Blacktop Wasteland

by S. A. Cosby

  Beauregard knew his Daddy didn’t really want a milkshake. He was trying to be nice. He always tried to be nice whenever he did something that hurt him or his Mama.

  “Yeah,” Beauregard said.

  “Alright then. We gonna get you the biggest strawberry shake they got,” Anthony said. He put the Duster in gear and spun his tires as they sped out of the park-and-ride.

  “Chocolate. My favorite is chocolate,” Beauregard whispered.

  TEN

  Beauregard closed the shop early. He’d let Kelvin go around noon. The morning had been painfully slow. They’d passed the time playing checkers, listening to the radio and shooting the shit.

  “You want me to call you tomorrow before I come in?” Kelvin had asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Just so you know, I told Jamal Paige I would help him out a few days next week. Driving his tow truck for him while he out of town. Just so you know,” Kelvin had said.

  “That’s fine.”

  “Told him I might be available a few days a week. Until things pick up around here,” Kelvin said.

  “I understand. You gotta do what you gotta do. It’s cool,” Beauregard said.

  Kelvin had stood there with his hands in the pockets of his coveralls. “I just don’t want you to think I’m dipping on you.”

  “I know you ain’t,” Beauregard said. But he wouldn’t blame Kelvin if he did.

  After Kelvin had left, he had sat in his office watching the minute hand on the clock on the wall. It moved languidly. He held on for three more hours, then went over to see Boonie.

  The yard was busy. Cars and trucks were moving across the weigh scale at a brisk clip. A cavalcade of rusted iron and crumpled steel was passing through the gates of Red Hill Metals. Beauregard wondered about where some of the items came from. A wrought iron bed frame sat on the back of a lime green pickup sitting in front of him, waiting its turn on the scale. The finials on the headboard were shaped like blackberries. Had children pretended they were real? Had a beautiful woman reached out and grabbed them as she sat astride her lover? Did an old gangster experience the death Boonie said was denied to men like him in that bed?

  He got through the gate and went into the office. Boonie was sitting at his desk counting out money to a wide white man wearing a Confederate flag hat. Beauregard stood near the door.

  “That’s two-fifty, Howard,” Boonie said after he had finished counting. He handed the wad of bills to the man, who seemed to hesitate before he grabbed them.

  “That motor by itself is worth $200. It weighs damn dear a thousand pounds,” the man grumbled.

  “Howard, that’s the motor out a Gremlin. Now if you want to try your luck somewhere else, go right ahead. But they gonna ask a lot more questions than I do,” Boonie said.

  Howard stood up and put the money in his pocket. He left without saying a word.

  “You wanna bet he’s calling me a nigger in his head?” Boonie asked.

  Beauregard chuckled. “Hell, he was probably doing that before he sat down,” he said.

  Boonie swiveled in his chair and locked the safe that sat behind him. “Long as he don’t say it out loud. You see that hat he was wearing? Them good ol’ boys always telling us to get over slavery, but they can’t get over having their ass handed to them by Sherman,” Boonie said.

  Beauregard sat in the chair Howard had just vacated. “I need a favor,” he said.

  “I haven’t heard anything about any jobs yet,” Boonie said.

  Beauregard shook his head. “I need a car. I can’t pay you up front, but I’ll get you on the back end. Doesn’t matter what condition the body is in, but the frame gotta be tight,” he said.

  Boonie leaned back in his chair. It wailed under his weight. “You got a line on something?” he asked.

  Beauregard crossed his legs at the ankles. “Something like that,” he said. He could feel tremors coming up from the floor as a dually drove by the window. Boonie rocked back and forth in the chair. It cried out for mercy.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Ronnie Sessions, would it?” Boonie said. Beauregard held his face in check, but the shock registered in his hands. He squeezed them into fists so tight his knuckles popped. They sounded like pieces of glass thrown against a brick wall.

  “Why you say that? Did he tell you that?” Beauregard said. His words came out in a slow monotone.

  “Nah. But he came in here this morning talking a mile a minute with five rolls of copper that I know he fucking stole and five bags of mulch that I also know he stole, but I can’t figure out why. I gave him four for the rolls. They were worth five, but I don’t like that boy. He like to play dumb, but he as slick as two eels in a bucketful of snot. He told Samuel he had a job in the works and needed some money for tools. Told him it was a rocking chair job. He wouldn’t never have to work again. And now you asking about a car,” Boonie said.

  He let the statement hang in the air between them. Beauregard didn’t say anything. He kept his face placid.

  “Well, shit. Just promise me you gonna be careful. Let’s go out back. I think I got something for you,” Boonie said.

  They wandered through the maze-like back lot of Red Hill Metals. Dozens upon dozens of junk cars littered the landscape like the dead husks of some great forgotten creatures. The smell of stagnant rainwater mixed with oil and gas and grease filled the air. Dust devils chased at their feet as they crunched across the gravel. Finally, they came to a dark blue two-door sedan.

  “Just got this the other day from Sean Tuttle’s old house. ’87 Buick Regal GNX. The motor’s shot but I don’t guess that gonna bother you much. The bones on this ol’ boy are rock solid. Transmission was still good too. Sean didn’t see himself doing anything with it, so we picked it up. I was gonna start selling parts off it, but I can let you have it for a grand.”

  Beauregard peered through the driver’s window. The interior was torn and busted in multiple places. The headliner was drooping like a stroke victim’s cheek. The front bumper had a hole in it the size of an offensive lineman’s fist. Pockets of rust covered the hood like some oxidizing eczema. The side mirrors were barely holding on. A good stiff wind would send them flying. It saddened him to see a car in such a state of disrepair. It made his skin crawl to see a car deteriorate like this. There was a part of him that wanted to fix up every junked broke-down rambling wreck he saw. Kia told him he felt about cars the way most people felt about puppies.

  “Can you bring it by the shop tomorrow?” Beauregard asked.

  “Yeah, I can. Probably shouldn’t, though. I know you pressed up against it, Bug, but I don’t trust that boy. He so crooked they gonna have to screw him into the ground when he dies,” Boonie said.

  Beauregard knew Boonie meant well. He knew the old man cared. But Boonie had options. Beauregard didn’t. “I’ll get you straight after it’s all done,” he said.

  “I know that. Just make sure you straight after it’s done. And if that cracker come at you sideways, get at me and we’ll make sure he meets Chompy Number One up close and personal like,” Boonie said.

  He better not come at me sideways, Beauregard thought.

  “You know I used to drive too. Got hung up one time, almost didn’t get away. Your Daddy said something to me that made me stop driving. Get into the other side of things.”

  Beauregard wiped his hands on his pants.

  “What was that?”

  “He told me that I had a wife who loved me. I had the yard. He said, ‘Boonie, a man gotta be one thing or another. You either gonna run the yard or you gonna be running in the streets. Man can’t be two types of beasts,’” Boonie said.

  “Too bad he didn’t take his own advice.”

  “Didn’t he, though? Ant wasn’t a mechanic who drove. He was a driver who sometimes worked as a mechanic. Love him or hate him, he knew who he was,” Boonie said.

  “You think I don’t know who I am?”

  “I think you know. You just don’t like it,
” Boonie said.

  * * *

  He left the scrap yard and headed for his sister-in-law’s place to pick up the boys. As Beauregard pulled into Jean’s driveway, he wondered, not for the first time, how a single mom could afford such a nice house on a hairdresser’s salary. He parked the truck but before he could get to the door of the two-story brick Colonial Darren was already running out the door.

  “Daddy, look, Javon made me a tattoo!” Darren said. He rolled up the sleeve of his Captain America T-shirt to show Beauregard the drawing of Wolverine on his arm.

  “It’s just magic marker. It’s not permanent,” Javon said. He was walking out behind Darren.

  “We should take a picture of it before your Mama makes him wash it off,” Beauregard said. The detail in the drawing was uncanny. Javon had even added the iconic “Snikt!” in a thought bubble above Wolverine’s head.

  “No, I’m never washing it off,” Darren wailed. Beauregard scooped him up with one arm and slung him over his shoulder.

  “You gonna have to take a bath someday. You can’t walk around with a shitty butthole,” he said. Darren exploded with laughter. Javon walked past them carrying his backpack and Darren’s bag of crayons, coloring books and action figures. He climbed in the truck and put in his ear buds.

  “Hey Beau,” Jean said. She had appeared at the door like a wraith.

  “Hey Jean. How ya doing?” Beauregard said. His sister-in-law crossed her arms. She and Kia had similar features, but Jean had a video model’s shape. Full in the hips and the chest with a figure like a Coke bottle.

  “Oh, I’m doing alright. You are looking good, though. Being your own boss agrees with you.”

  “Well, you should know all about that.”

  “Yeah. I’m used to doing things my own way by myself. When you do it that way, you never get disappointed. At the end of the day, you’re always satisfied,” Jean said.

  Beauregard felt his face get hot. “Well, I’m gonna get on down the road,” he said. Jean smiled and faded back into the house. Beauregard carried a still giggling Darren to the truck and put him next to his brother. They backed out of the driveway and headed home.

  “Is Aunt Jean lonely doing everything by herself?” Darren asked. He had his hand out the window waving it up and down in the wind.

  “I think Aunt Jean is just fine,” Beauregard said.

  They pulled into their own driveway and Darren was out and running to the house before Beauregard had put the truck into gear. Javon didn’t move. During the ride, Darren had fished his Iron Man action figure out of his bag. He was now pitting Iron Man against the geranium Kia kept on the porch.

  “Are we gonna be okay?” Javon asked.

  Beauregard sat back against the bench seat of the truck. “Why you asking me that?”

  “I’ve heard you and Mama talking,” Javon said. He had pulled his ear buds down around his neck.

  “We gonna be fine. We might have hit a rough patch, but you ain’t gotta worry about that. All you need to do is get ready for the eighth grade,” Beauregard said.

  “Mama was on the phone the other night saying she might have to get another job because that Precision place opened up,” Javon said.

  “Listen. Don’t you worry about Precision or your mom getting another job. All you gotta worry about is hitting them books and getting through high school,” Beauregard said.

  “I wish I could just go to work too. I could get a job helping Uncle Boonie. I hate school. It’s boring. The only thing I like is art class and I can do that on my own,” Javon said. Beauregard drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He knew Javon was struggling in math. Beauregard had tried to help him. He tried his best to unravel the Pythagorean theorem or scientific notation for Javon but he knew he was a piss-poor teacher. He couldn’t seem to explain angles and variables to Javon in a way that made sense to his son. Beauregard just seemed to get it and it was hard to articulate how he got it to someone else. He figured Javon felt the same way about drawing. His son was smart and talented, just in a different way. His Daddy used to say you didn’t call a fish dumb because it couldn’t climb a tree.

  Beauregard held his hand up in front of his son’s face.

  “You see this grease on my hands? I’ve washed them five times today and it still won’t come all the way off. Don’t get me wrong, there is no shame working with your hands for a living. But for me, it was the only choice I had. It don’t have to be that way for you. You wanna go to Auto and Diesel school and get a job working on race cars, that’s fine. You wanna go to VCU, take art classes and be a graphic designer, hey that’s fine too. You wanna be a lawyer or a doctor or a writer, ain’t nothing wrong with that either. Education gives you those choices.”

  Beauregard sat back against the driver’s seat.

  “Listen, when you’re a black man in America you live with the weight of people’s low expectations on your back every day. They can crush you right down to the goddamn ground. Think about it like it’s a race. Everybody else has a head start and you dragging those low expectations behind you. Choices give you freedom from those expectations. Allows you to cut ’em loose. Because that’s what freedom is. Being able to let things go. And nothing is more important than freedom. Nothing. You hear me, boy?” Beauregard said.

  Javon nodded his head.

  “Alright then. All I want you to worry about is keeping your head in them books. I’ll take care of everything else. Now help me get your brother in the house. We don’t watch him he’ll be out here all night fighting with that damn plant,” Beauregard said.

  Beauregard got the boys inside and made them their favorite daddy dinner. Cheeseburger casserole with a pitcher of lemon-lime Kool-Aid. Later, after he had put them to bed, he waited up for Kia to get home. A little after eleven, she came stumbling into the house.

  “What did you feed the boys?”

  “Their favorite,” he said.

  She collapsed next to him on the couch. In less than five minutes she was asleep. Beauregard got up and carried her to bed. Her lithe body wrapped around him like a snake. He laid her down in the bed and went back out to the living room to cut off the lights. He pulled his key ring out of his pocket. As he was hanging it on the key hook the key to the Duster slipped from the ring. The 8-ball at the end of the chain clattered across the floor. He bent over and picked it up. The letters ATM were scratched into the surface of the plastic resin on the miniature 8-ball. Tomorrow he would start working on the Buick. He’d have to go back up to Cutter County and check the route a few more times. He needed to go over the plan with Ronnie and that Quan character again and again. Boonie was right about Ronnie. He was playing some angle that only he could see. That was his way. It was like he was addicted to being duplicitous. Quan was a wannabe gangsta playing with a grown man’s gun. He didn’t trust either one of them, not even a little bit. His father had trusted his partners and they had tried to kill him in front of his only son. He had no intention of letting that happen to him.

  Beauregard knew there was no honor among thieves. Boys in the game only respected you in direct proportion to how much they needed you divided by how much they feared you. There was no doubt they needed his skill.

  And if they weren’t a little bit afraid of him then that was their mistake.

  ELEVEN

  Ronnie and Reggie sat in Reggie’s car with the engine idling so hard the doors were rattling like maracas. They were parked on a lonely county service road. A cell phone tower rose out of the woods behind them like the arm of a titanic robot. Beauregard’s truck came rumbling down the gravel road, throwing up a hazy cloud of dust. Beauregard pulled up to Reggie’s car so that their driver’s side windows were parallel to each other. He grabbed a cooler from the passenger seat and passed it to Reggie through the window. Reggie handed the cooler to Ronnie.

  “We been out here for almost an hour. I hope you got some beers in here too,” Ronnie said. Beauregard ignored him.

  “The guy I got ’em from
don’t live around here. And he stay nervous. Takes a little time to do business with him,” Beauregard said. Ronnie grabbed the lid of the cooler.

  “Don’t open it here,” Beauregard said.

  “Well can you at least tell us what you got?”

  “Six-shot revolvers. Made from pieces of a .38 but with an extended barrel. No serial numbers and no ballistics history. Madness makes them clean. Ghost pieces,” Beauregard said.

  “‘Madness makes them clean.’ Where you get that from, some fucked-up fortune cookie?” Ronnie asked.

  “Madness is the guy who makes them,” Beauregard said.

  “Oh. Six-shooters huh? Quan ain’t gonna like that,” Ronnie said.

  “Quan ain’t gotta like it. Revolvers don’t leave behind shell casings. And if you need more than six shots you in the wrong line of work,” Beauregard said. He put the truck in reverse, turned around and flew down the service road.

  He didn’t really like leaving Ronnie with the guns but he didn’t need to get caught with unregistered weapons. Beauregard didn’t think Ronnie was dumb enough to use the guns before the job. At least he hoped he wasn’t.

  When he got to the shop, Kelvin was changing the oil on Esther Mae Burke’s ancient Chevy Caprice. He had it up on the lift while Mrs. Burke sat on the bench seat near the door.

  “How you doing, Mrs. Burke?” Beauregard asked as he passed her on his way to his office.

  “I’m well, Beauregard. Things a little slow around here today?” Mrs. Burke asked. She was a trim, neat little white woman with a helmet of bluish white hair propped up on her head like a rooster comb.

  “Things will pick up eventually,” Beauregard said.

  “My neighbor Louise Keating says them fellas at Precision Auto only charge $19.99 for an oil change. And they top off all your fluids and will even rotate the tires. All for $19.99. I told her if it’s that cheap, they probably ain’t doing it correctly. I’d rather come here where I know it’s done right,” Mrs. Burke said.