Brimstone

by Peter van der Walt

  This was bullshit, he had better things to do.

  “Oh yeah,” he said to himself coldly. “Like what?”

  For a brief moment, his eyes met Reuben’s – on the photograph against the wall.

  The grief came back as if he never processed it. As if he never cried. As if he didn’t have all the stages down, several times, over several years. Denial. Bargaining, Anger.

  It was as if the sadness was a physical creature that overcame him. He doubled over and felt the breath leave him. And then, a stab of pain that seemed to stick right through his ribcage.

  He knew what Reuben would have said, had he been there at that moment.

  ‘Darling, all you need is to come like Seabiscuit. Now for God’s sake stop being such a martyr and go grant yourself that.’

  He cried a bit.

  What a nice night. What a way to get your rocks off.

  Jesus, he missed Reuben.

  “Hell of a romantic ending to the night.” Paul said to the photograph, and then he laughed a lot.

  He turned off the computer.

  There would be nothing electronic that could get him what he wanted.

  Change of scenery. Change of pace. That would help.

  So, Paul did a few pushups just so he could put his best foot forward, hit the shower with a vengeance and sang Reuben’s favorite Opera loudly, lifting his spirits.

  That was it. He had to get away from his breaking heart. Run away from it if he had to. No one got lucky crying about what once was. Had to get out there. Give the gods something to work with, if they were going to take a kindly interest.

  No way he was doing it this way. No way he felt alone and full of cabin fever, night after night all the time. Maybe some nights. Maybe most nights. But not tonight.

  What was the point of making it through everything, get to the other side and survive, if life would offer no more than just this?

  No way he accepted that. He had to live a little – what Tina said, what Reuben said.

  He put on something that showed his best features – a nice, plain black t-shirt and some jeans.

  Then he grabbed his jacket, got in his jeep, and set the audio on USB because he had just the song.

  ‘Downtown’, baby, by Petula Clark. As much an LGBT-anthem as ‘I Will Survive’ or ‘It’s Raining Men’. But a song that always put him in a good mood. It had been one of Reuben’s favorites and now it was one of his favorites.

  Paul filled that Jeep with good vibes that even the blackened woods could not smother as he drove to Loveday.

  Paul parked farther down the street than he usually did.

  He wasn’t here for Tina’s tonight.

  Tonight, he would go to the Coliseum, or any other club in the area. It may not be brimming with options… not on its best day as a small little gay mecca. Not now, when McKay’s wounds had not yet even properly closed.

  He walked around and realized that any other club in the area There wasn’t much to choose from. Most of the places he remembered from childhood were gone. There were two new places, though.

  That would do, that was good enough.

  He picked one that looked brand new. Good to see new stuff happening. Like it wasn’t all up to Tina’s, and that the little hood may show some green shoots.

  And for the way Paul felt tonight, new was different. New was refreshing.

  It may not be the best new thing in the LGBT universe, this brand new little Southern queer joint, but it was new. And tonight, new was good.

  Chapter 8

  “Kin”

  Something happens to your senses and your perception on the inside, Brad was convinced. At least, something happened to his – because he actively spent the time polishing his skills. The same, small spaces over and over did wonders for training his ability to read a room, read people, see the dynamics of groups.

  Regular people going through their lives are often unaware of their surroundings. They walk around on autopilot, missing important clues and cues sent to them, broadcast, by every person around them, all the time.

  They see nothing, distracted but whatever brain tapes they were self-fulfilling as they moved through their lives.

  But Brad’s eyes and ears were awake and aware. He could drink up information from any given person or any given place – having compartmentalized his own thoughts and plans safely away so he didn’t miss what people revealed, almost blatantly.

  It’s how he could tell that his father wished he’d never been born. How he knew they always wanted to cage him. Or that Gustavo was a world-class brown-nosing asshole, despite his businesslike manner and his poker face.

  To his credit, the old fucker drove him to Fairbridge. He had Gustavo drive all the way and sleep in the car, while Brad checked into motels to enjoy a shower.

  They got to Castleton in Fairbridge shortly after four am, and then Brad sent the Mexican back to daddy right away. No sense in having him hang around.

  Now Brad was waiting for Virgil – the dumbest and the most classless of the lot. A thin, wiry river rat of a cousin that had no ambition and very little intelligence. He was either retarded or borderline – having spent his life doing odd jobs here and there, and walking around with a dumb smile apparently frozen on his pouty lips, like a fish blowing bubbles. Slightly comical, but displaying some sort of genetic abnormality that people could sense more than they could see.

  People in Fairbridge, like people in most places, would notice the oddities of his face, and then avoid looking at him. Polite society always dealt with people or things that made them uncomfortable by not acknowledging it. The barefoot and dirt-poor folks in the mountains had their own way of dealing with Virgil. Mostly, they ignored him, but they used him whenever they needed an extra pair of hands.

  As a kid, Virgil was at least five years older than Brad. But the little special-needs runt looked up to his cousin in ways that some of the barefooted kin back in the Creek actually envied. So when the sun was almost up, Brad gave Virgil a call and told him to come pick him up in Castleton. That the government was willing to give someone of Virgil’s limited mental capacity a driver’s license was one of the last great unsolved fucking mysteries of the universe.

  In the meantime, Brad tuned those eyes and ears of him on the people and surroundings. Test driving them out here in the free-range world. It felt good to be doing the watching without being watched back.

  He sat at a 24-hour joint attached to a gas station, serving mainly truckers and morning commuters. He was having a cup of coffee and enjoyed the feeling of the strong, dark caffeine rushing though his system.

  It was probably not good coffee at all… over-brewed and heated up from a pot that was only fresh the day before… but it still tasted far better than the milky and watered-down crap he was accustomed to back in Devens.

  He was free, he was alone, he was enjoying the coffee, he picking up all kinds of clues from the view, and he had eleven thousand six hundred and seventy-two dollars in his pocket. He spent a few dollars buying him a good new pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket, a mobile phone, and a carry bag – in which he kept the rest of his money.

  Castleton was as good a place as any to begin. It was a thin portion of Fairbridge, curving on either side of Kellman Drive and serving the bus station and some trains. It was no more than a couple of strip malls and fast food restaurants. But action from both east and west passed through Castleton. There was a lot of traffic, some budget tourists or truck drivers taking some rest, but few people actually lived there.

  Castleton must be the one place in Fairbridge where you didn’t get a view. There was nothing but strip malls, four-lane streets and electric wiring hanging across the traffic lights. You might as well be anywhere here.

  He was still enjoying his coffee when he first spotted the operation.

  First all he saw was t
he black guy with the baseball cap. It wasn’t overt, but Brad picked up that the black guy was more alert than most of the folks.

  While everyone was rushing from one place to the next, blinded by their schedules or whatever little soap opera dramas were playing off inside their heads, the guy with the cap watched the world around him like someone used to being a little more awake.

  Not nervous, but vigilant.

  If someone else alert was around – say, someone with an interest in buying some drugs, they would instantly recognize each other, and the Cap man will take their money in exchange for some of his stash.

  Most of the folks around – and that wasn’t too many early in the morning – had no idea. People were like sheep, they went about their day, unaware what was for sale right under their noses. Brad behaved just like one of those squares. But he used his peripheral vision and some casual glances shot this way or that, to observe how the operation work.

  Brad decided to call the dealer Cap. Cap was the one that actually did the exchange. He was on a side street corner, in plain view of the 247 Trucks Diner, were Brad was having his coffee.

  He did a brisk trade before the commuters clogged the area.

  Someone would walk up to him. They would nod, say a word or two. Then they would shake hands, Cap reaching into the pocket of his hoody. That right there, the handshake was when the exchange happened.

  Customer got their fix; Cap got the cash.

  Then he would sit down on the low brick wall.

  There weren’t only walk-ins, there were also drive-throughs.

  Someone would turn the corner, stop, open their window – as if they were asking for directions. Cap would lean over into the car taking the cash, and dropping the package on the seat so smoothly you wouldn’t expect that a deal was taking place unless you were really looking for it.

  And then Cap would sit back down again, on his low brick wall.

  Brad guessed he kept between ten and fifteen little plastic packets on him. Three or four bankies of weed, three or four packs in yellow wrappers, a few tablets, and the rest were white powder.

  Cap of Castleton was a convenience dealer. He served before, during and after both traffic rushes, Brad figured. And he had everything you could need. Uppers, downers. Some herb, some acid, some coke. But definitely meth. These lowlife Southern pieces of shit loved their meth, and their opioids.

  Every now and then, Cap would get up, stretch, and look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched. To him, Brad would just be some clueless white guy reading a paper – fading into the background and unremarkable in every way.

  Cap man had no idea Brad saw his every move.

  Cap would get up, stretching, then kind of jive around the low brick wall, and put some more supplies in his pockets.

  There would be a plastic shopping back, tightly rolled up behind the wall. The stash he kept not on his person, but close enough for quick replenishments, far away enough to possibly be missed and giving him a reduced sentence if he was ever caught.

  Cap was not particularly a criminal mastermind. He was the lowest of the low. A street level dealer, who’d end up either hooked on his own junk or knifed in some alley one day.

  But Cap was doing a brisk enough trade not to be a complete freelancer. Street entrepreneurs didn’t do a brisk trade for long, unless they had some sort of mean streak or the backup of a bigger operation to keep it.

  Paul ordered another coffee, got some magazines and read them, sometimes moving positions or looking up and around to make sure he looked completely natural. That way Cap would never suspect he had an observer.

  It was amazing how he could read – as in, actually read the magazines, and watch the low-level pusher. Scanning the environment while ingesting information was one of the things that made him superior to everyone else. The way he could have simultaneous focus on two or even three things at once.

  Case in point, he also picked up two relative constants in his peripheral vision. Two other guys, sitting on a bus bench not too far away.

  Those guys would be a combination of muscle and runners. They would be the guys to occasionally take the cash and move it out of the area. Or they would bring more dope if the shop was running low. If there was a bust, or cops came, they could be early warning systems, diversions.

  Just another morning in Fairbridge. Drugs moving at a pace as steady as the morning commuters.

  When the traffic picked up, Cap joined his two buddies. He handed his shopping bag to one of the other guys, who put it in a backpack.

  The congestion at peak time was really intense.

  Brad paid for his coffee and looked at the clock on the wall. What the hell was taking that fucking retard so long?

  He left the diner but stayed close to the door. That way he could watch the commuters while fading into the landscape himself.

  That’s the thing about people on the outside. They assumed a kind of incognito individuality. Busy with their own lives, minding their own business, and assuming everyone lived that way.

  But Brad understood what they couldn’t or wouldn’t. A simple truth, but one that made a big difference if you understood it.

  This world. And everything and everyone in it, could be divided into two groups. Predators and prey.

  And these squares were all prey.

  Cap would think of himself as a predator.

  That thought made Brad smile. That was the best kind of prey. The kind that thought of themselves as predators.

  A nice mix of commuters. Quite a few cute ones. There was a cute brunette with a kid in the back, but her tits were still nice and perky. It’s been a long time since he had a nice piece of ass.

  The traffic was dying down. Cap man and his buddies would be back, as soon as it slowed down. Avoiding the peak times to not be too visible. Basic hygiene.

  Brad took out his phone and dialed Virgil’s number from memory. He never left numbers on mobiles. He knew all seven he needed to.

  It took a few rings before there was an answer. No one said anything but Brad could hear that Virgil was at least on the road somewhere. “Where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m close to Kellman,” Virgil said in his slow, stupid drawl.

  “Well, step on it.”

  Brad turned his phone off.

  Nice discovery on his first day back. A cute little drug selling operation. Drugs were pretty good.

  Of course, Brad didn’t take them himself. He wouldn’t poison himself, not with a body that was just so fucking perfect.

  But drugs were beautiful, wonderful things.

  They did all the hard work for you. You didn’t need to con, or stake out, or infiltrate, or even muscle. All you had to do was be around the drugs, and people ready to be controlled were yours to play with.

  People who took drugs were easy to boss around. Easy to manipulate. And they were fairly predictable, too.

  Drugs came with various circles of people. All Brad had to do was wait for his moment, and he could take one such circle for himself. That could bring cash in, but also pliable playmates to help him along.

  He would go take care of some family business today, so to speak. He’d spend the night at Virgil’s. He would go find something reputable to do – something legit he could try his hand at, if he had to stay in Fairbridge.

  He didn’t plan to be here any longer than necessary but it would be good to keep that little corner in mind. Cap man and his two hood rats. And their ready supply of compliant people and cash.

  If Brad wanted to, he could crush them like kittens.

  A smile crossed Brad’s face as he remembered the things used to do to kittens as a kid. Right at that moment, as if on cue, Virgil’s truck came into view.

  Great. Now the son of a bitch was going to think Brad was smiling because of him.

  He was out before C
ap Man and the Twin Cats jived back to their low brick wall storefront.

  He hadn’t aged very well. It as if his most comical features grew in size while the rest of him had shrunk. He smiled with that goldfish pout of his, his eyes dull and vague.

  For today, and perhaps a few more, Virgil would be his transport and his lackey. But as soon as he could be rid of the idiot, he would.

  Just seeing him was irritating. He had a mullet. An actual fucking mullet. With both sides shaved. A wiry, thin frame with skin that seemed old. Crappy jeans. Features that almost fit together but seemed just a little, skewed from the inbreeding.

  “Drive.”

  To his credit, Virgil did.

  “Where you been, cuz?”

  “Chasing tail and living the life.”

  It was the perfect answer. It kept the stupid little hick running loops in his own head, trying to figure out what it meant.

  It kept him quiet for a while.

  Virgil gave up after about twenty minutes, until they were way out of Fairbridge. North and west, to the Creek.

  The only way to get there was in a truck. Virgil, for all his shortcomings, had a truck.

  Virgil was asking Brad’s advice, but Brad was watching the road.

  He trailed on and on. “So I kept saying, I should join the marines. And they still weren’t letting me.”

  Fuck Virgil. Tune him out. Just enjoy the ride, Brad told himself.

  Leave Fairbridge on Kellman, heading towards the Georgia border. Then a hard right, moving back up and deeper into hills that were as out of the way as they were desolate. The roads became smaller and less straight, and Virgil kept driving at a slow but steady pace.

  A couple of timber trucks and a few Sutherland Ridgefield tankers shared the road. Sometimes, Virgil would get stuck beside one of them. He refused to take any chances and overtake. Maybe everyone who had a driver’s license and drove the way the law told them to was fucking retarded.

  You take all the roads that are good, and you take one last road that is mostly good, except when it rains and it gets flooded with mud.