Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(60)

“What happened?”

“State’s attorney offered me a deal—St. Brides, if I gave up the crew.” Swonger opened another beer. “But I ain’t no snitch, so the DA sent my ass to Buckingham. The crew in Richmond hooked me up with Truck on the inside. Out of gratitude, you see, ’cause they knew I wasn’t no rat. Truck was my stand-up.”

“Stand-up?”

Swonger thought about how to explain. “Truck had my back. I was just a skinny fish, dog. Seventeen. Didn’t have no gang. No rep. No sleeves. I would have been someone’s bitch in under two minutes, no doubt. Truck showed me the ropes. Made sure my skinny white ass didn’t get thrown off the tier. Aryans didn’t like me hanging with a brother, but I ain’t down with all that white-power shit. And nobody fucks with the Truck.”

Swonger spoke the name reverentially. Nothing like the Swonger that Gibson knew. It made him wonder what was so special about Truck Noble.

Swonger saved him the trouble of having to ask.

“Yeah, so about Truck . . . he don’t have the most philosophical of natures. He like a bull. He see someone waving something at him, he don’t wonder why. He just gonna put you down for even contemplating that disrespect, know what I’m saying? So be cool and don’t give him any of your usual lip.”

“I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, just like that. I’m telling you, he don’t do so well with attitude. Especially from white boys. So maybe let me do the talking this time.” Swonger looked Gibson over to gauge if he was being taken seriously. “You ain’t racist, are you?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Then we probably all right. But if you feel something racist bubbling up, just put a gun in your mouth. It ain’t worth it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“His nickname’s Truck. It ain’t meant ironic.”

“So he’s big.”

“For starters. But you know how when you see a big guy, you think, well, at least I can outrun him? And that’s sort of comforting. Yeah, well, nobody outruns the Truck.”

“Play football?”

“They wanted him to, but his moms wouldn’t let him.”

“How come?”

“Concussions. Mrs. Noble a nurse, so that was that. Coaches begged on their knees every year. But she wasn’t having it. No one outruns the Truck, and no one moves Mrs. Noble, she don’t want to be moved.” He dropped his empty in the grass. “Where the hell they at?”

Gibson checked the time. Noble was late. Swonger went to piss in the bushes again, came back, and opened yet another beer. By the time Swonger’s phone finally buzzed with a text message, a pile of empty cans littered the ground at his feet. The meet was still on, but at a new location about fifteen minutes away. The message gave them ten. Swonger made it in seven.

“Why’d they move it, you think?” Swonger asked.

“Noble doesn’t trust us. The first spot was just to see if we were setting them up. They were probably watching us.”

“Damn, that’s cold.”

It was a smart play by Noble. The new location was an overgrown park trail that opened into a clearing. Gibson saw no one here either. His bad feeling crept back up his spine.

“Come on,” Swonger shouted, pounding the dash. “What I got to do to get some trust?”

As if to answer, a gray panel van pulled into the clearing behind them and rolled to a halt on their front bumper. If the meet went south, they were boxed in. A slight black woman got out of the van, maybe five foot and a hundred pounds. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one years old. After all Swonger’s buildup about Truck, it was almost a letdown. She adjusted her oversized jean shorts, which stopped at her calves above worn combat boots. Her outfit was capped by an orange tank top with wide sleeve holes down to her hips that showed off an electric-purple bra. The sides of her head were shaved, and a tall, chaotic Mohawk was piled precariously atop her head.

“Oh, this is not good,” Swonger said.

“That doesn’t look like a Truck.”

“That Truck’s sister, Deja.” Swonger had spoken respectfully of Truck; now he sounded plain scared. “What’s she doing here? Remember what I said about Truck? She’s worse. Way worse. Don’t do nothing stupid.”

“Well, come on, then. I ain’t got all day,” Deja said as though they’d been keeping her waiting.

They both eased out of the car.

“Heya, Deja. Where’s Truck and Terry?” Swonger asked. “Thought we was meeting them.”

Deja Noble adjusted her oversized sunglasses. “Couldn’t make it. But when I heard this long-lost friend of our family, Gavin Swonger, wanted a meeting with my big brother? Well, that just warmed my damn heart. Couldn’t pass up a chance to reminisce, could I? How you been, Swong?”

“All right, I reckon—”

“Shut up,” Deja snapped. “Damn, you are too dumb for this world. Now . . . I know you’re strapped. So go ahead and ease it out, throw it there on the ground.”

Swonger started to protest.

“Boy, I’m not going to tell you again.” Deja lifted her tank top to reveal a pistol grip. “I am a loving person, but bullets misanthropic, know what I mean?”