Blacktop Wasteland(18)

Beauregard took the gun out of his waistband and put it on the desk between them.

“How much we talking about, Ronnie.” His tone was flat as a pancake.

Ronnie ignored his apparent disinterest. He knew the next words out of his mouth would change that. “Five hundred thousand dollars’ worth. I know a boy out of DC who says he will give us fifty cents on the dollar for them. That’s $250,000 split three ways. Eighty grand, Beau. That can buy a lot of motor oil.”

“It’s $83,333.33. My cut would be $87,133.33. You owe me, remember,” Beauregard said.

Ronnie sniffed hard. “Yeah, I remember.”

Beauregard leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “How many people know about this other than you, me, Jenny, your brother back there and the fence?” he asked.

Ronnie frowned. “Well, Quan knows,” he said.

“Who is Quan?”

“He’s the third guy. I met him upstate. He’s good for this.”

“When you trying to do this?” Beauregard asked.

“Next week,” Ronnie said without hesitation.

Beauregard got up and grabbed a beer out of the mini-fridge, then sat down again. He popped the top off with the edge of the desk. “That ain’t gonna work. Next week the Fourth of July. Traffic on the roads gonna be heavy as shit. Plus it’s supposed to be nice. In the mid-eighties. Cops are out heavy in that kind of weather.” He took a long swig and killed half the bottle. “Plus we would need to go check it out. Plan routes. Get the layout of the store. Things like that,” Beauregard said.

“So how long you thinking?” Ronnie asked. Beauregard hadn’t offered him a beer, but he wanted one. Badly.

“At least a month. Depending on the route,” Beauregard said. He finished his beer.

“A month? That’s not gonna work. I need this like yesterday, man,” Ronnie said.

Beauregard tossed his beer in the trash can in the corner. “See, that’s why that damn horse died. You always in a rush,” he said. Ronnie didn’t say anything. He rubbed the palms of his hands over his thighs. He pushed the heels down into his thick-corded quadriceps.

“Look, man, can we split the difference and say two weeks?” he said.

“I didn’t say I was in. I’m just saying what you would need to do,” Beauregard said.

Ronnie leaned back in his chair until the front legs came off the floor. “Bug, I got a guy who is gonna be in DC on the twenty-sixth and gone by the end of the thirty-first. At the most, that gives us three weeks to get ready. And that’s pushing it. This gotta move smooth and quick. Like I said, we can get paid. Real money. Not some pissy-ass stick-up money. Real dollars. But we gotta move fast. I need you on this, man. Not just cuz I owe you but because you the best. I ain’t never seen nobody do what you can do with four wheels on the road,” Ronnie said.

“I ain’t some trailer park trick you trying to talk out of her panties, Ronnie. I’m listening to what you have to say. You lucky I’m doing that,” he said.

“Alright, Bug. I hear you. I’m just trying to help you out. It looks like you need it,” Ronnie said.

“What you mean by that?” Beauregard said.

The way he stared at him made Ronnie’s balls climb up somewhere around his ears.

“I didn’t mean nothing. Nothing. I noticed you only got the two cars on the lifts, that’s all,” Ronnie said. Beauregard studied Ronnie’s face. His cheeks bloomed with red splotches that worked their way up from his neck. Ronnie’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I’ll think about it,” Beauregard said.

“Alright then. Look, let me leave you my brother’s cell phone number. When you make up your mind, give me a call,” Ronnie said.

“Go get a burner phone and call the shop tomorrow around noon,” Beauregard said. Ronnie nodded his head up and down like he was in a lecture hall. He stood.

“Hey, man, don’t think I don’t understand what you are doing here. This is legal and ain’t nothing wrong with that. I just figured I could give you a little help, that’s all,” Ronnie said. Beauregard didn’t say anything. “Well, talk at you tomorrow, man,” Ronnie said. He brushed past Reggie and headed for the door.

“Reggie, we leaving,” he said. Reggie jumped like a demon had spoken to him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. He slipped out of the office and ran after his brother.

Beauregard waited until he heard their car start, then he got up and cut the lights off for the second time that day. He locked up, hopped in his truck and headed back toward his house. He was passing the Long Street Mart when he saw a pink Ford Mustang idling by the gas pumps. He slammed on the brakes with his left foot while hitting the gas with his right. He swung the steering wheel to the right and the whole truck did a 180-degree turn. It slid into the parking lot sideways. He let it roll until he was behind the Mustang. He got out of the truck and walked up to the driver’s side.

She wasn’t in the car. That didn’t mean the car was empty. A young black guy was in the passenger seat. He had frizzy braids sticking up all over his head like he had thumb-wrestled a light socket. A teardrop was drawn near his left eye. Beauregard thought the lines were too clean to be a jailhouse work of art. He had those small, thin features that teenaged girls loved and grown women avoided like the plague.