Blacktop Wasteland(50)

Patrick tackled him. They tumbled to the floor. A thin arm snaked around his neck and gripped him like a python. Kelvin came running over. He swung the four-foot-long torque wrench like a golf club. The head struck Patrick in the small of the back. Beauregard heard him cry out like a wounded fox. Beauregard shrugged him off and got to his feet. He kicked Patrick in the gut. Then he kicked him again.

“Please…,” Patrick gasped.

Beauregard got down on one knee and shoved the socket of the impact wrench in Patrick’s mouth.

“I should break all your teeth. Make you eat soup for a year. Give you time to think. If I had wanted to put you out of business, I would have just caught you outside of Danny’s one night and broken both your hands. Not burn down your shop,” he said.

Patrick’s eyes were wild. Saliva dripped down his chin. Beauregard took the wrench out of his mouth and stood.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said. Patrick rolled into a kneeling position. He held his stomach with one arm and crawled to his father. Butch was flat on his back and mewling. Patrick struggled to his feet. He grabbed his father by the arm and helped the older man off the floor. The laceration on his scalp was bleeding freely, making his face a crimson mask. His beard was nearly soaked through. The two of them limped out the door. Kelvin tossed the torque wrench to the ground. It sent an echo reverberating through the garage. He was breathing hard.

“Well, that went well. How much bail money you think we gonna need?” Kelvin said.

“They ain’t gonna tell nobody. At least not the cops.”

“You don’t think so?”

Beauregard set the impact wrench on top of the tool chest. The socket was smeared with blood and spit.

“They were here trespassing. They said the cops told them to let them handle it. They won’t feel too much sympathy for them. Besides, guys like that only talk about the fights they win.”



* * *



Beauregard turned into the cul-de-sac off Falmouth Road. It was called, not surprisingly, Falmouth Acres. He drove past the lawns manicured to within an inch of their lives and the only sidewalks outside of the courthouse area. This was where money lived in Red Hill County. His old pickup stood out among the luxury cars and SUVs.

The Cook house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac under the shade from an enormous elm tree. Beauregard would not have built his house there. A strong storm could send a branch crashing through the bedroom like an arboreal missile. Money made you value aesthetics over safety, he guessed. He parked on the curb and walked past a brick column with a plaque that proclaimed the House of Cook was established in 2005.

The doorbell was a white button in the center of an arabesque series of swirls. He pushed it once and heard the theme from every old horror movie he had ever seen ring through the house. The door opened, and a slim, pale white woman greeted him. A sharp bob with razor-cut bangs framed her narrow face. She wore a long black sleeved shirt and black tights despite the heat. Beauregard felt a cool rush of air when she opened the door. A central air unit was working hard to keep the whole house at a comfortable temperature.

“You must be Javon’s father. I’m Miranda.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you.”

“Well, come on in.” Beauregard didn’t move.

“Actually, I’m kinda in a hurry. Could you just get Javon for me? Please.”

Miranda smiled.

“Of course. I must say my husband and I were so impressed with your son. He is a perfect young gentleman,” she said. She went back into the house through an expansive foyer. A few minutes later, Javon came down the stairs.

“Thank you for letting me spend the night, Mrs. Cook,” he said as she slipped on his backpack.

“Well, you’re welcome. Tre sure appreciated you hanging out with him. He was glad to have someone to talk to about Claude Monet,” she said with a smile.

“Well, you take care now,” Beauregard said. He put his hand on Javon’s shoulder and half guided, half pulled Javon through the doorway. They walked to the truck in silence. Beauregard pulled out of Falmouth Acres. He turned right and headed deeper into the county.

“Where we going?” Javon asked. Beauregard didn’t respond. He turned down Chain Ferry Road then down Ivy Lane. The lane ended at the old public landing for the Blackwater River. Once they reached the boat ramp Beauregard stopped the truck and killed the engine.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“About what?”

Beauregard gripped the steering wheel. Then he relaxed his grip and turned to Javon. “I’m gonna ask you a question and I want the truth. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t just say that because you think that’s what I want to hear. I want you to tell me the honest truth.”

“Okay,” Javon said. He had his head down with his chin nearly touching his chest.

Beauregard closed his eyes and ran a hand across his face. He left his hand over his eyes. “Did you set fire to Precision Auto?”

Javon didn’t respond. Beauregard opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of the river. The sun was skipping across its surface like stones. The window was down so he could hear the water gently lapping against the riverbank. His grandfather used to take him here to fish for catfish and carp. He wasn’t that good at fishing, but it didn’t really matter. His Granddaddy James, his mother’s father, was a patient teacher. If he hadn’t gotten sent to juvie, then he might have gotten good at it. By the time he got out, his grandfather was dead.