Blacktop Wasteland

by S. A. Cosby

  “What the hell is a racing tax?” the sweaty brother asked. Deputy Jones pulled out his gun and put the barrel against the sweaty brother’s cheek. Beauregard felt his stomach tighten.

  “Everything in your wallet, fat boy. Or do you want to be a victim of police brutality?” Deputy Jones asked.

  “You heard the man. Empty your pockets, gents,” Deputy Hall said. A soft breeze began to blow. The wind caressed Beauregard’s face. The scent of honeysuckle traveled on that breeze. The deputies filed up and down the men sitting in a row and grabbed the money out of their hands. Deputy Jones came to Beauregard.

  “Empty those pockets, son.”

  Beauregard looked up at him. “Take me in. Arrest me. But I ain’t giving you my money.”

  Deputy Jones put his gun against Beauregard’s cheek. The harsh smell of gun oil wafted up his nose and stuck to the back of his throat.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear what I said to your friend over there.”

  “He ain’t my friend,” Beauregard said.

  “You want to catch a bullet? You trying to commit suicide by cop?” Deputy Jones said. His eyes glistened in the moonlight.

  “No. I just ain’t giving you my money,” Beauregard said.

  “Bug, let it go,” Kelvin said. Deputy Jones shot him a glance. He pointed his gun at Kelvin.

  “He’s your friend, isn’t he? You should listen, Bug,” Deputy Jones said. He grinned, exposing a row of crooked brown teeth. Beauregard pulled out his roll of money and the one he had won from Warren. Deputy Jones snatched them out of his hands.

  “Good boy,” Deputy Jones said.

  “Alright, fellas, go on and get out of here. And don’t come back to Shepherd’s Corner,” Deputy Hall said. Beauregard and Kelvin got up. The crowd dispersed amid a smattering of muffled complaints. The night was filled with the howl of Chargers and Chevelles and Mustangs and Impalas coming to life. Kelvin and Beauregard climbed into the Duster. The cops had moved, and cars were leaving as fast as they legally could. Warren was sitting in the Olds staring straight ahead.

  “Move along, Warren,” Deputy Hall said.

  Warren rubbed his hands across his face. “It won’t start,” he mumbled.

  “What?” Deputy Hall said.

  Warren’s hands flew away from his face. “It won’t start!” he said. Kelvin laughed as he and Beauregard pulled out of the parking lot.

  Beauregard turned left and headed down the narrow road.

  “Interstate is that way,” Kelvin said.

  “Yeah. The town is this way. So are the bars,” Beauregard said.

  “How we getting a drink with no money?” Kelvin said.

  Beauregard stopped and backed the Duster into the entrance of an old logging road. He killed the lights and let the car idle.

  “Those weren’t real cops. They didn’t have no county insignia on their uniforms. And that gun was a .38. Cops haven’t carried .38s for twenty fucking years. And they knew his name,” Beauregard said.

  “Motherfucker. We got played,” Kelvin said. He punched the dashboard. Beauregard glared at him. Kelvin ran his hand over the dash, smoothing down the leather. “Shit, sorry, man. So, what we doing here?”

  “Warren said his car wouldn’t start. He the only one that stayed behind,” Beauregard said.

  “You think he was the snitch?”

  “Ain’t no snitch. He in with them. He stayed behind to get his cut. None of us was from here that was racing. I’m thinking somebody like Warren gonna want a drink to celebrate,” Beauregard said.

  “All that shit he was saying about you cheating was just a show.”

  Beauregard nodded. “Didn’t want me to leave. Give his crew time to get there. He ran a few races to get people in. Probably was checking for how much money was on the table. Then when I dropped that grip, he texted them.”

  “Son of a bitch. Huh. Dr. King would be so proud. Whites and blacks working together,” Kelvin said.

  “Yeah,” Beauregard said.

  “You think he really coming this way? I mean he can’t be that stupid, can he?” Kelvin asked.

  Beauregard didn’t speak. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He figured not everything Warren had said and done was for show. He really was a conceited ass. Guys like that never think they can get caught. They always think they’re one step ahead of everyone.

  “I used to run into guys like him when I was driving for crews. He ain’t from around here. He sounds like he from somewhere north of Richmond. Maybe Alexandria. Guys like that can’t wait till they get home to celebrate. And he wants to celebrate. Cuz he thinks he won. He thinks he fooled us good. He wants to get to the nearest place that sells alcohol and get his drink on. He’ll be by himself cuz his partners can’t go walking around in their fake uniforms. He’ll be in there talking big shit like he was before. He can’t help himself.”

  “You really think so, don’t you?” Kelvin said. Beauregard didn’t answer. He couldn’t go home without that money. A thousand wasn’t enough to pay the rent but it beat a blank. His instincts told him that Warren was gonna go into town and get his drink on. He trusted his instincts. He had to.

  Minutes ticked by and Kelvin checked his watch.

  “Man, I don’t think he—” Kelvin started to say. A car shot past them. A bright green paint job that sparkled in the moonlight.

  “The legendary Olds,” Beauregard said. He pulled out behind the Oldsmobile. They followed him through the flat plains and the gentle slopes of slight hills. The moonlight gave way to porch lamps and landscape lighting as they passed single-story houses and mobile homes. They sailed through a curve so sharp it could slice cheese and downtown Shepherd’s Corner came into view. A collection of drab concrete and brick buildings illuminated by pale streetlamps. A library, a pharmacy and a restaurant lined the street. Near the end of the sidewalk was a wide brick building with a sign over the front door that said DINO’S BAR AND GRILL.

  Warren turned right and drove around to the back of Dino’s. Beauregard parked the Duster on the street. He reached into the back seat and grabbed a crescent wrench. No one was on the sidewalk or loitering outside Dino’s front door. There were a few cars in front of the Duster. The deep tribal thump of a hip-hop beat seeped through Dino’s walls.

  “Stay here. You see anybody coming, hit the horn,” Beauregard said.

  “Don’t kill him, man,” Kelvin said. Beauregard didn’t make any promises. He got out and hurried down the sidewalk and across Dino’s parking lot. He stopped at the back corner of the building. Peeping around the corner he saw Warren standing next to the Oldsmobile. He was taking a piss. Beauregard ran across the parking lot. His footsteps were hidden by the music coming from the bar.

  Warren started to turn just as Beauregard hit him with the wrench. He slammed the tool into Warren’s trapezius muscle. Beauregard heard a wet crack like when his grandfather would snap chicken wings at the dinner table. Warren crumpled to the ground as piss sprayed across the side of the Oldsmobile. He rolled onto his side and Beauregard hit him again in his ribs. Warren rolled onto his back. A trickle of blood flowed out of his mouth and down his chin. Beauregard knelt beside him. He took the wrench and laid it across Warren’s mouth like a gag. He gripped both ends of it and pressed down with all his weight. Warren’s tongue squirmed around the handle of the wrench like a plump pink worm. Blood and spit ran from the sides of his mouth down his cheeks.

  “I know you got my money. I know you and them rent-a-cops was working together. Y’all travel around setting up races and pop the fools who show up. None of that matters to me. I know you got my money. Now I’m going to move this wrench, and if you say anything about anything other than my money, I’m going to break your jaw in seven places,” Beauregard said. He didn’t yell, and he didn’t scream. He straightened up and moved the wrench. Warren coughed and turned his head to the side. He spit a globule of pinkish saliva and it landed on his chin. He took a few deep gasps and more blood-spit flowed across his chin.


  “My back pocket,” he wheezed. Beauregard rolled him over and Warren wailed. It was a high animalistic moan. Beauregard thought he could hear the soft clicking of his shattered clavicle bones rubbing together. He pulled out a wad of cash. He flipped through it quickly.

  “There’s only 750. Where’s my thousand? Where’s yours? Where’s the rest?” Beauregard asked.

  “My.… mine was a dummy roll,” Warren said.

  “This is your cut,” Beauregard said. Warren nodded weakly. Beauregard sucked his teeth. He stood and pocketed the money. Warren closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

  Beauregard put the wrench in his back pocket and stomped on Warren’s right ankle right at the joint. Warren screamed but there was no one around to hear except for Beauregard.

  “Take it back,” Beauregard said.

  “What … what the fuck, man, you broke my fucking ankle.”

  “Take it back or I’ll break the other one.”

  Warren rolled onto his back again. Beauregard saw dark patches that spread from his crotch to his knees. His dick was still hanging out of his pants like a bloodworm. The smell of piss wafted up Beauregard’s nose.

  “I take it back. You not a cheater, okay? Fuck, you not a cheater,” he said. Beauregard saw tears slip from the corners of Warren’s eyes.

  “Alright then,” Beauregard said. He nodded his head then turned and walked back to the Duster.

  TWO

  The motion-activated lights on the roof of the garage flicked on as Beauregard pulled up in front of the building. He stopped and let Kelvin hop out of the Duster to open one of the three roll-up doors. Beauregard swung the car around and backed it into the garage. Echoes from the motor reverberated through the cavernous interior. Beauregard shut off the car. He ran his wide, thick-fingered hands over his face. He twisted around in his seat and grabbed the wrench off the back seat. It still had Warren’s blood and a bit of his skin on it. He’d have to soak it in water and bleach before putting it back in his toolbox.

  He got out and headed for the office. A pale blue light flashed overhead from a flickering fluorescent fixture. He went to a mini-fridge behind his desk and grabbed two beers. He dropped the wrench on the desk. The sound of metal against metal clanged against his ears. Kelvin came in and sat down in a folding chair in front of the desk. Beauregard tossed him a beer. They opened them in unison and raised their bottles. Beauregard killed most of his beer in one loud gulp. Kelvin sipped his twice before putting it on the desk.

  “Guess I’m gonna have to cuss Jerome the fuck out,” Kelvin said. Beauregard finished his beer.

  “Nah. It ain’t his fault. Them boys probably go up and down the East Coast doing this shit,” he said.

  “It’s still fucked up, though. I can ask around again. Maybe down in Raleigh? Or Charlotte?” Kelvin asked.

  Beauregard shook his head. He finished his beer and tossed it in the trash can. “You know I can’t go that far out. Not for some maybe money. Anyway, the rent is due by the twenty-third. I didn’t really want to ask Phil for another extension. Not getting that contract with Davidson’s construction company really put us in a bad spot,” Beauregard said.

  Kelvin sipped his beer. “You thought about talking to Boonie?” he asked.

  Beauregard fell into his swivel chair. He put his boots up on the desk. “I’ve thought about it,” he said.

  Kelvin finished his beer. “All I’m saying is we been open three years and then Precision comes along and it’s like people forgot we was here. Maybe Red Hill ain’t big enough for two mechanic shops. Or at least not a black one,” he said.

  “I don’t know. We was in the running for that Davidson’s contract. Twenty years ago, we wouldn’t even have been in the goddamn conversation. I just couldn’t go as low as Precision,” Beauregard said.

  “That’s why I’m saying you might want to talk to Boonie. Nothing too big. Just something to keep us afloat until … I don’t know, until more people move to Red Hill who don’t know how to change their oil,” Kelvin said.

  Beauregard picked up the wrench. He grabbed a rag from the pile sitting in a plastic bin next to his desk and began wiping the blood off it.

  “I said I’m thinking about it.”

  “Alright, well, I’m gonna get up the road. Christy is off tonight and since Sasha is working I’m gonna go by and say heyyyyy,” he said, singing the word “hey” until he hit a falsetto.

  Beauregard smirked. “One of them girls is gonna cut your thing off and mail it to you,” he said.

  “Man, whatever. They gonna dip it in bronze and put that thing on a pedestal,” Kelvin said as he rose from his chair. “Catch you in the morning?”

  “Yeah,” Beauregard said. He set the wrench down again. Kelvin gave him a two-finger salute and left through the office door. Beauregard swung around and planted his feet on the floor. 750. That was worse than having a grand. That’s not even considering the gas it took to get out to Shepherd’s Corner. Phil Dormer had told him last month that he wouldn’t be able to give him another extension.

  “Beau, I know times are tight right now. I get it. But my boss has told me we can’t extend you any more credit or time on this loan. Look, maybe we can refinance it—”

  “I’m only one year away from paying it off,” Beauregard said. Phil frowned.

  “Well, that’s true but you’re also technically three months behind. And per your loan agreement once you’re 120 days behind the loan becomes delinquent. I don’t want that to happen, Beau. Refinance and you’ll have more years, but you won’t lose the building,” Phil had said. Beauregard heard what he was saying. He saw the pained look on his face. And in a perfect world, he would have believed that Phil really was concerned about his livelihood. The world was far from perfect. Beauregard knew that Phil was saying all the right words. He also knew that the lot he sat on was right next to a development. They were building Red Hill’s first fast food restaurant. The old Tastee Freez didn’t count. They had closed ten years ago. They were never fast but they had made one hell of a milkshake.

  Beauregard got up and put the keys to the Duster on the hook in the corkboard and grabbed the keys to his truck. He locked up the garage and headed home.

  The sun was just peeking over the horizon as he backed into the street. Beauregard drove past the municipal offices of Red Hill County out to the wide-open fields. He always thought it was funny a county with “hill” in its name had a terrible paucity of actual hills. He passed Grove Lane. His daughter lived down there. The sky was streaked with gold and red as he turned down Market Drive. Two more turns down two more side roads and he was pulling down the dirt lane to his double-wide.

  Beauregard parked next to Kia’s little blue two-door Honda. He never drove the thing, he just kept it running. He was an American Muscle kind of guy. The house was quiet as he stepped up onto the porch. He made his way through the rectangular house, passing the room where his sons slept. The sun spilled through the blinds as rays of light filled the double-wide. His and Kia’s room was at the end of the trailer. Beauregard slipped into the room and sat down on the foot of their bed. Kia was sprawled across it like a piece of origami art. Beauregard touched her soft, exposed thigh. Her caramel-colored leg twitched. She didn’t turn over but spoke to him with her face still buried in her pillow.

  “How’d it go?” she mumbled into the pillow.

  “I won but the guy didn’t want to pay. It got a little messy.”

  She turned over then. “What you mean he ain’t wanna pay? What kind of shit is that?” she asked.

  She was propped up on one elbow. The sheet that had barely covered her had fallen away. Her hair was sticking off her head in strange geometric patterns. Beauregard kneaded the flesh on her thigh.

  “You didn’t get arrested, did you?” she asked.

  Yeah, by some fake-ass cops, he thought.

  He took his hand off her leg. “No, but the guy, he didn’t have all the money he said he had. The whole thing was messe
d up. I’m still 800 short,” he said. He let it sit there between them for a while. Kia pulled the sheet up and drew her knees up to her chest.

  “What about that contract to work on them trucks from the construction company?” she asked. Beauregard moved closer to her. His shoulder brushed against hers.

  “We didn’t get it. Precision got the contract. And then we had to get those glasses for Darren. And last month I had to give Janice money for Ariel’s cap and gown. It’s been a slow couple of months,” Beauregard said. Actually, it had been a slow year. Kia knew this, but neither one of them liked saying it out loud.

  “Can we get an extension?” she asked. Beauregard stretched out beside her. She didn’t lie back but instead wrapped her arms around her knees and squeezed them. Beauregard stared up at the ceiling. The fan spun on a shaky axis. The globe on the light of the ceiling fan had the image of a Rottweiler.

  They’d had that damn fan for five years and it never failed to give him the creeps. But Kia loved the damn thing. One thing he’d learned about marriage was that a novelty fan was not the hill you wanted to die on if you could help it.

  “I don’t know,” he said. She ran a hand through her tousled hair. A few minutes went by and then she lay back against Beauregard. Her skin was cool to the touch and smelled like roses. She had showered before bed. He snaked one arm around her midsection and laid his hand on her belly.

  “What if we can’t get an extension?” Kia asked.

  Beauregard stroked her belly. “I might have to sell something. Maybe the hydraulic lift. Or the second tire-changing machine. Which is why I got the damn loan in the first place,” he said. He didn’t mention going to talk to his Uncle Boonie.

  Almost as if on cue, Kia turned on her side and touched his face.

  “You thinking about it, ain’t you?” she asked.