Blacktop Wasteland(83)

Ronnie was lying on his back with his legs twisted into odd angles. Even in the dark, Beauregard could see his jeans were stained. Fluids were leaking out of Ronnie Sessions at an alarming rate. He was trying to scuttle backwards but his arms failed him. Beauregard let the gun dangle at his side. He wiped his nose with the back of his free hand. His own blood looked like oil on his skin.

“Ah Jesus, Bug, I fucked up. I know it. I’m sorry. I think I done broke my legs,” Ronnie said. His salt-and-pepper goatee was stained burgundy by the blood bubbling out of his mouth.

“No, you didn’t. I broke your legs. And you’re not sorry. You just sorry I caught up with you,” Beauregard said.

Ronnie took several deep breaths. “I am, Bug. About the job, Kelvin, everything.”

Beauregard stepped on Ronnie’s shin and let his full weight press down on the shattered bone. A strange sound came out of Ronnie. It was half scream, half strangled groan.

“You don’t get to say his name. Are you sorry about my son too? They came to my house, Ronnie. My little boy is laying in a hospital bed fighting for his life. You sorry about that too?” Beauregard said. Ronnie’s eyes rolled back in their sockets then focused on Beauregard. Beauregard dropped to his knees beside Ronnie’s body. “You just couldn’t stick to the fucking plan, could you?”

“I couldn’t go back to being poor white trash, Bug. I could take being trash. I just couldn’t stand being poor again,” Ronnie said.

Beauregard shook his head slowly.

“Where’s the van, Ronnie?”

A thought sliced through the fog of pain clouding Ronnie’s brain.

“You found Reggie, huh? Did you kill him, Bug? He didn’t know what I was gonna do. Did you kill my brother, Bug?” Ronnie asked.

Beauregard didn’t say anything. All Ronnie could hear was his own labored breathing. Ronnie blinked his eyes hard three or four times. Tears ran away from the corners of his eyes and sluiced through his crow’s feet.

“The van, Ronnie.”

“Hey, Bug? Fuck you.”

Beauregard shot Ronnie in the left knee. Ronnie opened his mouth wide in a rictus of agony. Beauregard got to his feet.

“That was for Kelvin.”

Beauregard shot Ronnie in the other kneecap. Ronnie vomited, choked on it and vomited again. Beauregard pushed Ronnie’s head to the left with his foot to clear his airway. He didn’t want him to pass out.

“That was for Darren,” Beauregard said. “I’m gonna ask you again. Where’s the van, Ronnie?”

Ronnie craned his neck to meet Beauregard’s gaze. “Why should I tell you, Bug? Ain’t ya gonna kill me?” he rasped.

“I can hurt you a lot more before that happens,” Beauregard said.

Ronnie closed his eyes. Beauregard could see movement behind his lids like he had entered a REM state. Moments ticked by as Beauregard waited for him to answer.

“I don’t have time for this, Ronnie,” Beauregard said. He stepped on Ronnie’s right knee and ground his heel into the bullet wound just above his patella. Ronnie screeched and sat straight up at the waist like a vampire in a coffin. He pawed at Beauregard’s thighs. Beauregard kneed him in the face. Ronnie fell back onto the dirt with his arms outstretched. His fingertips brushed against a few downed cornstalks. When his eyes opened Beauregard could see there was no more fight left in him.

“It’s down at my granddad’s old place. Crab Thicket Road. Bank owns it, but nobody wants to live out there in the middle of no-fucking-where,” Ronnie wheezed. “Jesus, it’s a fucked-up world, ain’t it, Bug?” he croaked. Blood was flowing freely from his mouth now.

Beauregard turned his head and spit out a globule of blood and saliva. He put his foot on Ronnie’s chest and aimed at his head.

“The world’s fine, Ronnie. It’s us that’s fucked up,” he said.



* * *



Beauregard got back to the salvage yard around midnight. Boonie’s truck was still there when he pulled up to the office. Boonie met him as he climbed out of the wrecker. He stood in front of the office door with his hands on his hips as Beauregard pulled a green tarp out of the truck. It tumbled to the ground with an audible thump.

“You find out where the van is?” Boonie asked.

“Yeah,” Beauregard said.

Boonie sighed and tugged at his hat.

“We can put him in the Cavalier with his brother. In an hour, they won’t be nothing but a big-ass paperweight,” Boonie said. He squinted and studied Beauregard’s face. He gestured to the busted headlight and the cornstalks stuck in the grill.

“Looks like he didn’t give it up easy.”

Beauregard caught a glimpse of himself in the driver’s-side window.

“I’m glad he didn’t,” he said.





THIRTY-ONE



“That’ll be $87.50, ma’am,” Lazy said. He slid two cartons of Marlboro Reds across the counter. The old woman set the bag with her oxygen tank in it on the counter. She pulled a hundred out of the pocket of her yellow polyester pants and handed it to Lazy. As he was counting out her change, he heard a shrill whistle echoing from his office. He handed Mrs. Jackson her change and went into the back office.

The burner phone was ringing and vibrating on his desk.