Bull Mountain(30)

“My apologies, Mr. Burroughs. If I’d known you’d have a colored gentleman with you, I would have given some warning.”

“But seeing that we’re from Georgia, you just assumed we all run around with white hoods on, right?”

Wilcombe smiled slightly and held his hands up in a shrug, then motioned to the booth behind him. “Shall we?”

“Right,” Gareth said. Val retook his seat at the bar.

The little man sat down and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Now, what is it I can do for you?”

6.

“I need to be able to protect my family’s interests. I understand you can help me with that.”

“And by ‘interests,’ you mean the marijuana business your family has cultivated for itself?” Wilcombe talked matter-of-factly, like he was discussing the weather. Gareth studied the little man’s face. “I guess Jimbo has been talking out of school,” he said.

“Mr. Cartwright has kept me apprised of your family’s business dealings, yes.”

“If by ‘business’ you mean three thousand acres of the finest bud in the Southeast, then yeah, you have a good grasp on what we’re doing up there.”

“We have access to product here in Florida, if we so desired,” Wilcombe said. His voice was flat—uninterested and unimpressed.

“I’m not here selling,” Gareth said. “But if I was, no one around here could compete. Not for the price, and not with so little hassle. I bet the Cubanos down here are always shuffling to hide product and transport from the feds. Am I right? Ask me how we’ve been steady growing for more than two decades without a single federal intrusion.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. How are you keeping it from the feds? That’s a lot of land to hide from DEA helicopters.”

“Geography,” Gareth said, and smiled wide.

“Geography,” Wilcombe repeated.

“Yup. You see, my father built our entire family fortune on his ability to hide things in the woods. Back in the day, the stills had to run twenty-four-seven if they were going to generate enough shine to get us into the big leagues. We couldn’t afford to have any of them found. Not one. And we didn’t. Knowing the lay of the land was essential to that fact. He got extremely good at it. Good enough to outsell those cousin-f*ckers up in Virginia without taking any of the heat.”

“But three thousand acres is a little more difficult to conceal than an average whiskey distiller, correct?”

“Yes, it is, but my father, the crafty sum’ bitch that he was, figured out that our mountain has some unique geographical positioning along the northern face. He cleared the forestry out in strips in a way that creates blind spots from the air. We can work those fields all day every day and wave at the federals flying overhead. Dumb bastards are none the wiser.”

Wilcombe looked genuinely impressed. “That is indeed something to be proud of. How did you explain what you were doing to the contractors? How did you get the permits?”

Gareth scratched at his beard and sat back in the booth. “Contractors? We didn’t have no contractors. We had six men, myself included. And hell, I was just a boy. We cleared, primed, and planted that land, working from plans my deddy drew out with a pencil and a slide rule.”

“That’s impressive, Mr. Burroughs.”

“I know.”

“And the processing of said product?”

“Is done completely in-house by men I’ve known my whole life. We grow it, cure it, dry it, bale it, and package it out all ourselves. No outside help.”

“Yet here you are, looking for outside help.”

“That’s right. Here I am.”

Wilcombe pushed his glasses up on his nose again. “Well, I’m not sure how much our mutual friend told you, but if you’re looking for distribution into Florida, I hate that you came all this way just for me to tell you that isn’t something I can do.”

Gareth scratched at his beard again. “I’d hate that, too. Luckily for me, it’s like I told you. I ain’t here selling. I’m buying. We want guns.”

Wilcombe smiled. “I think that might be something I can help you with.” He reached down beside him and laid the briefcase on the table. He spun in the combination on the small dials with his thumbs and popped the locks. He opened the lid and turned it toward Gareth so he could inspect the contents. Gareth reached into the form-fitted case and removed the collapsible pieces of an AR-15 assault rifle. He turned them over in his hands and clicked the stock into place. “Well, if you can rustle up a few more of these, I reckon you can help me.”

“As many as you can afford, my friend. But they are not cheap.”

Gareth smiled.

“Bracken, bring Mr. Burroughs and me two fingers of Jameson.”

The big man looked unhappy but fished the bottle of Irish whiskey from the shelf. He poured the whiskey, picked up the glasses, and brought them to the table.

The top dog is still just a dog, Gareth thought, and pushed the glass away.

“Make mine Evan Williams, Mr. President, and don’t forget to include my partner in the round.”

Bracken looked to Wilcombe, who nodded approval, then walked back to the bar. He returned and set a glass and a bottle of Evan on the table.

“Pour it yourself.”