Blacktop Wasteland(70)

Tyree threw his head back and howled.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

Inside the store the cashier was putting a 40-ounce bottle of beer in a brown bag for his only customer. They both watched with mounting concern as the man in the parking lot slammed the door to the van again and again. He and his customer jumped when they heard the man in the parking lot baying at the sky as the glass in the rear door shattered. The cashier peered out the picture window at the front of the store.

“That don’t sound good. Don’t look good neither. I think that one boy there got a gun. You think I should call the cops?” the cashier asked as he handed the brown bag to his customer.

Reggie grabbed the bag and his change.

“None of my business, man,” he said. His voice quavered a bit but since the cashier didn’t know him from Adam he didn’t notice. Reggie unscrewed the beer cap and took a big swig as he left the store. A warm wind rose up out of nowhere. It stirred the napkins and clear plastic lids and cigarette butts that dotted the parking lot. He headed for the highway, walking at a diagonal amble away from the van and the SUV. He tried to take another sip of his beer but his hands were trembling and he spilled it all over his T-shirt.

“Hey white boy, you see who was driving this van?” a voice asked from behind him. Reggie stopped. His throat felt like it was closing in on itself. He gripped his beer bottle tight. Exhaling rapidly, he turned to face the trio of men standing near the van.

“Nope,” he said. Tyree stepped forward. Reggie stared at the gun in his hands. The beer in his guts started trying to climb out of his stomach.

“You didn’t see nothing?” Tyree asked.

“Nope, sure didn’t,” Reggie said. His wounded foot began to throb. He began to tap it like he was keeping time with a beat only he could hear. Tyree took another step forward. They were only a foot apart now.

“You sure about that?” he asked.

“Yep,” Reggie said. His voice had dropped to a barely audible rasp.

Tyree stared at him.

A cell phone rang. One of the Hoodie Brothers answered it.

“Hey Ty, it’s Shade. He can’t get in touch with Ross. He wants to talk to you.”

Tyree clenched the grip on his gun. He started to step forward again but stopped. He held Reggie’s gaze for a few seconds before swallowing hard and holding out his left hand.

“Give me the phone,” Tyree said. His voice had lost some of its menace.

Reggie nodded abruptly and started hoofing it down the road. After he’d gone about about two hundred yards a pair of headlights appeared behind him and lit up his whole world. Reggie stopped, turned and used his free hand to shield his eyes.

A bedraggled pickup truck pulled over to the side of the road. The passenger door creaked open like a crypt. Reggie limped over to the truck and climbed inside.

“Everything go alright?” Kelvin asked.

“Yeah. I did just what Bug said. As soon as I saw the truck and the van go by I pulled out and drove to the gas station. Those guys pulled up like two seconds after I got in the store,” Reggie said. He took another sip.

“You didn’t get me a beer?” Kelvin said. Reggie clutched the bottle to his chest.

“I didn’t know you wanted one.”

Kelvin laughed.

“Calm down, Hee-Haw, I was just fucking with you,” Kelvin said as they pulled back onto the road.





TWENTY-FIVE



Bug sat in the van in the dark and waited for Ronnie to make the turn. It would be a left turn onto an old dirt lane choked with weeds and grass, just past a shuttered feed and seed store. The dirt lane climbed up a steep hill and crested in a flat meadow. Beauregard guessed a house had stood in the meadow at one time, but it was long gone. Nature had not yet reclaimed the spot completely. He’d found the place the day before riding around in the Lincoln with Kelvin while Ronnie and Reggie had lounged at the motel. He didn’t put too much stock in fate or luck but it had been fortuitous to find this spot. It was nearly a mile off the highway in the middle of nowhere with enough room for the truck, the van and the pickup Kelvin was driving to maneuver in. This time of night no one would notice them unless they came looking.

Beauregard hoped no one came looking. He didn’t relish killing anyone. At the same time, it didn’t fill him with tic-inducing anxiety. It was messy. Murder was always messy. If it had to be done, you had to expect to get dirty and clean up as best you could. When they had found those boys that had done Kaden, old Chompy had cleaned things up for them nicely.

The truck stopped. The hydraulic pump wheezed and shuddered as the ramp lowered once more. Beauregard started the van and backed down the ramp slowly. He hit the ground, turned the wheel to the right, shifted into drive and pulled up alongside the box truck. He killed the engine and climbed out and leaned against the driver’s-side door. The box truck’s headlights gave the meadow an eldritch glow moments before they extinguished. A copse of pine trees surrounded the meadow. Beauregard heard the door to the box truck open, then slam shut. Ronnie ambled around the back of the van.

“We fucking did it!” he said. He held up his hand for a high five. Beauregard glared at his hand until Ronnie lowered it and let it hang down by his side.

“It’s not done yet. We have to load the truck.”

“So, what about … your passenger?”