Mason looked surprised to get the Corona so quickly. After Boyd had finished carrying in the boxes, Mason had him wait outside while he got the cash. A two-toned green pickup pulled into the parking lot while Boyd relaxed against the side of the Mustang. It was a good looking truck. One that he felt he had seen somewhere before. His train of thought was interrupted as Mason exited the back door. Mason did not have the money. There was not enough in the safe, but he assured Boyd that his bartender would show up with it in a few minutes.
Boyd realized later that he should have been more suspicious, but the conversation with Mason distracted him from watching the green pickup. If he had been paying attention, he would have noticed two men exiting the pickup with 12 gauge Remington 870 shotguns. If he had noticed them at 40 yards, the superior effective range of his SIG P226 would have given him the upper hand. He was deadly with his pistol at that range. But he did not see the shotguns until the two men were 15 yards away. At that range, his upper hand was gone. Those two shotguns could have nearly cut him in half.
Even if the shorter man had not introduced himself, Boyd would have recognized him as Junior Estes from L.T.’s description about their fight a few days ago. He really did look like a fireplug. A fireplug with a mullet. He assumed the tall, wiry man was Tyler. Junior thanked Mason for tipping them off, told him he could keep the liquor he had bought, and then ordered him to go inside. Mason wasted no time slipping through his back door and closing it.
“Now, what to do with you,” Junior said to Boyd. “You packing?”
Honesty seemed the best policy, even if the two shotguns were not actually trained on him. Both men were carrying the guns loosely, casually in fact. Boyd figured it was best to keep it that way. “I am. Inside the jacket, shoulder holster.”
“Well, aren’t you fancy? Tyler, get his gun.”
For the first time, Boyd realized he was dealing with amateurs. Tyler lowered his shotgun even further and stepped between Junior and Boyd to retrieve Boyd’s SIG. He was blocking Junior’s ability to cover him effectively, thus providing Boyd the perfect opportunity to gain the upper hand. However, he could not bring himself to do it. Deep down, in a way he could not fully explain, he felt he was not in any real danger. Not if he played along and let them have their way. It was just a turf war. As long as he ceded without a fight, they should have no reason to do anything other than run him out of town.
“Wait,” said Boyd, “You’re doing this all wrong. Back up.” Tyler stopped. “You are standing right in front of your man covering you with the shotgun.” Tyler was staring at him, confused, but Junior caught on pretty quickly. He yelled at Tyler to move. When Tyler moved to his right, Junior moved to the left, his shotgun this time leveled on Boyd.
“Why’d you do that?” asked Junior.
“Cause I don’t want to shoot anybody and the temptation was getting too great. Your boy here, well, he just about got both y’all killed.”
Junior squinted his eyes at Boyd in thought. “So what you’re hopin’ for is a civilized discussion?”
“Exactly. Between two merchants that just happened to find out that they are in direct competition with each other. Y’all obviously have something you want to say to me. How about I keep my pistol right where it is, and then we can talk about whatever it is that y’all want from me.”
Junior said, “I could do that. If I was the one in charge, that is. But I’m not. So, I got a counter offer.” Boyd’s expression signified he was ready to hear Junior’s offer. “How about you hand over your piece…slowly…to Tyler, then we go talk to my brother.”
“He can’t come to us?”
“Afraid not. He sent me to get you, so I’m gonna get you.”
“And if I refuse?”
Boyd heard Junior click the shotgun’s safety to fire. “You kinda lost that option, don’tcha think?” The shotgun made for a compelling argument. Boyd removed his SIG P226 from his holster, slowly, and handed it to Tyler.
Junior smiled for the first time and congratulated Boyd on making a good choice. He nearly apologized before ordering Tyler to grab some duct tape from his pickup and then use it to tape one of Boyd’s hands to the steering wheel of the Mustang. They wanted to tape both of them, but then he would not have been able to shift gears. Junior informed him that the tape was not personal, just precautionary. Tyler climbed into the passenger seat of the Mustang with his shotgun. He attempted to keep the shotgun trained on Boyd, but its length was presenting a problem.
Boyd said, “You should use a handgun to cover me from that position, or sit in the back seat if you are going to use the shotgun.”
“Shut up. You already made me look like a fool once. It won’t happen again. Just follow Junior.”
Boyd started the Mustang and followed Junior out of the parking lot. Doubts started to enter his mind. Being dragged into the lion’s den was one thing, but willingly walking in was different. He wanted a discussion with these men. He just did not want to have that discussion in some dark room tied to a chair or something.
Tyler was a horrible guard. A couple of minutes into the drive he gave up trying to hold the shotgun on Boyd. Instead, he settled on looking menacing whenever Boyd looked his direction. When Boyd saw the sign for E’s Salvage Yard, he really started to doubt his decision to give up his pistol. He should never have given up so easily. It was time to figure out how to get Tyler out of his car.
“Hey, Tyler, I ought to let you know, so you don’t look like a fool again, that I have another gun in the glove box.” Tyler gave him a confused look before deciding to open the box and look inside. There were some papers in the box, but no gun. “It’s there, I promise, feel up inside on the top. There’s a chamber in the top where I hide it. Just feel for it.”
Tyler resumed rummaging through the glove box before feeling the top of the box, yelling again that there was no gun. Boyd assured him the gun was in a special chamber and told him that if he could not feel the opening, he would surely be able to see it if he looked up inside. Tyler gave him another strange look before he tilted his head down and tried to look up inside the glove box.
It was the opportunity he was waiting for. He slammed on the brakes which drove Tyler’s head into the dash. Tyler immediately yelled out a “what the fuck” while Boyd reached across Tyler’s back to pull the passenger door handle. His trick almost failed. He almost failed to grip the handle before Tyler straightened up. Almost. He was pretty sure he felt the door open slightly. If it didn’t, then his idea would not work. He turned to the car hard to the left on the country road, accelerated, and pushed on Tyler’s shoulder. The door flung open. Tyler, along with his shotgun, went out the open door. Tyler tried to grab the door but was unable. Boyd saw him tumble out the door onto the pavement, a look of pure dread on his face at the prospect of being flung out of the car.
Boyd stopped in the middle of the road with the car aimed toward the left ditch. Tyler had rolled across the pavement and was probably 10 yards from the Mustang. Boyd had his chance to get away, but there was a problem. The duct tape prevented him from being able to turn the wheel sharp enough to turn the car around completely. Boyd shifted into reverse while turning the wheel the other direction as much as he could. He was trying to complete a three-point turn in the middle of the two-lane road while being limited to only a three-quarter turn of the wheel. “Shit,” he yelled out loud. It was taking too long to get the car turned around. The taillights on Junior’s truck lit up, and the reverse lights came on. The truck was approaching at a high rate of speed.
The Mustang was only half turned around. Now or never. Boyd turned the wheel as far to the left as his taped arm would allow, revved up the motor and popped the clutch. The rear wheels spun loose as Boyd hoped. That was a good sign. It allowed him to swing the rear end of the car around. However, the car also lurched forward into the ditch. He had hoped to avoid the ditch. The Mustang was leaning heavily to the right as the right front wheel fell into the ditch. If Junior’s truck
had not been bearing down on him, then Boyd would have had time to back up one more time. In his mirror, Boyd also noticed that Tyler had picked himself up off the pavement and was running toward the Mustang. Boyd floored the accelerator hoping that by keeping up his forward momentum he could maneuver the car back out of the ditch. The right rear wheel was spinning madly. He was still moving forward, but his momentum was slowing. Suddenly, the wheel jerked to the right in his hand, and the car came to a complete stop. Boyd realized his predicament immediately. He was stuck. He turned off the motor and waited for the inevitable.
***
Hindsight is 20/20, or so they say. Boyd was not so sure. He had given up pretty easily earlier to avoid shooting two people. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Then he changed his mind and tried to escape, but failed. Tyler had been pretty angry when he opened the driver door. Boyd guessed being pushed out of a moving car might make a person mad. Plus, Boyd had made him look like a fool again. Boyd could feel the small amount of dried blood caked around his left eye from the cut on his brow caused by Tyler hitting him with the butt of the shotgun. Junior had been more understanding. He simply walked over to Boyd, told him not to move, and then cut the tape loose from the steering wheel.
Now he was sitting in a tool shed duct taped to a metal chair. The tool shed was inside E’s Salvage Yard. Junior left the shed immediately after making sure they had used enough tape on his wrists and ankles. With time, if he had been unsupervised, he could have escaped, but Junior left Tyler in the shed to watch over him. And Tyler was sure as hell not going to let Boyd make a fool of him again. For the last 20 minutes or so, Boyd had been trying to decide if giving up easily had been the mistake or if the escape attempt was the mistake. Time would tell he guessed.
Junior returned with another man, taller, less blocky, same eyes. Obviously, the brother. Jackson wasted no time getting to the point. “So what’s your deal? My brother tells me that you are cool as a fucking cucumber. Fancy shoulder holster. Expensive SIG.” Jackson pulled Boyd’s gun from behind his back; it must have been in his waistband. “Nice gun.”
“Thanks.”
“Shut up. He also told me about how you gave up without a fight when you probably could have dropped both of them back at Mason’s. Then you go and push Tyler out of a moving car and try to escape. So, I got a question for ya. You a fucking cop?”
The question caught Boyd off guard. He figured that he was dealing with some small-time bootleggers. Now, he was not so sure. If they were brazen enough to kidnap someone they thought might be a cop, then maybe he had underestimated them. He could hear L.T.’s voice telling him to tell the truth about his Marine background.
“Used to be.”
“What do ya mean used to be?” He glared intensely at his brother. “You better not have brought me a cop. Damn it, Junior.”
Boyd felt much better about the fact that Jackson was worried they might have grabbed an undercover officer. “I wanted to be a cop my whole damn life. I used to be a Marine MP, but I was injured in a helicopter crash, and they kicked me out. Now, no one will hire me.”
“Bullshit. You said yourself you wanted to be a cop your whole life. Why should I believe you?”
“Look at my ankle, the left one.”
“What?”
“Cut the tape off my left leg, roll up my pant leg, and look at my ankle.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“So you can look at the scars from the two surgeries I had. They put in pins, fused some bones together. Best doctors the military had worked on me. They did a good job for a bunch of hacks. I can walk, I can run. Running ain’t pretty, but I can do it. All that hard work with the rehab. Fuck man, I did everything those therapists asked me to do, and then some. And they kicked me out anyway, and no department around will give me a chance. I can shoot the balls off a flea at 50 yards with a handgun. I can hit targets at 600 yards with a rifle. And the bastards in charge will not even let me teach firearm technique. It’s left me more than a little disgruntled.”
Tyler pulled a knife out of his pocket and moved toward Boyd. He was prepared to cut the tape loose from his leg. Jackson waved him off. “No need. This boy is telling the truth.”
Junior said, “I told you he weren’t no cop.”
“Shut up, little brother. Talk to me outside.”
L.T. had made Junior out to be a real hot head, yet, so far, Boyd was more afraid of Jackson than Junior. Jackson was a schemer. The brains of the bunch. And right now, the brain was outside discussing something with his little brother. The brothers re-entered the shed a few minutes later. Junior almost seemed to cast Boyd an apologetic look before walking up and punching Boyd right in the face. It stung like hell. Made his eyes water.
Junior said, “My brother has a few questions. You better answer him honestly.”
“You could have lead with that. I’ve proven myself to be cooperative so far.”
Tyler yelled, “Until you pushed me out of the car, asshole!”
Boyd smiled, “I told you to cover me with a handgun.”
“Fuck you.”
Jackson interrupted. “Enough, both of you. Listen carefully, if you answer my questions that will be the only punch you receive all day. Don’t answer the way I like and Junior will wear himself out on your face. FYI, he don’t wear out easily.”
Boyd was rethinking his former decision to give up his gun so easily. He nodded in agreement.
“Who ya working for?” Boyd looked at him questioningly. “Don’t look at me like that. Who sent ya, dumbass?”
“No one. I’m freelance.”
“Bullshit. Did Dunham send ya?”
Boyd said, “Who’s Dunham?”
Jackson nodded, and then Junior hit Boyd in the left temple hard enough that he temporarily saw stars.
Jackson said, “Don’t answer my questions with questions. If ya don’t know Dunham, then just say so, but leave the questions to me.” Boyd nodded. “Good, I’ll ask again. Who sent ya?”
“No one, and I don’t know anyone named Dunham.”
“So, I’m to believe you just happened upon our fair town by chance. Is that what you’re sayin’?” Jackson stared hard at Boyd as he nodded. Boyd could tell Jackson was not entirely convinced.
“So ya got no boss?” Boyd shook his head. “Let me word this another way then. Is there anyone out there that is going to miss you?”
“Other than my mom?”
Jackson nodded to Junior, who punched Boyd in the face again. It hurt more than the hit Tyler gave him with the shotgun. He knew he was going to have a black eye from that one.
“Yes, other than your mom.”
Boyd was trying to figure out how far to push them. Maybe they weren’t part of the Dixie Mafia, maybe they were. Either way, they had already given up one name: Dunham. Whoever he was. Tyler ended up helping him make up his mind. He carried over a portable propane blow torch and handed it to Junior, who looked at Boyd in a manner that told Boyd he would do it, for no other reason than Jackson had told him to. Boyd saw no use pushing them any farther.
Boyd said, “I can think of one guy. He’s the closest I got to a boss. We will have to page him though, and you will have to type in a message for me. He doesn’t ever answer his phone directly.”
Jackson walked over and patted Boyd on the shoulder congratulating him for making a good choice. Boyd felt relief that Jackson had left the room, although Tyler looked disappointed. Boyd figured he really wanted to see that blow torch in action.
***
Boyd felt like an idiot. He felt like an idiot because he got careless. He got so involved in playing Graham that he forgot that he needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to be on guard. He should have learned by L.T.’s mistake outside Charles’ bar. But he didn’t. While looking for someone tied to the Dixie Mafia down in Mississippi, he had run into Junior just like L.T. had. It seemed like everywhere L.T. or Boyd turned, Junior was there getting in the way. J
unior and his brother were obviously bootleggers as well. And they were also the type of guys who will fiercely protect their interests. How fierce, he did not know.
L.T. had set him up as Graham in to flush out anyone in the area with ties to organized crime. He had flushed out the Estes brothers instead. And in less than 24 hours. He had to admit that he figured it would take days, maybe weeks, for L.T.’s plan to work. Now, Boyd was seriously beginning to question L.T.’s assumption that Junior was just some A-hole that hated blacks and Yankees. What if the Estes boys were the ones they were looking for? The missing link to the Dixie Mafia they wanted so badly. The ones that could tell them something, anything, about the man in Mississippi trying to collect money from Paul before he died. If so, then both L.T. and Boyd had underestimated Junior.
Maybe they were even Dixie Mafia themselves. Junior was a brute, for sure. But Jackson, Boyd could see him as the type of man in charge of a criminal enterprise of some sort. Boyd could feel himself smile at the irony of the possibility. The smile was short-lived though as he as mulled over the possible impact that might have on his current situation. L.T. was convinced that the Dixie Mafia had killed Paul over a gambling debt. How were they going to treat someone who invaded their turf?
A chill ran down his back at the prospect. For the second time in his life, he had underestimated his opponent, and now he hoped L.T. was going to save his bacon again.
He thought back to the last time L.T. had saved his life after he made a huge mistake. For five days, Lt. McCain, Sergeant Dallas, Admiral Buie, and Lt. Gehrke had been evading Vietnamese soldiers that were tracking them through the Cambodian jungle. Boyd was using a makeshift crutch to alleviate the pressure on his fractured left ankle. Admiral Buie was able to walk unaided sometimes, other times he had to be guided by the arm as if he had no concept of where, or who, he was. He was suffering from a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Lt. Gehrke hobbled along with severe back pain. Unbeknown to them at the time, Gehrke had multiple compression fractures in his spine. Not life threatening, but extremely painful. Lt. McCain had a long shallow cut across his abdomen from the crash but was otherwise uninjured.
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