Blacktop Wasteland(58)

Beauregard pulled back the hammer on Carl’s gun.

“What if I don’t believe you? What if I just shoot the three of you and call my friend and tell him to punch it? That Nova has some get-up-and-go.”

Billy smiled.

“I bet it does. But that’s an awful lot of what ifs, ain’t it, Beauregard? Come on now, like I said, you a smart boy. Give Carl back his gun and let’s go on up the road. Got somebody that needs to talk to you, and he ain’t the type that likes to be kept waiting.”

Beauregard leaned into the gun and it dug deeper into Carl’s flesh. He could shoot Carl, that much was a given. Could he get the one on the right and the one Carl called Burning Man too? Even if he got all of them, could Kelvin outrun the car tailing him? Like Burning Man said, that was an awful lot of what ifs.

“Tick tock tick tock,” Billy said.

Beauregard thought about what Boonie had said. About the way men like him died. He didn’t want to take Kia with him. That honor was reserved for men like the three seated at the table with him. Along with whoever was their boss. Beauregard shoved the gun back in Carl’s waistband.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Billy tossed back his drink. He grimaced, then put his glass on the table. He picked up his phone and let his fingers slide across the screen. He put the phone back in his pocket.

“See, now Christmas don’t have to come early.”





TWENTY-ONE



They didn’t blindfold him. That was a bad sign. It meant they didn’t care if he saw where they were going. Which most likely meant he wasn’t ever leaving once they got to where they were going. They didn’t tie his hands up either. No need really. They had their insurance policy, after all.

Beauregard sat between Jim Bob and Burning Man. They were riding in a 2010 Cadillac CTS. A nice midsized sedan with a powerful 3-liter engine. The interior of the car was bathed in a ghostly pale light. LED lighting ran along the inside of the doors and along the floor. Just a subtle accent lighting, nothing too overbearing. Beauregard noticed the child locks were engaged. He had thought about hitting Jim Bob with an elbow, opening the door and pushing him out after he had relieved him of his gun. Shove the barrel into Burning Man’s eye and suggest he contact his boys and call them off completely. He could see that plan was going to be foiled by well-meaning consumer advocates.

They jumped on the interstate and headed west. The Caddy sliced through the night. Beauregard felt his ears pop as they began to climb into the Blue Ridge Mountains that bisected Virginia at odd intervals.

Finally, they took an exit near Lynchburg. The off-ramp deposited them onto the oak tree–lined main street of some quaint hamlet tucked away near Peaks of Otter mountain. Dark green streetlamps played peekaboo with the wisteria trees up and down the street. A banner stretched across the front of an imposing granite building lined with columns proclaimed that the Kimball Town Fair was one week away. The car turned off Main Street and down an equally well-lit side street. The car stopped in front of a tobacco shop at the end of the sidewalk. It was the last shop in a short row of stores. A brick facade was interrupted by a huge picture window. A glowing sign above the front door said it was THE HOT SHOP. The neon sign in the window of the shop said it was closed. Jim Bob pushed the barrel of his gun into Beauregard’s ribs.

“Try something. I want you to. Then I can pull the trigger until the gun goes click,” Jim Bob said. He leered at Beauregard, showing his crooked teeth.

“Alright now, Jim Bob, you know Lazy wants to talk to this boy,” Billy said as he opened his door. Jim Bob pushed Beauregard toward the same door. They all exited the car on the same side. Carl got out and before Beauregard could react, he punched him in the right kidney. Beauregard stumbled and fell against the car. He took a deep breath, coughed, and then stood up straight.

“Goddamn, you boys got two-inch peckers or something? Stop that shit. Lazy wants to talk with him. He can’t talk if he throwing up and pissing blood,” Billy said. Beauregard didn’t detect any real concern for his well-being. Burning Man’s only concern seemed to be not disappointing Lazy. Whoever that was.

“Sorry, Billy,” Carl mumbled. Beauregard figured Burning Man must be this Billy’s nickname. That struck him as oddly cruel, but then again you didn’t get to choose your nickname. If you did, no one would refer to him as Bug.

Billy aka Burning Man knocked on the door of the smoke shop. A thin white boy with lank blond hair and a sleepy face opened the door.

“Y’all came back quick,” the boy said.

“He didn’t put up much of a fight. He here?” Billy asked.

The boy shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Billy said. He gestured toward the interior of the store. “After you,” he said to Beauregard.

Beauregard entered the store. The overhead lights were off but there were enough novelty neon signs and clocks on the walls to light his way. The signs and clocks all depicted scenes from old movies. Some Beauregard recognized, some he didn’t. There was Rick and Sam at a piano from Casablanca against a red backdrop. A clock on the far wall above a shelf full of cigars was adorned with the maniacal grinning face of Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo from the original Kiss of Death, outlined with a cool blue chemical fire.

The kid who opened the door sprinted past Beauregard and knocked on a door behind the counter. A huge beast of a man opened that door. Jim Bob pushed Beauregard on through. The room was sparsely decorated. There was a cheap oak desk with a rotary phone sitting anachronistically near the edge. The walls were blank slabs of gray concrete. There was a wooden chair behind the desk. Three metal chairs sat in front of the desk. The spartan confines of the room stood in stark contrast to the garishness of the rest of the shop.