Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(33)

“Couple hours,” he said, feeling for the cell phone in his pocket. He’d left his number when he’d reached out to Tucker this afternoon, and he knew the phone would ring soon. They won’t be able to resist . . .

Bone stepped out the door of the cabin and walked toward the barn in back. It was over ninety degrees outside, but Bone barely noticed. Weather had never bothered him much. Cold, cool, warm, or hot, it made no difference. There was only the job at hand. That’s probably why the military had suited him so well. But the army hadn’t paid for shit, and being a fixer for people like Jack Willistone did. For Bone it all came back to the moolah. Spend a few years of your childhood hungry, and a person gains an appreciation for the almighty dollar and its importance in life. Let the hypocrites worship Jesus, Muhammad, or whoever. The Bone sat at the altar of Benjamin Franklin.

That’s why the end of his partnership with Jack bothered him so much. Haynes and old man McMurtrie had cost him over one hundred thousand dollars cash and put Jack in jail. Bone had promised himself when he crawled to shore after jumping off the Northport Bridge that he would get even with both of them, and now the pieces were finally in place. Of course, as sweet as the revenge would be, it would come with a price.

JimBone Wheeler never worked for free.

Once inside the barn, Bone shut the door, leaving him in darkness except for the glow from his lantern. He walked past the two horse stables to the rear and knelt on the saw grass floor, feeling around for the loose plank. When he found it, he set the lantern down and pulled. Underneath, Bone saw his goodies.

Putting his gloves on, Bone quickly made sure everything was there. Two rifles, three twelve-gauge shotguns, a six-pack of revolvers, a toolbox full of knives of all sizes, and, finally, several work tools that could double as weapons. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he put the plank back in place and stepped on it, making sure it was secure.

Then, retrieving the lantern, he started to walk away. He was halfway to the barn door when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.

He answered on the second ring, listened for several seconds, and then said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Smiling, he slid the phone back in his pocket and walked the rest of the way to the house. He had been right. They couldn’t resist.

When he reached the bedroom, Martha was nude from the waist down, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. Her blouse and bonnet remained.

“Are you ready to pay rent?” she asked, the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Looking her over, Bone was relieved to see that Martha continued to violate the Amish rule prohibiting the shaving of body hair.

“I probably need to go soon,” Bone said, but he was already taking off his suspenders. His business wouldn’t start for several hours and . . . he needed to keep his “aunt” happy.

At forty-six years old, Martha Booher was just a few years older than Bone, but the plain-Jane wardrobe of the Amish, combined with the age difference, made it easy for her to pass him off as her nephew.

“You can spare an hour for a lonely Amish woman, no?” She ratcheted up the Pennsylvania Dutch accent and began to unbutton her blouse, revealing two of the largest and fullest breasts Bone had ever had the pleasure of fondling. For some reason they made him think of whole milk and Nebraska.

“Leave the bonnet,” Bone said, placing the lantern on the bedside table and climbing onto the bed. Bone loved the bonnet . . .





21


Booker Taliaferro Washington Rowe Jr. had been called Booker T. since the time he was born to distinguish him from his father, whom everyone just called Booker. Booker T. had played left tackle for Giles County High School on the same team with Bocephus Haynes and even now, as he approached middle age, maintained the massive build of an offensive linemen. “You won’t be able to miss Booker T.,” Bo had said. He was right. A few minutes after arriving at the Legends Steakhouse—Booker T.’s only condition for the meeting was that Tom buy him dinner—Tom saw a mountain of a man enter the restaurant. Arms like pythons, a barrel chest, and a neck that rose to his chin like a tree trunk. Tom held his hand up, and the massive man nodded and headed his way.

“Booker T. Rowe,” he said, extending a heavily calloused right hand that felt like sandpaper when Tom shook it. Dressed in a sweat-stained, gray button-down with “Rowe Farm Systems” on the front pocket and dusty jeans, Booker T. plopped down in the chair across from Tom and let out a long breath, his face the picture of exhaustion. He held his hand up for the waitress, and a plump redhead bustled over with a smile on her face.

“You want a single or a pitcher?” she asked, and it was evident that Booker T. came here often.

“Beer?” Booker T. asked, giving Tom a tired smile.

“Sounds good,” Tom said.

“Let’s make it a pitcher, Louise,” he said.



Thirty minutes later, with one pitcher down and another well on its way, Booker T. took the last bite of his steak and shook his head. “So, Trammell was really the toughest player you ever played with?” Though Tom had drunk a couple of beers, Booker T. was drinking two to every one of his. The huge man wasn’t drunk, but he was getting loose and, having been a lifelong college football fan, was enjoying Tom’s war stories of playing for Coach Bryant in the early ’60s. Tom had hoped to direct the conversation toward Bo’s case, but something held him back. He sensed that Booker T. needed to relax, to blow off some steam, and Tom didn’t want to press it.