made the end times described in the Watchtower sound
like a trip to Disney World. Pure Fantasyland, and I’m not talking about the
Adult Superstore down by the Interstate. This Ranting Andy was almost as funny
as Glen Beck’s old Schlub Club routines on AM radio. But I thought everyone
knew they were set up as a joke.
That was until I went back to the receipt and found that one
Shelley Colson of Greenville had taken
it all quite seriously about a decade back. She’d bought into the gag to the
tune of ten thousand dollars for which she’d received twenty-five one-ounce gold
coins. Old school US
currency, not some cheap foreign knockoffs you couldn’t trust. Now this box had
my full and undivided attention. What was it Beck always said? Gold never loses
value. I seemed to remember it’d gone up some since then.
God had just handed me a treasure map. All I had to do was
find this Shelley Colson and I’d be rich. And He had conveniently put her
address right there on the receipt. I thought my troubles were over.
About then the flashlight started going dim, so I packed it
in for the night. The storm had settled to a slashing rain that beat against
the Airstream like a fifty-gallon drum. I fell asleep watching water run down
the dark window over my bed but all I could see were rainbows.
---
By morning, I’d come up with a plan. First stop was the
public library. If everything checked out there, it was off to Leggett &
Levine. And then to county lockup if everything still came up roses. I just
about had time to get all that in before Thurston would be stuck there the
entire weekend. Arrested on a Friday night meant he wouldn’t be arraigned until
Monday morning.
The library was crowded with families and morning people,
not my usual crowd. I headed straight for the computer desks. All full.
Upstairs, too. So I picked the wimpiest looking snot-nosed kid and stared him down
until he scurried away. Once I was sure he wasn’t coming back, I pulled up
Google Earth. I typed in the address from the receipt just like all those bogus
interviews the State Employment agency had sent me on. Sure enough, there it
was on a dead end street right on the edge of Greenville ,
a nice little house on tidy piece of land with a freestanding garage and
another building in back. Just across the state line. A little research in the
property appraiser and tax collector databases confirmed Shelley Colson was
still the owner. And that out building turned out to be a mother-in-law cottage,
fully plumbed. One more stop on the Weather Channel site confirmed a mile-wide
stretch of Greenville had been wiped off the map by the tornado last night, the
same one that had skipped over us. The governor had declared a disaster and the
Guard was on its way this morning. That didn’t give me much time. I cleared the
cache and browser history then headed over to Leggett & Levine.
Negotiating with the stepbrothers was the tricky part. I didn’t
think I could pull off this treasure hunt without Thurston as backup. He was a
monster of a man, six foot of lean muscle by the fifth grade and he hadn’t been
done growing. One good look up at him and most sane people fell in line.
Thurston wasn’t a kind of man you messed with if someone gave you options. I
just hoped I could control him. He ought to have sobered up by now.
Talking to Lewis and Lester took a lot longer than I
thought. Lewis Leggett ran a pawn shop that gave payday loans. His stepbrother Lester
Levine was the bail bondsman right next door. They shared the building with a
gentlemen’s club that they co-owned call Titillations which brought a whole new
meaning to strip mall around here.
Lewis and Lester were plugged into all the local gossip so
they both knew exactly why I was there. What they couldn’t figure out is why
I’d want to bail out Thurston before Monday. If he was mean drunk, he was even
meaner hungover. I was just hoping he’d be happy to see me. So I put on my tap
shoes and danced around their questions.
Too bad they both knew my unemployment checks were just
about done. When I suggested a payday loan, Lewis just smiled and shook his
head. Besides, what they’d advance based on my benefits wouldn’t cover the bail
Lester quoted off the computer anyway. Turns out that as well as simple
burglary that would probably get dealt down to transport of stolen goods,
Thurston had taken a swing at a deputy. Thank heavens he hadn’t connected or he’d
probably be up for manslaughter. But that swing and a miss had jacked the price
to spring him from a few hundred to a couple grand. After running through their
little game of back and forth for more than an hour, I finally broke down and
let the stepbrothers walk me through what they really wanted.
Turned out Lewis’s ex-sister-in-law’s boy was setting up a business
fixing up vintage Airstream’s like mine and turning them for a profit on
Craigslist. So Lewis convinced Lester to front me the bail money if I put up
the pink slip for the Airstream. Lewis was counting on me not coming up with
the money to payoff it off by Monday. Neither of them cared about the Duster,
but they let me pawn it anyway. That charity freed up another five hundred
which with the other just covered Thurston’s bail. They didn’t even care if I
drove it. They’d just repaved their parking lot and didn’t want the fresh blacktop
stained with oil. So I could keep it as long as I didn’t use it to help Thurston
flee the jurisdiction. Scout’s honor, I promised.
That white lie bought Thurston daylight for just over
forty-eight hours. No way they’d hold an arraignment without a lawyer, a luxury
neither of us could afford. But the public defender had been on Aunt Jane’s
Christmas list forever, so I knew Thurston would get the best deal possible,
probably community service and a fine. So I signed the papers that guaranteed
I’d have him back at the courthouse at three sharp Monday afternoon along with the
money owed for both vehicles or they’d turn us over to their bounty hunter and pet
repo-man.
---
I was waiting by the inmate release door of the jail when
Thurston’s paperwork finally went through, fifteen minutes before they would’ve
had to feed him again. I untied the rope holding the Duster’s passenger door
shut and pushed it open with a squeal.
“Where’s my truck?” he asked as he ducked his head inside.
“It’s in the impound lot. I only had the money to bail out
one of you and I’ve got to tell you that truck of yours made a pretty good
case. Besides, somebody’d likely notice if we used it to leave the county.”
After a glare that could have withered a Spanish bayonet, he
climbed in. He was still wearing his black hoodie from the night before. I tied
the rope off around the back of the seat. I started the car and pulled around
the parking lot.
“Where we going?” he asked.
“Greenville ,” I
said as I turned onto the two-lane road. I eased the Duster to just under the
speed limit. The sheriff liked nothing better than setting up speed traps right
outside the jail. Outta be illegal.
“What do we want in that two-hole outhouse?”
I smiled angelically. “Seems God sent me a special delivery
that’s just waiting for us to pick it up.”
Thurston glared again. “Don’t start all that Jesus crap with
me. I’ve heard about as much of it as I can stand for one lifetime.”
“Aunt Jane would be mighty grieved to hear that,” I said,
rolling my eyes toward heaven. “And so would our Lord.”
“Don’t test me, Brass.” Thurston stomped his boot against
the plywood in the passenger footwell to make his point. I heard the snap of
rotten wood. When I glanced over, he was studying the shattered plywood and
rusty floorboards.
“What’s that?” he asked pointing down to the gray that had
appeared between the cracks.
“Road,” I answered casually.
He lifted his feet to either side. “So what’s it you really
want from me?”
“I need your help with this pick up.”
“What makes you think I’m gonna to give it to you?”
“Besides the fact that you owe me money and I just bailed
you out of jail? Really, next time, you don’t have to go to so much trouble.
Just ask for an extension. We’re family after all.”
He turned to me and laughed. “I’m up to my ass in alligators
and you think I’m worried about paying you?”
“These gators got a name?” I asked, serious this time.
“Billy Long.” He pulled up his hood and stared out the
window at the trees whizzing by.
“You don’t mess around do you? How the hell did you get
mixed up with him?” I would have said I thought he was smarter than that but I
knew better.
Thurston said nothing.
“Well, my friend,” I said in my best tent revival voice, “I’ve
got some good news for you that’ll turn your life around.”
Thurston turned a smoldering glare back on me that looked
likely to catch fire any second. I told him about Shelley Colson and quickly
laid out my plan.
He considered it a moment. “She won’t take us seriously
without a gun.”
“No one gets hurt,” I said. Crowbarring someone out of their
property was one thing. Assault with intent was a whole other matter.
“Nobody said nothing about nobody getting hurt,” he snapped.
“We just ain’t gonna be like these dumb niggers I see on TV trying to hold up
some bank going buh, buh, buh. We gotta play this smart.”
“You can’t use that word no more, Thurston.” I said quietly.
“The hell I can’t. I got plenty of black friends.” He turned
back to the window. “You sound just like my kids.”
We drove in silence for a while.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought he might be
onto something. They definitely believed in the Second Amendment over in Greenville .
But I was more worried about a dog than Ms. Shelley Colson having a gun. Most women
don’t know how to shoot a gun even if they owned one. Dogs aren’t scared by
damned near anything. And once they latch onto you, even those little rat dogs
won’t let go.
“You know where we can pick up something on short notice?” I
asked.
He nodded. “We gotta stop by your trailer first.”
---
I pulled up to the Airstream and slid the Duster into park. In
daylight, the power pole looked like a burnt out mess. I was lucky the drop
line hadn’t caught fire and taken the trailer with it. God must have been
watching over me.
I trotted up the steps while Thurston just sat in the
Duster, staring off into the woods. He’d been the one who said we needed to come
here but he wasn’t moving. I wondered but knew better than asking. I’d pushed
him about as far as I could, farther than he would have tolerated from anyone
else. He’d tell me or not in his own time. Didn’t matter much since I needed to
pickup some things we needed anyway. I just hoped he didn’t think I had any
money to front him.
Inside, I scrounged up a dark hoodie, a folding buck knife I
didn’t dare bring near the jail and all my spare change along with the
emergency twenty I kept in the freezer. I grabbed the lock box with the receipt
and the printout from the library. I stuffed everything into a little black
nylon duffel I used to take to work. I looked around for what else we might
need, but couldn’t think of anything. It was getting late. We needed to get a
move on if we were going to beat the Guard units that would begin pouring into Greenville .
When I came back out, I found Thurston digging up a box from
under my steps with a tire iron. It could’ve been the twin of the one that fell
out of the sky. I could only stare as he knocked off the dirt and dropped it on
the steps, terrified of what he’d been storing under my trailer without telling
me. He just grinned like a maniac, which gave me no comfort at all.
He popped the lid to reveal a revolver, a Saturday night
special by the look of it, sealed in a scratched up Ziploc bag. Or mostly
sealed, anyway. I noticed a dark tear by one corner. I wondered how long it had
been down there.
“What the hell, Thurston? You don’t think to ask before
burying your gun under my trailer?”
“Not mine.” He smiled as he pulled it from the bag. “Billy
Long’s. He asked me to hold it for him as a favor.”
Which was probably why Thurston was tried to knock over the
Oyster Shack, so he wouldn’t wake up one morning to find a pig’s head nailed to
his door. Billy Long and his Asian crew had pretty much taken over the Boar’s
Head Lounge as a front for their loan sharking operation. I’m not sure exactly
where they were from, but I knew you didn’t want to call them Vietnamese. I’d
seen what they could do with a pool cue when they got mad. Made Thurston seem
as harmless as a school girl.
“Does he even know?” I closed my eyes like a kid who could
make the answer go away.
Thurston rattled open the cylinder to check the ammo then
snapped it back shut. “I consider this a freebee for the interest that shylock
charges. Besides, like you said, it’s not like we’re gonna use it.”
Sweet Jesus, this was perfect. I wondered if that was the
same gun Thurston had used to clip that guy at the 8-Ball with a while back. I
wasn’t even sure the thing would fire again after all that time down there. I
didn’t want to think about what would happen if Billy Long found out he’d used
it. I just hoped it didn’t have a body on it. It disappeared into his pocket.
I showed Thurston what I’d gathered up. When I asked if
there was anything else we needed, he shrugged. “Provisions?”
“Trailer’s tapped,” I said, hoping he’d drop it. Instead, he
hefted the tire iron as if weighing it. “We’ll pick something up when we stop
for gas.”
---
I eased up to the pump at the Zippy Mart just across the
county line. While I leaned against side of the car pumping gas, Thurston called
out what we needed through my window.
“You got any cash to contribute to this shopping list?” I
asked. He stared at me dead-eyed. Kind of his default expression.
I cut the fill up to three quarters then headed inside.
Thurston hung out the window and called after me, “And get some smokes. Menthol
lights.”
I hit the shelves first, then the cooler, a man on a mission
as I gathered up supplies. As I approached the counter, I was greeted by a
singsong voice I knew. Shit.
“Hey, Brass,” Missy Simons greeted me from behind the
counter in her tight white Zippy Mart polo. The 8-Ball’s number one barfly and all
around biggest gossip.
I dropped my armful of stuff on the counter. “Hey, Missy.
What are you doing here? I thought you
worked the store over on the other side of town.”
She twisted a finger around a lock of her bottle blond hair.
The carpet didn’t match the drapes, at least that’s the way Dizzy told it, though
he wasn’t always reliable. I sure wouldn’t mind finding out, but not today. “Mr.
Jenkins asked me to fill here in a while. Becky’s roof got blown off in the storms.”
She smiled down at the items on the counter. “You sure know
how to party,” she teased. “This all for you or you got a date?”
I looked down at my purchases and almost blushed. Fifty feet
of cotton clothesline, two packages of pantyhose, a six of PBR, a pouch of beef
jerky and a bag of pork rinds. I couldn’t help but glance out at Thurston in
the car.
She turned to look over her shoulder and gave him a little
wave then smiled back at me.
“Anything else you boys need? A pack of Trojans maybe?” She giggled.
“A pack of Pall Mall menthols,” I sighed.
“You sure you don’t mean Virginia Slims?” she laughed as she
reached up to retrieve them from the overhead, pressing that nice rack against
her polo. I snuck another peek as she rang everything up along with the gas. She
didn’t seem to mind. She never stopped grinning as I laid down my emergency
twenty then started counting out my change. I came up thirty-seven cents short.
It was turning into that kind of day.
She dumped the penny tray on the counter and added it to the
pile. “Close enough,” she laughed again.
I grabbed up everything as she scooped the change into her
register, hoping I could escape without further notice. I thought about asking
her to forget she’d ever seen us but with Missy that would be the exact wrong
thing to say.
“You two boys have fun, now” she called after me as I hit
the door. I could tell I’d be hearing about this for years.
I scurried back to the Duster. Now, we were on a deadline.
She’d get off around eleven if her replacement was on time. Plus the drive. If
she didn’t call someone on her cell. That only gave us a few hours to finish
this and get back home, tops.
“What the hell is this,” Thurston asked when I tossed him
his cigarettes. “I said lights.”
I started up the Duster without looking over at him. “I’m
not going back in there. We’re late as it is.”
He grunted but peeled off the cellophane and tore open the top.
He slapped the pack against the heel of his hand and pulled the one that stuck
out the farthest. He pushed in the lighter on the dash. When it popped, he lit
up.
“Do you gotta do that in here?” I asked as we pulled away.
He blew smoke at me as he circled the still glowing lighter
near my eye before returning it to its place.
“At least crack your window,” I coughed.
“Crack yours,” he said, leaning back and enjoying his
cigarette. Probably his first since he was arrested last night.
I cranked the handle and rolled my window down a couple
inches, which just drew all the smoke straight across my face. Like driving
with our granddad. Thurston opened a beer which foamed all over the seat and onto
floor then dripped out the cracks in the plywood.
“Sonofabitch, you could’ve gotten a cold one,” he said,
shaking the beer off his hand then wiping it on his jeans. He dug into the pork
rinds next.
By the time I hit the highway, he’d made his way through
half the bag. When he drained the last of the beer, he rolled down his window
to toss the empty then rolled it back up before he started on another.
“Save a couple for after,” I said, hoping to slow him down. All
we really needed was to get pulled over with an open container at this point. He
grumbled but started sipping as he tore into the pouch of jerky.
Once we crossed the state line, we shared the four-lane with
a bunch of dusky green humvees and deuce-and-a-halfs of the State Guard. I
thought about easing into their convoy for cover but doubted Thurston couldn’t
resist trying to toss the drivers cans of beer. So I blew past them doing
eighty. The lead driver didn’t much like being passed by an antique Duster, but
seemed to forget that I still had a 340 V8 and all he had was a governor. It
didn’t take long before he was just a spot in my rearview mirror.
By the time we saw the signs for Greenville ,
it was getting dark. About five miles out, we saw blue and red flashing lights.
“Shit, they got up a roadblock already,” I said.
“Take the next right,” Thurston told me. He rolled down his
window and started tossing more empties and the trash.
I chanced a look over at him.
“I did some work at the mill a few years back,” he
volunteered. “One of the other strike-breakers showed me the back ways in.”
When the two-lane came up, I followed his advice. From there
we wound through a series of roads most of which were dirt or gravel. Fifteen
minutes later, I stopped in a pull-off. By the overhead light, we argued over
the map I’d printed out at the library. Thurston finally got his bearings once I
pointed out a major intersection he knew.
Five minute later, I parked by some woods near the edge of
town. The full moon had just begun to rise. The temperature had really started
dropping. It was chilly enough that most people wouldn’t have their windows
open even this late in spring. Global warming like hell.
“First, we check to make sure this is the right place,” I
said. Thurston shot me a black look that rolled off me as he stuffed the
clothesline into the duffel. He slid the pistol into his belt with practiced
ease then retrieved the tire iron while I put on my hoodie. He ripped open both
packages of pantyhose. Cramming one pair into the pocket of his hoodie, he
handed the other to me. I did the same.
As we tramped through the woods, I wished I’d thought to bring
the flashlight and buy batteries at the Zippy Mart. Branches were strewn
everywhere through the underbrush. A bunch of pines had been sheared off about
twenty feet up. Something wicked had definitely passed this way earlier.
Luckily, the sandy trails were still easy to spot in the
moonlight once our eyes adjusted. We crouched at the edge of the woods
surveying the house, sitting on a full acre by the look of it. The tornado had
skipped through this part of town haphazardly. The freestanding carport in back
was nothing but a twisted mess of aluminum. Where the mother-in-law cottage
should have stood, I saw nothing but a slab with some pipes sticking up as if
it had never been built. Yet the main house looked perfectly intact. Spooky.
It looked like somebody was home. One room inside glowed
like one of those cottage painting they used to have at the mall. Judging by
the lack of other lights, the power had to be out to the whole neighborhood. I
studied the landscape trying to gauge the sightlines between houses.
Thurston nudged my shoulder. “What are we waiting for? Let's get in there and get this over with.”
“I can’t be sure this is the right house. Nothing looks the
same as Google Earth.”
“Ah, hell, Brass,” he growled as he handed me the tire iron.
“Why you gotta make everything so hard.”
He sprinted across the backyard. I stood there stunned, holding
tire iron and the duffel. It would be just like Thurston to barge into the
wrong house. Just about the time I knew I either had to back him up or forget
the whole thing, I saw him veer to the side and disappear around the front of
the house. For a big man, he was disturbingly quiet.
I waited for a response from inside the house or anywhere on
the street, a dog barking, a challenge, a flashlight playing across the yard, a
shotgun blast. Nothing came but the pounding of my heart. A minute later,
Thurston came trotting back with something in his hand.
“No number on the mailbox.” He handed me a sheaf of envelopes.
“What do these say?”
Setting down the bag and the tire iron, I took them and held
them up to the moonlight one by one. The first two were junk mail addressed to
Resident at the address we were looking for. That was a good sign. The last one
was to a Shelley Colson, something from the IRS. That was interesting. Maybe it
was a big fat check. I fished out my buck knife and slit it open.
“What the hell are you doing?” Thurston hissed. “Is this the
right place or not?”
I shushed him a moment. Inside was only a letter. I squatted
down. “Stand there and give me a light.”
Thurston grumbled as he found his lighter. After that
distinctive click of a Zippo being opened and a couple quick scrapes of the
striker wheel, a tiny flame burst to life. “Shield it while I read this,” I
said.
“Quit acting like I’m stupid.” Thurston hunched over me like
he was lighting my cigarette in a stiff wind. I skimmed the letter. It seemed
Shelley Colson owed the IRS a whole lot of money and they were threatening to
collect with an appraiser followed by an auction. That usually meant they were
serious.
I told Thurston to kill the light while I thought a second.
I wasn’t sure how this changed things but I knew it did. Either Shelley Colson
was broke or she was lying to the IRS.
“Well?” Thurston asked.
“Either we just found some leverage or someone bigger’s already
beaten us to the punch,” I told him as I folded the letter away.
“Only one real way to find out,” he said as he straightened.
I guessed he was right. Seemed a shame to have come all this
way for nothing. But everything happens for a reason, Aunt Jane always said. I
figured she was right. If God didn’t want us to have this money, He wouldn’t
have dropped that lockbox on my head. I stuffed the letter into my pocket then
picked up duffel and the tire iron again.
“No one gets hurt,” I repeated from earlier. “We’re just
going to scare her into talking. If she doesn’t have anything, we get the hell
out.” I waited to see him to nod. “Ok, let’s do this.”
“Back door,” Thurston said. “Then we try the windows if we
have to. Doesn’t look like the type of neighborhood that thinks much about
locking up.”
He took off again, dodging from shadow to shadow through the
yard. I followed quickly so I could keep him in sight. Within moments we were
making our way toward a pair of doors that opened out onto a brick paver patio
with a gas barbeque. I almost went ass over tea kettle on a lounge chair that
Thurston stepped around. How the hell had none of this gotten blown away? A
second later, we stood to either side of the glass-paned doors. The only light
glowed from somewhere deeper within.
Without so much as a whisper of a sound, Thurston tested the
latch. He grinned in the moonlight as it depressed well past the locked position.
Gently, he let it settle back up then stretched the panty hose from his pocket
over his head. The two empty legs looked a lot like pig tails once he stuffed
the last of his lank, brown hair inside. He shoved them under his hood and
pulled the drawstrings to tighten it around his face. I followed his example. I
never realized quite how hot it was to breathe through these things, never mind
how fuzzy everything became. Guess was glad I went with nude rather than black.
Thurston slipped through the door, motioned me inside then
softly latched it behind us. We stood in some sort of formal living room that
smelled kind of funky, like someone else’s cooking gone bad. The light was a
couple rooms away. Nothing else stirred in the house. Thurston pulled the gun
from his waist band. Then he crept down the hall like a cat on padded feet. I
followed. I was beginning to think he’d done home invasions before.
He stood listening just outside the doorway with the light.
Inside, I could just make out what I thought was a weather radio over the hiss
of a propane lantern. Thurston motioned me to set down the duffel. Then with
his free hand, he started counting down on his fingers. Three. Two. One.
He burst into the room, the pistol leveled. I clutched the
tire iron like a baseball bat and followed, nearly running into his back as he
stopped short in front of a massive bookcase constricting the doorway. Who the
hell parks furniture where you have to dodge around it just to get into a room?
After a nudge from my elbow, Thurston sidestepped inside.
“What the hell?” he snarled at me from the side of his
mouth. “You said she’d be a woman.”
I stepped up beside him, trying to look menacing. The room
was almost completely filled by a couch, three shelving units that overflowed
with stuff and TV stand wedged in a corner. The floor was strewn with newspapers.
There was barely enough space for Thurston and I to stand. A pudgy, balding,
middle-aged man occupied one end of the couch, the propane lantern hissing on an
end table like it was humming along with the static from the radio beside it.
Not a weather radio I noted, a police scanner. What the hell was that about?
“Just get him into the back,” I said.
“Ok, you, let’s move.” Thurston waved the pistol.
Easier said than done in the tight space. After a brief game
of home invasion Twister, we managed to usher him out into the dining room near
where we’d come in. He was short. Even I looked down on him. Thurston covered
him with the pistol as I tied him to a straight-backed chair with the
clothesline from the duffel. Then I lit some of the candles that were
everywhere and dimmed the lantern. The place was packed with stuff, magazines,
knickknacks, odd furniture. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought the
tornado hadn’t stayed outside. We were lucky we hadn’t tripped over any of it
on the way in. Here was someone who clearly had trouble letting go of things. Once
he was settled and secure, we got down to business.
“Ok, where’s Shelley,” I said as I spun another dining room chair
around and sat astride its back, “She has something we want. Tell us where she
is and no one gets hurt.”
“I’m Shelley,” the man answered. He didn’t sound rattled
which made me wonder if he’d be a problem.
“Don’t even try that,” Thurston said as he drew back his
hand. “Shelley’s a girl’s name.”
“It was my father’s name,” the man said, defiant. This guy
had more balls than brains. I could see he was going to be trouble.
“Irregardless,” I interrupted before things got out of hand.
“If you’re Shelley, you’ve got some gold coins stashed around here somewhere.
Hand them over and everyone walks away happy. You definitely don’t want to make
my friend here unhappy.”
“You two geniuses didn’t even do your homework, did you?” Shelley
smiled as he shook his head. “Does it look like I have any gold lying around?”
I glanced around the room again. I had to admit Shelley
wasn’t much of a housekeeper. The place
did look pretty shabby. The carpet was old and worn. The furniture had to date
from the seventies at least. The curtains had dry rot. There were stains on the
ceiling. The pictures on the walls were mildew spotted. Cobwebs hung in the
corners. Everything looked dirty, dusty or run down.
But I knew he was lying. Rich people always tried to hide
their money especially when they were in trouble with the Feds. So I dug into
the duffel and drew out the lock box. It didn’t look like Shelley recognized it.
He just stared as I opened it and retrieved the receipt from within.
“This ring a bell, Shelley,” I waved the paper in front of
his face. “Says here you bought twenty-five coins back around the time Al Gore
was getting his ass handed to him in Florida .”
Shelley peered at the receipt then shook his head, smiling again.
“I didn’t buy those, my father did.”
“Let’s focus.” I whacked the chair leg with the tire iron to
get his attention. “I don’t care who bought them. My friend here is getting
impatient.” And so was I. Nothing was going to plan. The longer we stayed the
more chance of a neighbor stopping by or noticing something wasn’t right. Or of
Missy talking us up at the 8-Ball after work and bringing the sheriff banging
on my door. Time to shake this guy.
“So you admit you have them,” I barked. “Where are they?”
“Sold.” He shrugged.
“Sold?” I said, uncertain I’d heard him right.
“Sold.” He nodded smugly. “Mortgage payments don’t make
themselves.”
Thurston drew back his hand again, but I shook my head.
Violence was off the table, though I certainly wouldn’t mind if Thurston put
the fear of God into him. But I could see Thurston was getting tired of being
told what to do.
“Screw this,” he said as he swiped the lantern. “Keep an eye
on this asshole while I tear the place apart. People like him always hide their
crap in the same places.”
“Hey, what about the gun?” I called after him.
“If you can’t control him with that,” he pointed to the tire
iron, “you’re a bigger pussy than I thought.” He tucked the pistol back in his
belt as he stalked off deeper into the house.
“You know if they’re here, he’ll find them,” I said in a low
voice to Shelley. “And when he does, he’s going to be pretty mad you put him to
the trouble.”
“You can’t find what I don’t have,” Shelley replied with
smirk.
Man, this guy must have spent half his childhood stuffed in a
gym locker with his underwear wedged up his ass. He was one smarmy little
prick. And now he was staring at my forehead. I kept wondering if I’d put on
the stockings inside out. It’s hard to take someone seriously if they have a
panty liner plastered across their head.
I heard Thurston crashing around in another room. Then it
sounded like he was breaking ice. A minute later, he called out, “Bingo.”
He strode back into the dining room with a couple beer
bottles entwined in the hand with the lantern. He tossed me a cold roll of cash
wrapped in a rubber band from the other. There had to be a couple hundred in
twenties. That would at least cover gas money. I shoved it into my jeans.
“Found it in the freezer in a box of lard.” Thurston set
down the lantern and one of the bottles. He wedged the beer cap of the other
against the top of dining room and gave it a sharp blow, popping off the cap.
“Predictable,” he continued, taking a swig of his beer. “But
no jewelry in the ice trays. Hey, what is this crap anyway?” Thurston shot a
disgusted look at the beer in his hand.
“It’s called Pilsner Urquell,” Shelley replied.
“Sounds German,” I offered. I never really went for the
imports. Too expensive.
“Our granddad helped kicked the Nazis’ ass and now dicks
like him are buying their beer?” Thurston said. “Something wrong with that.”
“It’s not German. It’s Czech,” Shelley corrected. Man, this
guy liked to walk on the wild side. You’d think he wasn’t tied up.
“What, American beer too good for you?” Thurston shot back.
He took another deep swallow. “Well, it’s no PBR but at least it’s cold. A bit
skunky.”
He grabbed up the lantern and headed off in a new direction,
beer in hand.
I figured I’d better claim the other bottle before he got
back. All I needed was for Thurston to get his drunk on. It took me a couple whacks
to get mine open. Shelley didn’t even cringe at the teeth-marks the bottle cap
gouged into the wood. Thurston was right; it was bitter. But it was also
potent.
Down the hall, it sounded like Thurston was ransacking
closets. I wondered how far the noise would carry. At least there was a lot of
space between the houses here in the back of the neighborhood. But we were
running out of time. Our luck wouldn’t hold forever.
A few minutes later, Thurston came back with a flat,
fireproof box under one arm, grinning like he’d hit the lottery. The beer was
gone. “Look what I found buried beneath a pile of this asshole’s dirty laundry.
Turns out he’s leaves skid marks just like the rest of us.”
“There’s nothing in there but some of my father’s old
papers,” Shelley said.
“Guess we’ll find out.” Thurston slammed the box down on the
table and went nose to nose with Shelley with his best intimidating stare.
“You’ve got until I get back from the kitchen to tell me where the key is.”
I started to say something, but then Thurston turned his
lifeless eyes on me. He left without saying a word.
I turned to Shelley instead. “I’d give him what he wants.” I
took a long draw from my own beer.
“You keep him on a short leash,” he said, “just like my mother
did my father. I’ve been beaten up by the best of them. I can tell you’re not
going to let him hurt me.”
I wasn’t sure if he was brilliant, crazy or just plain stupid.
“I wouldn’t count on that if I was you.”
Thurston came back with another four bottles tangled in his
fingers. “You might want to pick up more beer the next time you’re at the
store,” he said as he set them each on the table with a thunk. “Buy American
this time.”
He cracked open a new one and slung a chair around to face
Shelley. “Now where’s the key, Shelley-girl?”
“I think I lost it,” he said, the smirk back on his face.
Like getting beat up was a point of pride with this guy.
“Wrong answer, but thanks for playing.” Thurston took
another pull off his beer then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. He
started rubbing a finger across the scars we’d put in the table. “Tell you
what, we’re going to play a game. These skanky Nazi beers are really pissing me
off. So each time I finish one, I’m going to find a way to vent my anger. When
I’m outta beer, you’re outta time.” He looked around the dining room and
spotted a china cabinet loaded with dishes. He smiled evilly at Shelley and downed
the rest of the bottle in one long gulp. “I think I’ll start in there.”
“Tell him what he wants to hear, Shelley,” I said, leaning
back to watch. “I’ve only seen him like this once before and it got ugly fast.”
I wasn’t lying. Thurston was on a thin line. But this was classic Thurston and
exactly why I’d brought him along. So far he was playing by the rules. If this
didn’t rattle the guy, nothing would. I just hoped he saw sense before
Thurston’s patience ran out.
Thurston swung open the glassed-in cabinet door and pulled
out a dinner plate. He eyed the flowery design critically. “You pick these out
yourself?”
“They’re Wedgwood,” Shelley lectured like he didn’t know
another way to talk. “They were my grandmother’s.”
“My grandma had plates a lot like this,” Thurston said. “Made
it all the way through the Depression without getting sold. She only brought them
out at Thanksgiving. Of course, us kids weren’t allowed to eat off them,
because she was afraid one might get…” he paused before he smashed the plate
against the hardwood table, “…broken.”
Shelley shied a little as the shards of plate flew by his
head. Good. It was time to get this over with.
Thurston grabbed another beer. Instead of the table, this
time he used the arm of Shelley’s chair to lever off the cap. A sharp snap of
wood greeted his blow as the bottle cap sailed across the room, skittering off
the wall.
“Oops. Next time, you should really get something with a
twist-off. Or better yet in a pop-top can.” Thurston started guzzling. “Ah. It
don’t taste so bad when it goes straight down.”
Thurston walked back to the china cabinet and studied its
contents. I shot an appealing look to Shelley. He just set his jaw. Bad choice.
This time, Thurston pulled out a crystal wine glass, like
the kind you’d see in a fancy restaurant. “I just hate breaking up a…” he flung
it against the wall, “…set.”
“You can trash the entire place and it won’t matter,”
Shelley said, nodding to a pile of mail on the sideboard. “The IRS is about to take
it all anyway.”
“We know all about your trouble with the revenue men.” I
pulled the letter from my pocket and flung it him. “Those boys are like a
bulldog with a rag once they smell your money. They always get their pound of
flesh. Now, I can send in this receipt and leave you to deal with them after.
Or you can give us the coins and we’ll leave the rest to you to hide as best
you can. Either way, they’re gone.”
Shelley only shrugged. Why was the man being so stubborn? Could
he really tell I wouldn’t hurt him?
Thurston snatched another bottle from the table. This one he
cracked opened on the seat of Shelley’s chair, right between his legs. The
bottle cap ricocheted off the man’s forehead. Thurston ambled back over to the
china cabinet, this time selecting a pale blue porcelain box with white figures
on its top. He weighed it in one hand as he eyed Shelley then rested his other
hand on the top of the china cabinet, curling his fingers behind. Instead of
smashing the porcelain box, Thurston started to pull the cabinet forward. I
noticed Shelley’s eyes never left the box.
“Hang on a second,” I said as the cabinet began to creak as
its back legs just cleared the carpet. Thurston glared like I’d told to stop
opening his presents on Christmas but he paused. “Check the box. I think
there’s something in there.”
Thurston shook the box in his hand, and sure enough it
rattled. He released the cabinet which settled back into place with the crash
of colliding of dishes and glassware. He popped off the lid and dropped to the carpet,
where it bounced instead of shattered. The bottom followed right behind it once
he’d fished out his prize.
“See, now, that wasn’t so hard,” Thurston said as he held up
the key in front of Shelley’s eyes. He inserted it in the firebox. After a
brief struggle, he untangled the latching mechanism and pried open the lid. A deep,
musty scent filled the room.
Thurston pawed through a stack of envelopes and a couple
moldy passports before he finally came up with a single gold coin encased in
cardboard and plastic, no larger than the nail on my pinky. He flipped it onto
the table, looking confused.
“Any idiot would have known they weren’t in there,” Shelley
said in his same I-told-you-so voice. “Do you know how heavy gold is?” Was he
trying to provoke Thurston? If so, he’d just succeeded.
Thurston roared like an angry bear as he swept the firebox
aside, scattering the envelopes and their contents across the dingy carpet. He
snatched the final beer from the table and strode over to stand menacingly in
front of Shelley.
“Where’s the rest of it?” Thurston shouted in his face. This
was getting serious. I didn’t think he was playing anymore.
Shelley’s face spread into the same smug grin. “Not in there.”
Thurston grabbed Shelley by the hair and shoved the bottle
into his mouth, intending to use his bottom teeth as an opener.
“Thurston!” I yelled to get his attention. “Don’t!”
He turned wild-eyed toward me and I realized my mistake. “Nice
going with the name, Brass-hole,” he growled, clutching the bottle by the neck like
a tiny club.
I pressed on anyway in a level voice as cutting as I could
make it hoping I could still control him. “I said no one gets hurt.”
“I’m tired of you telling me what to do,” he said nostrils
flaring like a bull’s.
“Thurston?” Shelley laughed. “You mean like the millionaire
on Gilligan’s Island ? I’m being robbed by the Professor
and Thurston Howell, III. That’s just priceless.” Oh, shit, here we go.
Thurston flung the bottle into the china cabinet, smashing
one glass door and a row of flowered plates. He drew the pistol from behind his
back. I knew he wasn’t bluffing anymore. I could tell by the look in his eye. Push
him and he always goes too far just like when we were kids.
Time slowed to a crawl. He thumbed back the hammer. It
locked into place with a click as loud as a gunshot. He turned the gun toward Shelley
in slow motion.
I’ll never know what caused me to react. Maybe the spirit
moved me. Maybe I was just pissed that Thurston was going to screw this up. Whatever
we might salvage from the night wasn’t worth what he was about to do. Without
thinking, I reached out, grabbed his arm and tried to pull his hand away.
I’d forgotten how strong Thurston was. I barely slowed his
hand before his wide, reddened eyes turned toward me and time resumed normal
speed. I never saw the backlash blow. Hell, I barely felt it land. The next
thing I knew, I was staring up from the carpet through blood-soaked eyes right
up the bore of that pistol.
“You touch me again, Brass, and I swear to God, I’ll do you
next. I need this money.”
I could see he was beyond questions, beyond reason, beyond my
control. He was about to go CYA and start eliminating witnesses. But the big
sonofabitch forgot that they called me Brass for a reason. Because I had a pair
and they clanked when I walked. As he swung the pistol back to Shelley, I
cocked my leg and lined up the heel of my boot with his kneecap. Point a gun at
me and you’d better be ready to walk with a limp. Nobody here was dying tonight
unless I said ok.
Now things happened fast, almost too fast to follow except
in hindsight. Thurston’s hand tensed as he started to pull the trigger. I drove
my boot straight into the side of his knee, connecting with a satisfying crunch.
A loud click echoed in the room as the hammer fell. Thurston yowled and spun
sideways.
Aunt Jane always said God looks out for fools, drunks and little
children. And nothing brings His laughter like our making our own plans.
There was no bang, no blood, no brains sprayed across the
wall. In fact nothing happened. The gun had misfired. The round was a dud from
too much moisture in the ground. I almost let out a sigh.
But Thurston is one tough SOB, I had to hand him that. He
didn’t crumple like I expected. He just steadied himself on his good leg and pointed
the revolver back at me, sighting down the barrel with rage-filled eyes. My
heart iced over as he squeezed the trigger a second time. I lay frozen as I
watched the hammer swing back and the cylinder spin to bring the next round
into place.
It only made it halfway. The pistol exploded in white light
and roaring thunder, just like the power pole at the trailer. And it was Thurston’s
face that came up a bloody mess, not mine. He dropped the useless gun to clutch
his eye with both hands. I could see the misfire round had cooked off and blown
the cylinder apart. A message from God. I seized my opportunity and rolled up
to my feet, tire iron ready to take out his other knee.
“I. Said. No. Violence.” I snarled, emphasizing each word,
loud and slow like he didn’t speak English.
If you’ve ever seen a picture of a wolf facing down a
grizzly, that’s probably how I looked right then. Lucky for me, that bear was
wounded and all the fight had gone out of him. Instead of tearing me apart, Thurston
stumbled toward the back door, howling as he left. I let him go.
I knew I didn’t have long the get out of there myself. But I
wasn’t leaving that gun behind. As I bent down to grab the twisted wreck of a
pistol, I noticed one of the envelopes had spilled its contents across the
floor. Polaroids, a couple dozen of them, each a close-up of a different gold
coin, big as a silver dollar. Son of a bitch knew they were there all along. Thurston
hadn’t bothered to look.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked as I looked up at
Shelley. “Why didn’t you just give them to us?”
“My father gave those to me the night he died,” Shelley
spat. “Not you. Not him. Not the goddamned IRS. Me.
Assholes like you two have taken whatever they wanted from me my entire life. Those
coins are mine now. I earned every one of them. And I’ll be damned if anyone
will ever take them away.”
I could only stare slack jawed a moment. Did he realize how
close both of us had come to getting killed? “And you didn’t think to destroy
the receipt?” was all I could think to ask.
He shrugged. “I forgot it was there.”
Aunt Jane always said the Lord worked in strange ways.
Strange ways indeed. Why he’d kept this fool alive was beyond me but who was I
to argue. Maybe it was a sign I needed to pay more attention to my own life.
I’d have to think about that once I got back to home. If I ever did once Thurston
came to his senses. I made for the back door.
“If you leave me tied up,” Shelley called after, “there’s
bound to be questions. That gunshot’s going to draw attention neither of us wants.”
Of course he was right. I strode back until I was standing behind
him and thumbed open my buck knife.
“You bring the cops down on us,” I told him as I started
sawing through the clothesline, “and I swear I’ll hand this receipt over to the
IRS personally.” I left just enough line intact to keep him occupied until I
was gone.
“You don’t need to worry.” He emphasized the first word. I
wasn’t sure what that meant for Thurston but at that point I didn’t care. He
was on his own.
“And I’m keeping this,” I added as I pocketed the coin from
the table. “Call it an idiot tax.”
I grabbed the duffel and slipped out the way I’d come. A dog
was barking in the distance as I crashed back through the woods toward the
Duster. I half expected Thurston to jump me in the dark but he was long gone. I
started up the car and got the hell out of there quick, watching the rearview
mirror the entire time. I hated leaving Thurston behind. He was family after
all. But he had tried to kill me.
I dumped the mangled revolver in the river at the state line.
I briefly thought of keeping it for insurance in case Billy Long came after me
instead but it wasn’t worth the risk.
Two days later, I was living in my car. That little gold
coin was worth just enough with the cash to reclaim the Duster and pay my bar
tab at the 8-Ball. Leggett & Levine had seized the Airstream as collateral
when Thurston didn’t turn up in court. That earned me a visit from the Sheriff
who’d already heard from Missy. It took quite a song and dance to keep my own pale
ass outside a cell. But with nothing else to go on, he’d had to cut me loose,
at least until he found my cousin.
Thurston never did turn up. I have no idea whether he’s
still on the run or he’s been found by Billy Long. No one else came asking, not
even his kids. Good riddance was all I heard his ex had said when she heard the
news. After seeing the business end of his pistol, I wasn’t inclined to
disagree.
For a long time I wondered why Shelley hadn’t blown us in to
the cops. My little threat couldn’t have meant much. Each day for a full week,
I scanned the paper at the library waiting to see an article describing that
night. When I finally did, it didn’t read the way I thought it might. It said
Shelley’d gone missing after the tornado had torn away the mother-in-law cottage
on his property the night his house had burned to the ground. Someone’d knocked
over a candle, him or vagrants no one was sure. They couldn’t rule out arson.
The fire department hadn’t even rolled up the hoses when the FBI pulled up to
raid the place the next morning. They’d sifted through the ashes and boxed up
everything in sight. Federal Marshals drilled open his safe deposit box, though
the paper didn’t say what they’d found inside. I suspected it was empty. There
was a reward leading to his whereabouts. Made me wonder what else Shelley
Colson had to hide.
But I was done with all that now. I was working for Lewis
Leggett’s ex-sister-in-law’s boy, George, finally putting some of the skills
I’d learned from the Norwegians to good use. Mine was the first Airstream he
was converting, hardwood floors, custom cabinetry and state-of-the-art appliances
plus some top-notch electronics. He’d already found a buyer, some Internet guru
in Seattle . He said if the business
took off, he’d cut me in on piece of it. I could live with that. Upgrading old
trailers and selling them to rich people with more cash than brains for three
times what they’re worth, that’s where the real money’s at these days.
© 2013 Edward P. Morgan III
