Hickok began to laugh so hard, he nearly choked on his powdered donut. I flashed him a vexed don’t-screw-me-up expression.
“The best thing you can do is to let me know when he plans to make another run. That way I can catch him in the act of transporting rabid coons, and then we’ll talk money.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll be real sure to do that,” Wynona barked. “Whadda ya think? I’m some kind of hillbilly dummy? Why should I trust you now that you’ve been paid off?”
“What?” I asked in amazement.
Hickok had turned out to be right once again. Hardy was flapping his gums, bragging to the world about how he’d gone and bought himself a genuine federal agent. It wouldn’t take long for poachers to decide the coast was totally clear, and start having themselves a field day. The only consolation was knowing that the fear of God would be rammed into them once they learned what I’d really been up to.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Porter. Daddy told me all about the deal he made to shut you up. What I think, is you owe me at least half of that money.”
Wynona was wasting her talent on this penny-ante stuff; she could have gone into the legal profession and made herself a killing.
“That money is tied up. But believe me, I still plan to help you. However, the first thing you’ve got to do is to get me proof to go on.”
“Yeah, right! I’d have a better chance of getting the money if I’d stuck with my original blackmail plan,” Wynona grumbled. “Or maybe my boyfriend and I’ll just come after you,” she added ominously.
“Are you threatening me?” I asked, squaring off. “Because if so, I’m warning you right now: Don’t even think of trying anything.”
“All I’m saying is you’ll be getting yours soon enough.” She slammed down the receiver.
“That sounded like it went real well,” Hickok affably observed. “Rabid coons, huh? That don’t surprise me none. Woody and his clan are the horses’ asses of all horses’ asses. Here, have one of these. It’ll make you feel better.”
I caught the donut in mid-air, but the tension in my grip made me squeeze it too hard, causing raspberry filling to seep through my fingers like cold, coagulated blood. The effect was more than enough to turn my stomach. I actually threw a donut in the garbage for the first time that I could ever remember. However, the Krispy Kremes seemed to have worked their magic on Hickok. His mood had definitely improved from when I’d walked in.
I glanced at my watch. There was enough time to make one quick call, and then I was out of here.
“Mad Dog Vin’s School for Professional Wrestling. Others bark, I bite,” rang out Vincent’s baritone.
“Hi, Vincent. It’s Rachel. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”
“What? Some guy bothering you? Just say the word and I’ll be glad to make his acquaintance with a monkey flip, before getting to know him better by way of a pile driver. After which I’ll cement our friendship by holding him in a full nelson, while you open a can of whup ass on him,” he graciously offered.
“Thanks, that’s nice of you. But I was thinking more along the lines of a caviar lesson,” I responded. “Would it be possible for you to give me a crash course this evening? I’ll gladly foot the bill.”
“Splendid!” Vincent replied. “I’d be delighted to do so.”
I glanced over at Hickok for his approval, and Charlie sourly nodded his head as he bit into a glazed beauty.
“I’m always looking for a good excuse to treat myself. In fact, let’s do it up right. The champagne is on me,” Vincent proposed. “After all, you can’t have one without the other. Then we’ll follow it up with a light dinner. See you later, and stay out of trouble.” The warning had become part of his normal farewell.
I hung up to find Charlie darkly glowering at me.
“Anything else we here at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service can do to help you along with the case? Maybe get you some paté and truffles to go with your fish eggs? Or how about a nice bottle of champagne?” he sarcastically inquired.
“No, thanks. That’s already been taken care of,” I said cockily.
Oops. Maybe that hadn’t been the right approach to take. Hickok’s eyes locked onto mine like two torpedoes in search of something to nuke.
“I got news for you, Porter: you better pull this one off. ’Cause I’m making sure it’s your neck and not mine that winds up on the chopping block,” Charlie warned, beginning to slide into one of his black moods.
He was obviously disgruntled that I hadn’t come through with Mavis Newcomb’s files. I wasn’t too thrilled about it, either.
“So if I were you, I wouldn’t take too much advantage of the situation,” Hickok warned.
“Don’t worry. I’m not about to screw up,” I said, hoping I sounded a lot more confident than I felt. I was damned if I’d give him the satisfaction of failing. I did my best to pull off the charade by reaching into one of the Krispy Kreme bags and grabbing a donut I didn’t want, then I left.
Eleven
I drove back along the road I had traveled yesterday, passing the corroded steel container pockmarked with sullied cotton bolls. A chill wind whipped across the barren fields, and the long, low sky was identical to the day before. So were the telephone poles, with their nasty carved KKK.
Nothing had changed—other than myself, that is. Lurking inside was the feeling you get when fingernails screech with abandon down a chalkboard: your nerves are set on edge, and your skin begins to crawl, making the very teeth in your mouth ache. It was a sure sign that I was heading for trouble. I shoved the premonition aside, and did my best to ignore it. Give in to fear once, and you’ll question yourself every time. I already had enough demons to contend with.
I drove down the bluff and into the maze of kudzu, which swiftly closed around me with grim determination. It didn’t require much imagination to feel it reach in through the window, to clutch at my arms, my legs, and my hair. I held my breath, not daring to exhale until I was safely out of its grip.
This time I arrived at the Sho Nuf Bar to find that I wasn’t alone. Ten other cars were haphazardly parked in the lot, each faced in a slightly different direction as in a game of bumper cars. It almost looked as if the drivers had jumped out of their vehicles before bringing them to a complete stop.
I parked next to Woody’s pick-up and walked past the forbidding sign: “No Niggers or Game Wardens Allowed.” Its angry tidings echoed in my brain, and a voice within me whispered a cautious warning.
Sure enough, there was a bunch of good ol’ boys sitting at a dozen rickety tables, chugging beers and drinking what looked to be moonshine. Homemade liquor was big in these parts, since this was a dry county. Several men had their faces buried in plates of ribs, and everyone was talking loudly. Until I entered the room, that is. Then all activity promptly came to a halt. Either their investment adviser from Paine-Webber was about to speak, or I was the lucky gal who had become the focus of so much male attention. I looked out over the sea of forbidding expressions and unkempt bodies. It was enough to make any sane woman glad to have remained blissfully single.
I tried my best to appear unruffled as I glanced around the room, where my eyes lit upon two signs—one proclaimed, “David Duke for President,” while the other advised, “We Don’t Bother Calling 911.” Wasn’t that reassuring.
I casually wandered over to the bar and stood beneath the mounted fish with a bottle of Bud in its mouth. The next moment, I looked up and very nearly plotzed. I could have sworn the damn thing winked at me. Either that, or it was the nervous fluttering of my eyelids as the silence continued to mount. It couldn’t have been more apparent that an unwanted visitor was in the room. The whoosh of an angry cleaver was the only sound to sever the malevolent stillness, further emphasizing the point.
I was tempted to break the ice by asking how many game wardens it takes to screw in a lightbulb. Fortunately, I was saved by Woody, who popped his head out of the kitchen.
“Hey, Porter! Set yourself d
own at one of the tables and I’ll round us up some lunch.”
That seemed to do the trick. The crowd proceeded to ignore my presence and focus back on their chow.
I headed for an empty table in the corner of the room and took a seat. But, wouldn’t ya know? My rear end landed in a chair that rocked back and forth like a boat tossing about in a storm. One huge, whiskered customer nailed me with a look, as if to say, How uncouth! Then he got up and began to walk toward me.
This is it! I thought. Woody and Virgil had put out the word. I’m a woman, a wildlife agent, and, even worse, a New Yorker to boot! Their plan had been to lure me to the Sho Nuf Bar, have me knocked off, and then throw my body into the murky waters of the Mississippi.
Mr. Z Z Top seemed to be contemplating just that as he loomed like a sinister giant above me. I was prepared to give him a quick kick in the shins, when he saved me the trouble by falling down hard onto a bended knee. Oh no! It was even worse than I’d thought: This was a church, and I was about to be married in a bizarre delta ritual to prove I could be trusted! I got ready to jump up and run as Mr. Z wiped the barbecue sauce from his face. The next thing I knew, he’d lifted one side of my chair off the ground, with me in it. Then he placed a matchbook just so beneath the wobbly leg.
“There, that ought to do it,” he said, and gently set me back down.
Ohmigod! A real live gentleman!
“Thank you,” I croaked.
It had been a long time since I’d had an actual date. That’s the only excuse I could come up with as to why I found myself imagining what Mr. Z would look like with a decent shave and a haircut.
Woody broke the spell by approaching with a couple of brown paper bags. He set them on the table and headed over to the bar, returning with two plastic cups half filled with RC cola. When he sat in his chair, it rock-and-rolled worse than my own had. Reaching down, he retrieved a pint of Early Times bourbon from its hiding place inside his stretched-out sock.
“This stuff is cheap but it does the trick,” he said with a wink, and spiked both our cups.
I grabbed one of the paper bags and began to unwrap my lunch, only to have Hardy stop me.
“Hold on there a second. I can already tell you don’t have the damnedest clue what to do when it comes to barbecue. There’s a right way and a wrong way to eat a rib sandwich. Watch and learn, girl. Maybe some day you’ll even be able to pass yourself off as a Southerner.”
I was all for that.
“First, you take it outta the bag and stuff the brown paper in your pocket, ’cause you’re gonna need it later on. Now you cup the top slice of bread in your hand, scoop up the slaw, and eat it real quick, being that’s your vegetable. Then grab those four slabs of meat inside, and gnaw to your heart’s content on the bones. That leaves you with one last piece of bread. Whatcha gonna do is use it to wipe all the sauce off your face, and then eat it. Finally, throw the leftover bones in the bag and take ’em home for your dog. And that’s how we eat barbecue here in Tennessee,” Woody lectured.
“For chrissakes!” Virgil spat.
He hauled a chair behind him like a caveman dragging his woman around, and slammed it into place between us. No wonder all the seats in this place sounded as grouchy as a bunch of arthritic old men. Virgil straddled the chair and scowled, causing goose bumps to rise on my neck as he caught my eye. His lips curled into a snarl, and I felt the screech of nails racing down a chalkboard once again.
“Enough fun and games. Let’s cut the crap and get down to business,” he growled.
I decided to get the ball rolling in the right manner. “So, how did your fishing go last night? I take it you went to the area I told you to hit.”
“It was good, but not good enough,” Woody diffidently responded, ever the game player.
“Whadda ya talking about? It sucked!” Virgil heatedly announced. “The paddlefish are running low and the ones we’re catching are too young, without any eggs in ’em. Hell, all we’re doing is slitting ’em open and throwing ’em back in the water. You want a share of the money, Porter, then you gotta do better than that. I don’t need to go out on the river and waste my time.” His nostrils flared, much like a large, angry hog’s.
“Look, I told you what I could do,” I retorted. “If you want to find protected areas where the fish haven’t been hit yet, you’re going to have to head further south.”
“No shit, Porter. Whadda ya think we’ve been doing?” Virgil bitched.
“That’s right, Virgil. We have been doing that,” Woody soothingly agreed. “But we still need Rachel here to point us in the right direction and supply us with protection. She’s our guarantee that we won’t be caught.”
“I can do both those things for you,” I confirmed. “But, of course, it’ll cost you more money.”
Virgil leaned in close. “Listen here, bitch. First you gotta meet the man we work for. He has final say. He’s also the one who controls the purse strings. So save all that smart talk of yours, and use it to sell him the idea. And after that, you goddamn better make sure that you do come through. Or you’ll be the next thing that finds itself swimming with the fishies.” He drew a jagged fingernail across his fleshy throat.
I leaned in an inch closer and stared straight into his milky-blue eyes. “You’re right, Virgil, intimidation does brings out the bitch in me. So let me warn you now: I’m not like those other women you pushed around in the past. Not only do I push back, but I make sure not to take any prisoners.” I held his gaze, unwilling to let him know how much he was getting to me.
“All right. That’s enough from both of you,” Woody jumped in. “You’ve each marked your territory. Now let’s try and work together on this thing. You okay with that, Virgil?” he asked diplomatically.
Virgil sat back. “Sure. I got no beef with her yet.” Then he smiled at me. “In fact, I kinda like you.”
Knowing his past history, that wasn’t very comforting.
“Okay. Now, we got a meeting set for ten o’clock tonight. Make sure to be there on time, ’cause this guy doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Here’s the address.”
Woody slipped a piece of paper into my hand. The location was south of Memphis, not far from Graceland.
“Do I get to know the man’s name?” I asked, wanting to make certain this was the Russian Mavis had told me about.
“You’ll hear it when you get there. Not before,” Virgil gruffly replied. Then he licked his bottom lip, in what I imagined was his idea of foreplay.
I was tempted to ask if he’d heard from Mavis since yesterday, but decided to hold off. It was possible she didn’t want him to know that we’d been in touch. Besides, I was still hoping that our deal was in place.
“Fine. I’ll see you there tonight.” I left the rib bones lying on the table and quickly walked out.
Once inside the Ford, I took a deep breath. The exhalation turned shuddery as I suddenly realized one other possibility: perhaps Mavis hadn’t gone to the Russian at all, but had run straight to Virgil with her files. Maybe she still felt a twinge of loyalty to her ex. If so, he was the one now in control. For all I knew, Virgil already suspected I wasn’t really crooked but was only pretending. Acting on the hunch, I headed for his trailer now to see if Mavis was hiding out, there.
I arrived to find Virgil’s little dog chained to a metal pole in front of the trailer, looking as forlorn as a mutt counting down the days it has left in a pound. The pooch couldn’t have appeared any more pitiful as she visibly shivered—though I wasn’t certain whether it was due to the cold, or from a residual sense of fear. I walked over and gave her a few reassuring pats, and she gratefully reciprocated with a rush of licks. Then I straightened up and gazed around.
There was no sign of a little red Mercedes, which came as a relief. It looked like Hickok once again had proved to be correct: undercover work was already playing with my head and making me paranoid.
Then again, maybe not. There was still the yard behind the trailer to check. The
dog followed as far as she could before the chain ended and yanked her back. She lay down to await my return, as I approached the rear of Virgil’s home.
Nope. Mavis’s car wasn’t there, either. But I did stumble on equipment for making moonshine. Sitting on the ground was a fermenting tank, along with a large black pot and a coil of three-inch copper tubing. I had no doubt that if I took the time, I’d also uncover bags of cornmeal, sugar, yeast, and malt. The ingredients for making the “mash” were probably stored in the same shed from which Virgil had emerged carrying half a hog. I decided to skip that part of the search; I wasn’t in the mood to poke around in a slaughterhouse today. Besides, I didn’t really care that Hardy sold illegal alcohol. I only wished he made enough money from it to leave the paddlefish alone.
Turning around, I returned to the dog, knelt down, and began to pet her. When she wriggled in gratitude, I sat on the ground and the pooch curled up in my lap. The scene was so peaceful—even the hogs were quiet and content. As I watched them lolling lazily in the mud, my eye caught sight of something peculiar. Though just a tiny speck, its color was unusually bright. Peeking out from the pool of brown mud was an object the color of a runny egg yolk.
I gently pushed the dog off my lap, only to have her scramble back on. We played the game a few more times until I finally won, then I headed over to the pen to investigate further. Though the hogs glanced up and grunted, they didn’t bother to move. Leaning over the rail, I tried to get a closer gander at the mystery object, but whatever I’d seen had just as quickly disappeared—until I started to turn away. Then the lemon-meringue item playfully popped back into view again.
I returned to my Ford, where I pulled out a pair of latex gloves and two heavy-duty garbage bags. Hey, what can I say? I follow that old Boy Scout motto to always be prepared. I put a foot inside each Hefty sack, wrapped the plastic tightly around my legs, and held the bags in place with two large rubber bands that I’d scrounged from inside the black hole of my glove box. Having suited up, I returned to the pen feeling like a fifth-rate astronaut out of an old black-and-white Japanese movie. A broken broomstick lay nearby on the ground, and I picked it up and hoisted myself inside the pen.
Black Delta Night Page 10