Blacktop Wasteland(53)

Screeching tires made him turn around. A white IROC-Z skidded into the parking lot and stopped just inches from the Duster’s rear bumper. Bug saw three white men get out and start stalking toward his Daddy as he came over to the Duster carrying the shakes and the burgers. The men walked past the window and Bug caught a whiff of liquor. It was bitter and mean like the green rubbing alcohol his grandmother used on her knees. Bug sat straight up in the passenger seat as the men surrounded his father. The biggest man was wearing a light blue tank top that showed off his multiple tattoos. The blurry edges and the pale black-gone-green ink made the tats look like the scribblings of a child. A bright, wine-colored birthmark stood out against the pale skin on the man’s neck. His black hair was slick backed and thinning.

“Ant,” the man said.

Bug watched his Daddy give the man a once-over.

“Red,” he said finally.

“Get in the car, Ant,” Red said.

“What this about Red? Huh? We done. We quits,” Anthony said. There was a tone to his Daddy’s voice that disturbed Bug. He sounded like a different person. He spoke in a flat, robotic way that seemed in direct contrast to his usual jovialness.

“We ain’t done, you motherfucker. We ain’t done by a long shot. My brother got picked up Tuesday,” Red said. He spoke with a restrained ferocity that was frightening. Bug thought he sounded like a rabid dog growling through a fence.

“And what that got to do with me? White went out and got a Corvette and dropping c-notes at Danny’s Bar a week after we did what we did. Sheriff ain’t gotta be Matlock to figure that out,” Anthony said.

“You the only one that could put any of us at the scene. He called me last night saying the cops told him they got a witness that put him at the payroll robbery. Now I know it ain’t me. And it ain’t Blue. So, who the fuck you think that leaves? Now get in the goddamn car,” Red said.

Bug saw him pull up his tank top. He caught a glimpse of a wooden handle. He had a gun. The man had a gun and was telling his Daddy to go with him.

“Red. We can talk about this but not now. Not in front my boy,” Anthony said. Bug watched as his eyes narrowed to slits. He knew what that meant too. That was the same way his father had looked last night in the bar. A man had told his Daddy to stay away from the man’s wife or he was gonna catch a bullet. His Daddy had finished his beer, then picked up the bar stool and beat the man half to death with it. They’d left Sharkey’s shortly thereafter. His Daddy had made him promise not to tell his Mama they had been in a bar and Bug had agreed that was something his Mama definitely did not need to know.

Thunder boomed from the east. The rain began to fall faster.

“Why not? He need to see what happens to snitches. Now I ain’t gonna say this again, Ant. Get in the goddamn car.”

Bug was lifting his leg over the gearshift before he fully understood what he was doing.

“I’m not leaving my boy here, Red. You gonna shoot me in front all these people?” Anthony asked.

“Try me, Ant. My brother staring down twenty-five years. Just try me.”

Bug slipped into the driver’s seat.

“I ain’t no fucking snitch, Red. You want me to go with you, okay. But you follow me and let me drop my boy off.”

Bug gripped the 8-ball shifter.

“You must think I’m a fool. I ain’t letting you get behind the wheel of no car. The last thing I ever see of you will be your fucking tail lights.”

Bug eased the clutch in and slipped the Duster into first. The engine idled like a quiet man clearing his throat.

“Red. Please. Not here,” Anthony said.

Bug stared at his father. His father caught his gaze and stared back. His nod was so subtle it had to be an unconscious gesture. Bug released the parking brake.

“Get your black ass in the car. I’m not telling you again. Last time, Ant,” Red growled. His face was emblematic of his nickname. Anthony cut his eyes toward the Duster.

“Whatever you say, Red,” Anthony said.

Bug took his left foot off the clutch and slammed his right against the gas pedal. The leather steering wheel cover was slathered in his sweat. He gripped it as the Duster leaped forward. Anthony threw the cardboard drink carrier into Red’s face and jumped to the left. Smoke from the rear tires enveloped the Duster as the engine howled.

The space between the Duster and the three men who had confronted his father was less than twenty feet. The Duster went from 0 to 50 as it covered that distance. Bug could hear screams through the open windows. The screams sounded womanish, but they came from two of the three men in front of him.

The impact was horrific. The whole car shuddered when he plowed into them. One of the men was launched skyward. Red and the other one disappeared under the front bumper of the Duster. Bug kept the pedal to the floor and rolled over them. He heard their bodies bounce off the undercarriage. It reminded him of the time his mother hit a raccoon in her old LTD. A hollow knocking that traveled the length of the car. He passed by the order window doing 60. He saw that the young white girl’s mouth was a huge O as he flew past her. He hit the clutch and the brake while twisting the steering wheel to the left. The Duster violently stalled and skidded to a stop.

Anthony got up off the concrete and ran over to the three bodies sprawled across the ground. They seemed to be bleeding from every orifice. Blue had tire tracks across his forearms and chest. His head was twisted at an odd angle in direct opposition to the position of his pelvis. Timmy Clovis had flown straight up in the air and landed directly on his head. A red and pink fibrous mass was leaking out the back of his skull. Beauregard realized that was his brain.