Blacktop Wasteland(55)

Ronnie had heard the phrase “His blood ran cold” before, but it had never carried much weight with him. He always thought it sounded like something some Hollywood scriptwriter had convinced himself was cool. Now as a chill settled in his veins, he understood the time-tested phrase. They knew about the money. That could mean one of two things. A: This was just some random home invasion that got lucky. That didn’t seem likely. A rust-covered single-wide trailer was not usually the target of a crew of home invaders. These boys didn’t look like hopped-up meth heads looking for an easy score. So that led to Option B. They were pros who had come specifically looking for him and the money. That was the option that chilled him to his bones. That option led to all kinds of bad conclusions. He decided to play dumb and see if these boys would let him in on what kind of game they were playing.

“Hold on now, I mean, what’s going on, man? I don’t get what’s happening. You gotta give me something. Y’all rolling up in here like Wyatt Earp and shit,” Ronnie said. He spoke in low soft tones and let honey drip over his words.

The man with the scar frowned.

“You just ain’t listening.” He pulled out a gun of his own and shot Reggie in the right foot. The tiny bedroom was filled with the ear-splitting cacophony of the gunshot. Ronnie jumped back and covered his ears. Reggie fell to the floor clutching at his right leg. The light breaking through the window highlighted his pale sweaty face.

“Shit, man!” Ronnie squealed. Reggie had fallen over and was lying in the fetal position. His moans were wet and reedy. The man with the scar pointed his gun at Ronnie. It was a .38 with a wood grip. It looked like a toy in his wide hand.

“You wanna get your clothes on? I was serious about that breakfast.”





TWENTY



Beauregard hadn’t been dancing in years. Not because he didn’t enjoy it, but there never seemed to be enough time. Between dealing with the garage and the boys and Ariel and his Mama, spare time was scarcer than hen’s teeth. When he had been double-deep in the Life, he and Kia would drive up to Richmond at the drop of a hat. They’d get dressed up, hit the clubs, and dance until the ugly lights came on. They would leave having spent more on spilled liquor than most people made in a week.

It had been so long Beauregard worried he wouldn’t be able to find the beat. Yet here he was in the middle of Danny’s, dipping and gyrating in rhythm with Kia. One arm around her waist, the other on her firm hip. The music thumping from wall-mounted speakers filled the bar with a tribalistic carnality. Beauregard felt it working its way through his body as Kia pressed herself against his crotch. Even after all these years, she still captivated the savage that lived between his legs. She was a caramel-dipped Aphrodite to his chocolate-covered Pan.

The song ended but the spell remained unbroken. He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck. The scent of her skin beneath her perfume was more intoxicating than the $500 fragrance she had bought that morning. She had also purchased a new outfit and gotten her hair done.

“Now, Mr. Montage, you gonna take me out and we are gonna dance and drink, and if you’re lucky, you gonna get some A1 pussy tonight,” she had said after her shopping spree. He hadn’t needed much convincing. The money from the jewelry store job had given them some breathing room. Might as well enjoy it. Ronnie was a weasel, but he had been right about that.

Eric, Caitlin and little Anthony aren’t enjoying much these days though, are they? Beauregard thought.

He’d given serious consideration to sending Caitlin some money. Not a lot but enough to help with the bills or buy a toy for the baby. He’d ruminated on it long and hard before finally pushing the idea away. Things were still too hot right now. No way he could go anywhere near Caitlin and Anthony. That didn’t stop him from thinking about them though. Especially that baby boy. He’d grow up belonging to the same fraternity as Beauregard. The brotherhood of fatherless sons.

But he wouldn’t be a member if you hadn’t done your part to induct him, now, would he, he thought.

Kia rubbed his thigh.

“The way you was dancing up on me I think you want this,” Kia whispered in his ear. Beauregard forced a smile.

“All the time and twice on Sunday,” Beauregard whispered back. She giggled and kissed him. The taste of whiskey and bubble gum–flavored lip gloss filled his mouth.

“Yo, let’s get some shots!” Kelvin said. He had his arm around the waist of a woman Beauregard had never seen before and didn’t expect to see again. Kelvin had some disposable income as well. The garage was busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Beauregard would never admit it, but Javon had been right. Burning down Precision had helped. That saddened him something fierce.

“Okay, what y’all want?” he asked.

“Nothing too strong. I’m feeling those Blue Motorcycles,” Kelvin’s friend said. She was a tall drink of water with long brown hair highlighted with blond and a hard-earned natural tan. A few of the regulars glanced at them when they came in but not with any serious intent. They just regarded her as another white woman lost to the other side.

“How about Red Headed Sluts?” Kia offered.

“I know a few of those,” Kelvin said. His friend jabbed him with her elbow.

“I’ll get some Royal Flushes,” Beauregard said. He headed for the bar while everyone else went back to the table. Beauregard leaned against the scarred railing that surrounded the top of the bar and raised his hand.