Blacktop Wasteland

by S. A. Cosby

  Thunder boomed from the east. The rain began to fall faster.

  “Why not? He need to see what happens to snitches. Now I ain’t gonna say this again, Ant. Get in the goddamn car.”

  Bug was lifting his leg over the gearshift before he fully understood what he was doing.

  “I’m not leaving my boy here, Red. You gonna shoot me in front all these people?” Anthony asked.

  “Try me, Ant. My brother staring down twenty-five years. Just try me.”

  Bug slipped into the driver’s seat.

  “I ain’t no fucking snitch, Red. You want me to go with you, okay. But you follow me and let me drop my boy off.”

  Bug gripped the 8-ball shifter.

  “You must think I’m a fool. I ain’t letting you get behind the wheel of no car. The last thing I ever see of you will be your fucking tail lights.”

  Bug eased the clutch in and slipped the Duster into first. The engine idled like a quiet man clearing his throat.

  “Red. Please. Not here,” Anthony said.

  Bug stared at his father. His father caught his gaze and stared back. His nod was so subtle it had to be an unconscious gesture. Bug released the parking brake.

  “Get your black ass in the car. I’m not telling you again. Last time, Ant,” Red growled. His face was emblematic of his nickname. Anthony cut his eyes toward the Duster.

  “Whatever you say, Red,” Anthony said.

  Bug took his left foot off the clutch and slammed his right against the gas pedal. The leather steering wheel cover was slathered in his sweat. He gripped it as the Duster leaped forward. Anthony threw the cardboard drink carrier into Red’s face and jumped to the left. Smoke from the rear tires enveloped the Duster as the engine howled.

  The space between the Duster and the three men who had confronted his father was less than twenty feet. The Duster went from 0 to 50 as it covered that distance. Bug could hear screams through the open windows. The screams sounded womanish, but they came from two of the three men in front of him.

  The impact was horrific. The whole car shuddered when he plowed into them. One of the men was launched skyward. Red and the other one disappeared under the front bumper of the Duster. Bug kept the pedal to the floor and rolled over them. He heard their bodies bounce off the undercarriage. It reminded him of the time his mother hit a raccoon in her old LTD. A hollow knocking that traveled the length of the car. He passed by the order window doing 60. He saw that the young white girl’s mouth was a huge O as he flew past her. He hit the clutch and the brake while twisting the steering wheel to the left. The Duster violently stalled and skidded to a stop.

  Anthony got up off the concrete and ran over to the three bodies sprawled across the ground. They seemed to be bleeding from every orifice. Blue had tire tracks across his forearms and chest. His head was twisted at an odd angle in direct opposition to the position of his pelvis. Timmy Clovis had flown straight up in the air and landed directly on his head. A red and pink fibrous mass was leaking out the back of his skull. Beauregard realized that was his brain.

  Red Navely groaned.

  Anthony knelt beside him. Both his legs were bent backwards at the knee like a bird. Red’s chest was crushed into a concave on the right side. Blood bubbled out of his ears and his mouth. A swath of skin had been sloughed off the side of his head, exposing an angry red wound. Every breath he took expelled more blood that then splashed across his chin. There were tire tracks across his thighs.

  “I told you not in front of my boy,” Anthony said. He placed his wide hand over Red’s nose and mouth.

  “Is.… is he okay?” a tiny voice squeaked. The girl from the register had come from behind the counter. Anthony bent over Red’s body.

  “Go call 911! Go!” he screamed without turning around. He heard the girl’s feet pounding against the pavement as she ran. Red tried to move his hand toward his gun, but it didn’t seem to be working correctly. He trembled once, then twice, then was still. The life drained out of his eyes like a light bulb slowly going dim.

  Beauregard squeezed the steering wheel so hard his forearms ached. He could see a willowy plume of white steam pouring from under the hood. The hood itself was dented in the middle. His chest felt like an elephant was standing on it.

  “Get out the car, Bug. No need to give the cops a reason to pop a cap in you when they get here,” Anthony said. He opened the door and helped Beauregard out of the car. Beauregard bent over and placed his hands on his knees. He waited for a stream of vomit that never came. Anthony rubbed his back with his huge soup bone of a hand.

  “It’s alright, Bug. You go on and be sick if you need to. You ain’t meant for this life. That’s a good thing,” Anthony said.

  “They were gonna kill you,” Beauregard said between dry heaves.

  “Yeah, I think they had that in mind, Bug. Don’t you worry, I’m gonna tell the cops it was an accident. Everything gonna be alright.”

  Four weeks later, Bug was sentenced to five years in juvie for involuntary manslaughter.

  By then his Daddy was long gone.

  NINETEEN

  “Wake up, Ronnie.”

  “Lemme alone, Reggie. My head aching like a gnome digging his way out with a spoon,” Ronnie said. His mouth tasted like the bottom of an oil barrel. If his memory served him correctly, they had drunk three bottles of Jameson last night. He and Reggie had consumed most of it, but the two Mexican girls had their share too. What were their names again? Guadalupe and Esmerelda. That sounded right. Maybe.

  “Ronnie, please wake up.”

  They’d picked them up at Laredo’s Saloon in Richmond. Brought them back to Reggie’s trailer for a night of debauchery so uninhibited it would have made Hugh Hefner blush. The last thing Ronnie remembered was one of the girls sucking his dick like she had been poisoned and the antidote was in his nuts.

  “Ronnie, wake the fuck up!”

  It had been two weeks since the job and he wasn’t slowing up one iota. For all his talk about white sandy beaches and blue skies, he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave Virginia anymore. Jenny had bailed on him but that wasn’t such a bad thing. The same day she dipped, they found the dyke chick burnt crispier than grandma’s fried chicken. The way the news was telling it, the cops figured she and Jenny had been in on the robbery. There was no mention of any of their possible accomplices. The heat wasn’t off, but it was turned down from broil to simmer.

  “You should listen to your brother.”

  Ronnie’s eyes snapped open as he reached for his piece under his pillow. He had given Reggie the money to purchase it legally. A Beretta 9 mm.

  “Ah, it ain’t there, brother. You might want to sit up for this.”

  Ronnie turned over so slow he might as well have been demonstrating plate tectonics.

  Two men were standing on either side of Reggie at the foot of his bed. One of them had a nasty scar on the side of his face. He wore a white dress shirt open at the collar with the tail untucked. The other man was as wide as a refrigerator. He wore a blue blazer over a black T-shirt. The T-shirt barely contained his belly. He was the one pressing the barrel of a .357 into Reggie’s ribs.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” the man with the scar and the Colonel Sanders facial hair said.

  “You from Chuly? Because I gave Skunk the money. I paid in full, with interest,” Ronnie said. The man with the scar shivered and laughed.

  “Nah, we ain’t from Chuly. And we ain’t nearly as bad as Skunk Mitchell. Not really,” the man with the scar said.

  Ronnie sat up and let the blanket fall and cover his waist. Reggie’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. Ronnie wracked his brain. Was there someone he had pissed off in the last few weeks that would send some boys to rough him up? He drew a blank.

  “Look, I don’t know what this all about, so why don’t you enlighten me a little bit, Hoss,” Ronnie said. He spoke to the man with the scar. He seemed to be the brains of the operation. The man with the scar smiled.

  “Well, let m
e see how I can put this. You done fucked up, Ronnie. You done fucked up so bad you might wanna find your mama and crawl back in her snatch and try again. But since that ain’t gonna happen, you need to get up, put your clothes on, and come with us. Be quick now. I’m trying to catch breakfast. You boys ain’t got nothing in the cabinet but a cereal box full of money. Can’t eat that, now can I?” the man with the scar said.

  Ronnie had heard the phrase “His blood ran cold” before, but it had never carried much weight with him. He always thought it sounded like something some Hollywood scriptwriter had convinced himself was cool. Now as a chill settled in his veins, he understood the time-tested phrase. They knew about the money. That could mean one of two things. A: This was just some random home invasion that got lucky. That didn’t seem likely. A rust-covered single-wide trailer was not usually the target of a crew of home invaders. These boys didn’t look like hopped-up meth heads looking for an easy score. So that led to Option B. They were pros who had come specifically looking for him and the money. That was the option that chilled him to his bones. That option led to all kinds of bad conclusions. He decided to play dumb and see if these boys would let him in on what kind of game they were playing.

  “Hold on now, I mean, what’s going on, man? I don’t get what’s happening. You gotta give me something. Y’all rolling up in here like Wyatt Earp and shit,” Ronnie said. He spoke in low soft tones and let honey drip over his words.

  The man with the scar frowned.

  “You just ain’t listening.” He pulled out a gun of his own and shot Reggie in the right foot. The tiny bedroom was filled with the ear-splitting cacophony of the gunshot. Ronnie jumped back and covered his ears. Reggie fell to the floor clutching at his right leg. The light breaking through the window highlighted his pale sweaty face.

  “Shit, man!” Ronnie squealed. Reggie had fallen over and was lying in the fetal position. His moans were wet and reedy. The man with the scar pointed his gun at Ronnie. It was a .38 with a wood grip. It looked like a toy in his wide hand.

  “You wanna get your clothes on? I was serious about that breakfast.”

  TWENTY

  Beauregard hadn’t been dancing in years. Not because he didn’t enjoy it, but there never seemed to be enough time. Between dealing with the garage and the boys and Ariel and his Mama, spare time was scarcer than hen’s teeth. When he had been double-deep in the Life, he and Kia would drive up to Richmond at the drop of a hat. They’d get dressed up, hit the clubs, and dance until the ugly lights came on. They would leave having spent more on spilled liquor than most people made in a week.

  It had been so long Beauregard worried he wouldn’t be able to find the beat. Yet here he was in the middle of Danny’s, dipping and gyrating in rhythm with Kia. One arm around her waist, the other on her firm hip. The music thumping from wall-mounted speakers filled the bar with a tribalistic carnality. Beauregard felt it working its way through his body as Kia pressed herself against his crotch. Even after all these years, she still captivated the savage that lived between his legs. She was a caramel-dipped Aphrodite to his chocolate-covered Pan.

  The song ended but the spell remained unbroken. He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck. The scent of her skin beneath her perfume was more intoxicating than the $500 fragrance she had bought that morning. She had also purchased a new outfit and gotten her hair done.

  “Now, Mr. Montage, you gonna take me out and we are gonna dance and drink, and if you’re lucky, you gonna get some A1 pussy tonight,” she had said after her shopping spree. He hadn’t needed much convincing. The money from the jewelry store job had given them some breathing room. Might as well enjoy it. Ronnie was a weasel, but he had been right about that.

  Eric, Caitlin and little Anthony aren’t enjoying much these days though, are they? Beauregard thought.

  He’d given serious consideration to sending Caitlin some money. Not a lot but enough to help with the bills or buy a toy for the baby. He’d ruminated on it long and hard before finally pushing the idea away. Things were still too hot right now. No way he could go anywhere near Caitlin and Anthony. That didn’t stop him from thinking about them though. Especially that baby boy. He’d grow up belonging to the same fraternity as Beauregard. The brotherhood of fatherless sons.

  But he wouldn’t be a member if you hadn’t done your part to induct him, now, would he, he thought.

  Kia rubbed his thigh.

  “The way you was dancing up on me I think you want this,” Kia whispered in his ear. Beauregard forced a smile.

  “All the time and twice on Sunday,” Beauregard whispered back. She giggled and kissed him. The taste of whiskey and bubble gum–flavored lip gloss filled his mouth.

  “Yo, let’s get some shots!” Kelvin said. He had his arm around the waist of a woman Beauregard had never seen before and didn’t expect to see again. Kelvin had some disposable income as well. The garage was busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Beauregard would never admit it, but Javon had been right. Burning down Precision had helped. That saddened him something fierce.

  “Okay, what y’all want?” he asked.

  “Nothing too strong. I’m feeling those Blue Motorcycles,” Kelvin’s friend said. She was a tall drink of water with long brown hair highlighted with blond and a hard-earned natural tan. A few of the regulars glanced at them when they came in but not with any serious intent. They just regarded her as another white woman lost to the other side.

  “How about Red Headed Sluts?” Kia offered.

  “I know a few of those,” Kelvin said. His friend jabbed him with her elbow.

  “I’ll get some Royal Flushes,” Beauregard said. He headed for the bar while everyone else went back to the table. Beauregard leaned against the scarred railing that surrounded the top of the bar and raised his hand.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Four Royal Flushes.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “A Royal Flush is the hardest hand to get in poker. Almost never happens,” a man sitting to Beauregard’s right said. Beauregard turned and gave him a nod.

  “Yeah, that’s what they say,” he remarked. He wasn’t sure that was what they said or not, he was just making conversation.

  “Yeah, the Dead Man’s Hand is more common,” the man said. He moved his hair out of his face. Beauregard saw he was scarred worse than the bar top.

  “What?”

  The man smiled at Beauregard.

  “Aces and eights. The Dead Man’s Hand. Wild Bill Hickok was holding that when somebody snuck up behind him and blew his head off,” the man said.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” Beauregard said. The bartender returned with the shots. He placed them in front of Beauregard and slipped away. Beauregard gathered up the four shot glasses and started to leave.

  “Personally, I wouldn’t never sneak up behind a fella. If I was going to kill you, I’d just pull up and put two in your face. That’s how they taught us in Iraq. Double tap,” the man said.

  Beauregard stopped and studied the man’s ruined face. The man was still smiling. “Uh huh. Well, you have a nice night,” Beauregard said. He gathered the shots and returned to the table. A new song came on the jukebox and some couples made their way back to the dance floor. Beauregard handed everyone their shots.

  “Woohoo. I felt that in my toes,” Kelvin said. His friend laughed and leaned into him.

  “Damn, you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me, Bug?” Kia asked. Her skin shimmered under a patina of sweat and glitter makeup. Beauregard tickled her chin.

  “It ain’t taking advantage, if you want it,” he said. Kelvin burst out in high peals of laughter.

  “Smart-ass,” Kia said but then she leaned in and kissed him again. Beauregard kissed her back, then surreptitiously peered over her shoulder. The man with the scarred face was staring at him.

  Beauregard dropped his eyes. He hugged his wife, then gave the bar a quick once-over. He recognized most of
the patrons or had an idea who they were save for the man at the bar and two men sitting at a table near the far-right wall. They were both Beauregard’s height but considerably wider. They were wearing blue blazers and black T-shirts. They both had a mug of beer in front of them, but they had barely touched them.

  Beauregard studied their faces. They were exceptionally unremarkable. Flat doughy visages with a narrow slash for a mouth. The only thing that stood out about them were their eyes. Dead brown eyes like pennies that had been buried in the dirt.

  Red Hill County was not a place that strangers visited often. It wasn’t at the crossroads of any major highways. The interstate on-ramp was mainly an escape route for the locals. Unfamiliar faces were a rarity. Beauregard watched the two men at the table. They stared straight ahead or occasionally up at the ceiling. They never once turned their heads toward the bar. They never looked in the direction of the scarred man.

  “Listen to your gut. The day you don’t, it’s going to be a shitty situation.”

  He’d overheard his father say that dozens of times. A crude saying but also an accurate one. His gut was talking to him now. Whispering to him that there was something up with the three unfamiliar faces.

  Beauregard pulled out his phone and sent Kelvin a text.

  Take the girls outside.

  Kelvin picked up his phone. He read the message and typed a response.

  What’s up?

  Beauregard’s fingers flew over the screen.

  Guys at the table and the bar. I need to check them out.

  Kelvin sent back a long response.

  You want me to send them home?

  Not going to leave you.

  3 on 2 is better than 3 on 1.

  “Who you texting?” Kia asked. She reached for his phone. Beauregard grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She rolled her eyes and pulled her hand away. “Everybody you know is here,” she said. She was grinning like a mad clown.