Thick as Thieves(11)

“Well, the daddy, poor ol’ Joe, lost his wife like that,” he said, snapping his fingers, “and got saddled with two daughters to raise. Which would bring any man to drink. It did Joe, and now he’s a full-fledged drunk. It’s a well-kept secret that everybody knows.”

“Not me.” Ledge had been racking balls in his uncle’s place since he was tall enough to see over the pool table. To his knowledge Joe Maxwell had never darkened the door.

As though reading his mind, Rusty said, “He’s a closet drinker. Doesn’t do it publicly so his daughters won’t be disgraced. He let his insurance business slide until he had to shut it down. Since then, he’s been moving from job to job. Guess where he last worked.”

Ledge didn’t have to guess. He saw it coming. Welch’s store.

“Stocking shelves. Mopping the restrooms. Shit detail,” Rusty said. “A few months ago, he got fired for being rude to a customer and using foul language. Now, you would think Joe would be out for revenge, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know the man, and I can’t read minds.”

“Well, see, I can,” Rusty boasted, flashing his canny smile. “Joe has turned into a short-tempered drunk, but he’s not entirely without scruples. I was afraid that stealing from his former employer might be pushing the envelope.”

Rusty explained how he had gotten around Joe Maxwell’s conscience. Ledge was dismayed and disgusted by his arm-twisting tactics.

“Came down to money, as everything does,” Rusty said. “I waved around the bills he owes to everybody, from the electric company to a shabby liquor store across the state line. Those overdue invoices worked as good as a handful of magic wands. When someone’s desperate enough, they’ll agree to anything. Anyhow, as of yesterday, I got verification of everything Foster had told me about the store and its chickenshit security. We’re good to go.”

“With those two as your accomplices?” As a motive, Ledge thought desperation sucked as bad as proving you had balls. “You’re crazy.”

“More like crafty.” Rusty tapped his sidewall.

“You’ve explained why the other two are doing it. Why are you? Did your daddy cut off your allowance?”

Rusty’s father was Sheriff Mervin Dyle, the most corrupt law officer that money could buy. Taking graft was his sideline, and it was a lucrative one. He collected dirt on everybody, hoarded it, and used it on an as-needed basis to bend or break local politicians, judges, law officers, school board members, clergymen, business owners, and anyone else who, in his opinion, needed comeuppance. Being a believer in equal opportunity for all, Mervin also preyed on those who had no influence whatsoever.

His corruption was well known, but nobody did anything about it for fear of reprisal, which was Machiavellian and often medieval. Rusty, Mervin’s only child, was upholding the family tradition. Bullying came as easily to him as breathing.

Rather than taking offense at Ledge’s remark about his allowance being cut off, he grinned. “Why am I doing it? For the hell of it. Just to see if I can get away with it.”

It was such a chilling, amoral comeback that Ledge had no problem believing it. “Well, count me out. I want no part of your stupid scheme. And no part of you.”

“You would turn down a quarter share of half a million dollars?”

“I am turning down a quarter share.”

“I realize it’s small potatoes. Not like it’s five million, or something. But it’s good pocket change, right? A portable amount. Easily spent on Mickey Mouse stuff a little at a time so nobody notices you’re suddenly flush with cash.”

Into it, he leaned forward. “It’s a good-for-starters amount. A practice run. We’ll see how it goes. Then…?” He bobbed his eyebrows. “We could aim higher.”

“I wouldn’t go in league with you for any amount.”

“Well, that’s just thick-headed, Ledge. Think of all the dope you could buy.”

Ledge gave him a fulminating look.

“Hell, with that kind of money, you could bankroll your own meth lab.”

“Go fuck yourself.” To hell with the rain; he reached for his keys and scooted to the end of the booth.

Rusty said, “After I’ve shared the plan, you don’t really think I’ll let you walk away, do you?”

“Watch me.” He stood.

“You go along, or I burn down your uncle’s crappy redneck bar.”

Ledge froze in place and looked back. Rusty remained smiling and smug. “Well, not me personally, of course. But I know a couple of wetbacks who’d do it for fifty bucks and a bottle of mescal.”

He leaned back against the vinyl of the booth and stared pensively into the middle distance. “That would be such a damn shame, wouldn’t it? Your uncle Henry has been pouring his heart and soul into that place for years, trying to make a better life for you, his poor orphaned nephew. It’s a shithole, but losing it would probably kill him.”

He then refocused on Ledge, who actually felt the skin on his face growing taut as he glared at Rusty with loathing. “He’s not getting any younger, ya know.” After a beat, Rusty said, “Now sit the fuck down.”

Ledge slid back into the booth and leaned across the table. “Why me?”