Blacktop Wasteland(64)
“The boy I know told me his real money comes from running girls up the DC-Maryland corridor. Services a whole bunch of them government and military types up that way. Said he supposed to be a college boy. Got a degree in chemistry or some shit. Controls the meth, heroin and pills coming in from West Virginia. Said he runs moonshine too,” Beauregard said.
Kelvin laughed. “He must do that for old times’ sake. Damn. So you caught between a wannabe Pablo Escobar chopping motherfuckers up and putting them in grease buckets and a redneck Walter White. When you fuck up you do it right.”
Beauregard rolled his eyes. “If you don’t want to get in this…”
“I didn’t say that. I’m down. Besides, both of my girlfriends are gonna be out of town this weekend so I ain’t got nothing to do,” Kelvin said. He took a long sip off his beer. “You really gonna try and play them against each other like a chess game, huh?”
“It ain’t chess. It’s more like playing with a train set. We gonna put them on the same track and let them run into each other,” Beauregard said.
“You think ol’ boy gonna go for it?”
“I think this Shade is eating him alive. He wants to hurt him, but he also needs what’s in that truck. He already had his back against the wall before we came along and robbed his drop bank.”
“And how you plan on not getting caught in the cross fire?”
“I’m gonna get in touch with Shade and tell him when and where I plan on meeting Lazy with his truck. Then I’ll drop it off an hour earlier. They’ll both show up at the same time.”
“Well, it sounds simple. That means something is gonna go to shit,” Kelvin said. “Wait, what if Lazy gets the drop on Mr. Shade?”
“I got a rifle with a scope,” Beauregard said.
“Well, damn. It’s like that, I guess,” Kelvin said.
Beauregard took another sip of beer. “Yeah, it’s just like that. But first things first. We gotta get that truck.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna be the fun part,” Kelvin said.
* * *
Ronnie sat on the couch with the door open. The AC had finally died a horrible death. Spitting out water and Freon like it had mechanical tuberculosis. Reggie was lying down in his room with his foot elevated. Ronnie could see the sun setting through the open door. Orange and red streaks sliced through the sky. Sunlight danced across the waxed surface of his Mustang. He hadn’t driven the car since he got back from seeing Quan get his face blown off. The car only had a quarter of a tank of gas left. It was enough to get down to Danny’s, but then what? He didn’t have enough to pay for a drink, let alone get back to the house.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he said. He sipped the last beer from the fridge, which didn’t sound so healthy either. A week ago, he was snorting coke off some hipster chick’s titty, now he was rationing his beer. The vibrating of his cell phone interrupted his sad requiem for the life he had just lost. Ronnie pulled it out of his pocket and checked the display.
“Hey, Bug.”
“We on. Your brother okay to drive?”
“Well, kinda. They shot him in his foot when they came and scooped me up. He patched it up with some gauze and duct tape. He hopping around here like Peg Leg Bates, but it should hold,” Ronnie said.
There was a heavy silence on the line.
“We’ll just have to work with it. We leave for North Carolina Friday night,” Beauregard said.
“Bug, you still ain’t tell me what this plan of yours is. How we getting our money back?” Ronnie said.
More silence.
“Ronnie, there ain’t no getting your money back. If this goes the way I think, we are getting our lives. You should have put some of your money somewhere safe. Not cereal boxes,” Beauregard said.
The line went dead.
“Fuck you, Bug. That was a good idea,” Ronnie said to the mute line.
TWENTY-FOUR
Beauregard adjusted the bandana around his nose and mouth. It had the image of a skull and crossbones printed on it. He’d seen the characters in some of the video games Darren and Javon played wearing a similar type of mask. He pulled the baseball cap down tight on his head. He’d adjusted his disguise at least a half a dozen times since Kelvin had texted him and told him he was in place.
It dawned on him that he was actually nervous. The sensation was so foreign to him that the realization was jarring. Usually when he was about to do a job a sense of tranquility came over him. The knowledge that he had calculated all the possible outcomes and prepared for any eventuality gave him a sense of peace.
He didn’t feel any of that peace tonight. Tonight, he felt like an amateur. A virgin fumbling and tumbling his way to either ecstasy or agony. Six days. Six goddamn days to plan, get the necessary pieces in place and get down to North Carolina to execute the goddamn job. Beauregard adjusted the knapsack digging into his shoulders. He took a deep breath. A few mosquitoes buzzed around his face, apparently attracted to his warm breath and the promise of a big heaping gulp of his rich delicious blood. He waved them away and checked his watch. The hands glowed softly in the darkness. It was ten o’clock. Lazy’s man swore the caravan would be coming through Pine Tar Road between ten and ten thirty. Swore on a stack of Bibles they were coming that way to avoid the interstate and overzealous deputies manning obscure speed traps. Although Beauregard wasn’t sure how much anyone could trust the word of a hophead.