Bull Mountain(31)

“Thanks, Bracken,” Gareth said, exaggerating the sound of the man’s name. He poured the bourbon three fingers deep and drained it. Val, who’d sat silent until now, looked back at his friend and made a sound in his throat loud enough for them all to hear.

“I’m good, Val,” Gareth said. Wilcombe and Bracken exchanged a swift curious look as Gareth refilled and downed another whiskey like it was apple juice. He filled the glass a third time and let it sit. Bracken took a seat next to Wilcombe.

“Bracken,” Gareth said again. “What the hell kind of name is that anyway?” The big man didn’t answer. Gareth put the gun on the case without bothering to break it down and slid it back across the table to Wilcombe. “So you built that?” he said, motioning to the gun.

“I suppose our mutual friend has been—how did you say?—talking out of school,” the little man said. “It’s sufficient that I have them.”

“Well, I like my people to keep me apprised, and all that, too. So . . . you build these?”

“I do,” Wilcombe said.

“You don’t steal them?”

“They’re not stolen.” Wilcombe looked insulted. He quickly slid the case over to Bracken, who picked up the gun, disassembled it, and returned it to the foam-rubber inlay. He clicked the case shut and set it at his feet.

“Motorcycle parts, right?” Gareth said, mulling it over. “That how you hooked up with the Hells Angels?”

Bracken twisted his weight in the booth and began to say something, but Wilcombe put a hand on his forearm to remind him whose conversation this was. “Mr. Burroughs, I’m quite sure you understand better than most the concept of respect, as was demonstrated by your friend at the bar earlier on Mr. Pinkerton. I backed your move there, because I believed you and your associate were righteous in your action, but now you are bordering on disrespecting me and the people I consider to be my family. Family is important to you?”

Gareth didn’t speak, but Wilcombe didn’t wait for an answer, either. “My father, God rest his soul, and Mr. Leek here started this club in 1965, and since then the Jacksonville Jackals have been an integral part of creating and sustaining the very business that has brought you to our door. They are men of honor and deserve to be treated as such. Are we on the same page here?”

Gareth finished the bourbon in his glass, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing it. “Fair enough,” he said. “I want two hundred to start.”

“I can do that. I’ll need twenty-five thousand up front and another twenty-five on delivery.”

“I can do that.”

“I can assume you brought the money with you?”

Gareth smiled. “It’s close. I’ll have it when I need it.”

Bracken reached into his jacket. Val took notice, tensed and readied himself. “Relax,” Bracken said, and slowly removed his hand, bringing out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. He shook one out and laid the pack on the table. Gareth took one and waited for Bracken to light it. He didn’t.

“There’s a warehouse off the highway I use for these kinds of transactions. Mr. Cartwright knows where it is. You did bring Mr. Cartwright with you?”

“He’s around,” Gareth said.

“Meet Mr. Leek there tomorrow morning with the money, and your problems at home are as good as solved.”

Bracken stood up and Wilcombe slid from the booth. He nodded to Gareth and then to Val, straightened out the creases in his suit, and left, leaving the briefcase on the table.

“Eight-thirty sharp,” Bracken said.

“We’ll be there.”

Gareth motioned to Val and they followed Wilcombe out the door.





CHAPTER





11




GARETH BURROUGHS

1973

1.

The motel room was a cold, filthy box. Gareth had stayed in one like this before to handle some business up in Huntsville and it looked exactly the same. He imagined that, aside from bars on the door, there was no difference between a room like this and a prison cell. He stood naked in front of the full-length mirror running up the wall next to the vanity, holding a bottle of whiskey, looking at his reflection in the glass—really looking—taking himself in. He rarely stopped to see the toll his life was taking on him. His body was taut and cut, like a boxer’s, cords of sun-reddened farm muscle toned by years of hard work. Work he was proud of. Not the kind of work that resulted in cardboard boxes like this room, it was the kind that resulted in empires. The kind of work his father had taught him how to do. He took a drink from a bottle that was practically empty and stared at the collection of scars from various scraps and foolish ideas. Fights born of both anger and good times. The most foolish idea being the tattoo on his chest that spelled Annette in cursive letters above his left nipple—where his heart was supposed to be. He snorted to himself. It was her idea to get it done. Jimbo knew a fella who did it right out of the back of his trailer with a homemade rig made from a car battery and a spool of copper wire. He got it done on their first wedding anniversary. They were supposed to get it done together, hers and his brands meant to prove their love to each other, but Annette chickened out in the chair. Follow-through was never her strong suit. It wasn’t the first promise she’d broken—or the last. Probably best she didn’t get it anyway. Less explaining she’d have to do to the next poor soul she latched herself on to. He rubbed his thumb over the raised ink in the tattoo and used the rest of his hand to knead the thick muscle in his neck.