Blacktop Wasteland(16)

Finally he got out, turned off the light in the office, and headed home. He had forgotten to call Kia. He called on his cell as he was pulling out of the parking lot. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t call on your break. But we closed up a little early so I’m headed to get the boys,” he said.

“They wouldn’t let me work a double. They actually cut me a little early so I already got the boys. We at the house,” she said. There was a pause. “Beau, there are guys here. They were waiting when we pulled up. They said they friends of yours. I told them to wait on the porch,” she said.

Beauregard gripped the steering wheel so hard his hand ached. “What they look like?” he said. His tongue felt thick and unsuited to his mouth.

“They white. One got long brown hair. The other one got a bunch of Elvis tattoos running up and down his arm,” she said.

Beauregard’s vision got blurry for a second. He gripped the steering wheel even harder. “Alright. I’m a be there in like ten minutes.”

“You want me to tell them you on your way? I told them you wouldn’t be home till seven. They said they was gonna wait.”

“No. I’ll talk to them when I get there. Just give the boys something to eat and I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.

“Okay. Love ya.”

“Love you too,” he croaked. He hung the phone up and put it in the cup holder.

Beauregard stopped at the intersection of Town Road and John Byrd highway. He reached over and opened the glove box. There were no cars behind him and only a few passing him in the other lane at the stop sign. Lying there in the glove box mute as a stone was a Smith and Wesson .45 caliber semiautomatic. Beauregard rooted around in the glove box and found the clip. He took out the gun and the clip and slammed the clip home. He had gotten a concealed carry permit when he had opened the shop. Back then, a lot of people paid him in cash.

Beauregard thought about the clichéd scene in every crime movie where the main character who has gotten out of the “Life” buries his weapons under a hundred pounds of concrete only to have to dig them up when his enemies come knocking at his door.

He understood the appeal of the symbolism for filmmakers. It was just unrealistic. You were never out of the Life completely. You were always looking over your shoulder. You always kept a gun within reach, not buried under cement in your basement. Having a gun nearby was the only way you could pretend to relax. He had a gun in every room of the house. They were like good friends who were always down to do bad things.

Beauregard didn’t know why Ronnie Sessions had come knocking at his door but he was going to have his friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson ask him.





FOUR



Beauregard saw a faded blue Toyota sitting behind Kia’s Honda as he parked his truck. He slipped the .45 into his waistband near the small of his back. He could feel the butt of the gun and the textured cross pattern on the grip against his skin. He got out and walked toward his house. Two men were sitting in the white plastic lawn chairs arranged on the porch. He didn’t recognize the one with the long hair. He figured he was Ronnie’s brother. They both stood when they saw him approaching. Ronnie stepped down off the porch first and extended his hand.

“Beau, how the hell are you, man? Long time no speak,” he said. He was almost as tall as Beau so that put him around five eight or nine. He was thin but wiry. Veins pressed against the skin of his left forearm and bicep. He had a full sleeve on his right arm from his hands to his shoulder. The tattoo was a time line of the history of Elvis Presley. On his shoulder were images of gold-blazer-wearing Elvis. On his bicep and tricep were multiple Elvises from the sixties. The forearm was fat Elvises in the sequined white jumpsuit wearing Polynesian leis. The images continued until they reached the back of his hand. There in full color was an Elvis with a halo and wings. Angel Elvis. Ronnie was wearing a black T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. That was all Beauregard had ever seen him wear. It didn’t matter if it was 100 degrees or 0. Beauregard wondered if he even owned a shirt with sleeves.

Beauregard grabbed Ronnie’s left hand with his right. At the same time he reached behind him and slipped the .45 from his waistband. He put the barrel against Ronnie’s stomach.

“Why are you at my house? My children in there. My wife. Why would you come here? We ain’t got nothing to talk about. So now you gonna leave,” he said. He spoke softly so that only Ronnie could hear him. His brother was standing on the second step on the porch just out of earshot.

“Hey, now hold on, Beau, I ain’t mean no disrespect. Goddamn, man,” Ronnie said. His blue eyes were open wide. His black goatee had more gray in it than Beauregard remembered. His temples had gone white too, giving him a redneck George Clooney look.

“Go, Ronnie. I don’t want my family to see me splatter your guts all over the driveway. How did you even find my house?” Beauregard asked.

“Marshall Hanson told me where you stay. Look, man, I didn’t know the goddamn thing had horse diabetes or whatever the hell it was,” Ronnie said.

“But you should have known, Ronnie. That’s the problem. Now leave.”

“Beau, just wait a minute.”

“My boys are here. My boys, Ronnie. What we did ain’t got nothing to do with them. I don’t bring that shit around my kids,” Beauregard said.