Country Hardball

by Steve Weddle

  • • •

  When he’d talked to Roy at the cemetery, he’d followed the script. Let the other person think you’re on the same team. Talk about the “we” of the situation. Connect. Show him how there’s no other way. He’d been through enough training sessions to know what to do, but that didn’t mean much in the real situation. He knew he had to convince the informant he had no real choice. You give us the information or you go to prison. For the people who turned out to be informants, there wasn’t much choice.

  When McWilliams had worked with Randy Pribble, things had been clear. He’d busted the kid a couple of times, but by the third, the kid knew he was in trouble. Convince that kid that his drug-dealing boss doesn’t care about him, you’re halfway there. Convince him that you do, you’re home. Which is what McWilliams had done. What he was good at. Understanding people. Knowing what made them work. When they were in a hole 0-2, standing at the plate, would they take a whack at whatever you threw at them? Would they choke up, foul off pitches until they got what they liked? Would they know you were going to throw the next one in the dirt, just to test them? What would they do with that next chance?

  Maybe the Pribble boy went down swinging. Maybe he’d been lucky, living on borrowed time, fouling off pitches. Or maybe Sawyer found out he was working with McWilliams. Maybe the Rudds tracked him down. All McWilliams could do then was tell the paper it was a drug deal gone bad, let the public be on the lookout. Maybe they turn up something. Maybe something shakes out and the sheriff’s department gets a lead on something else. Then a week later, just pick out a Mexican the Feds caught in Little Rock or Oklahoma City. Some guy getting deported. Hang it on him. Based on a lead from a local sheriff’s deputy, authorities apprehended the killer at a truck stop in Lawton. Everyone can go back to tucking their kids in at night. All protected.

  Except McWilliams was down one informant, just when he needed him most. Ever since McWilliams had talked to his brother-in-law about the robbery at Hank’s place, he’d kept an eye on Cleo Porterfield. Sawyer moving against Rudd meant they were looking at the bottom of the ninth when anything could happen. He needed to have Porterfield and Roy on his team. He knew Porterfield would be an asset because of his involvement in so much small-time work, but Roy Alison would be a great addition, too. McWilliams knew about Roy’s past, figured he could look at alan H this as a new chance. A new life. He’d get all the information he could out of Porterfield, then turn him over to the prosecutor. He’d be gone for a long time. But Roy. That was different. He could put Roy back into the situation, maybe he’d fill the void left by Porterfield. Or the Pribble boy.

  And in the process he’d be helping the son of his old ball coach. Helping him become a better man. He kept telling himself that. What he had to do was convince Roy. Once he had him on this robbery, he’d have the leverage he needed. Show him there’s no choice. Your father was a good man, he’d keep telling him. This is your chance. You can’t get away from your family, he’d told Roy at the cemetery. He figured Roy wouldn’t feel right about setting up himself and Porterfield. Handing them both over to the cops. But he’d told Roy, sometimes you just have to do this one thing even if you don’t believe in it at the time. You just do it and ask forgiveness later.

  “I’ll let you know,” Roy had said. “Anything else?”

  “No,” the deputy had told him. Then McWilliams had walked across the field, put a flower on his sister’s grave. Said a prayer, drove back.

  • • •

  McWilliams heard a thin scream from inside, then people shuffling. He looked at the van parked on the street, trying to use the reflection in the windows to see inside. He saw the top edge of the building, power lines, drifting clouds.

  He waited to hear Roy sneak to the front, unlock the door. His radio snapped on. Two units were five minutes away. He heard the door lock click.

  He drew his pistol, counted to ten. He looked up to see the waitress from across the street walking down the sidewalk, looking back at the payday loan store. Saw her trying to get a view of what was going on. He waved her off, waved to her to get back inside, knew he didn’t have much time.

  He eased to the door, stood up as he went through, raised his pistol.

  “Drop the gun. Hands where I can see them,” he said. He held his aim on Cleo Porterfield, standing behind the counter with the woman in charge, gun barrel in her side. In the back of the store, Roy had a man seated at a desk, shotgun at the back of his head. McWilliams looked around the room, saw the young couple facedown on this side of the counter.

  McWilliams said to let the people leave.

  Porterfield said to go fuck yourself.

  McWilliams took a step to Porterfield, made sure he got a good look at the pistol. “You two, on the ground, stay down and crawl out the door.”

  As they started to move, Porterfield jabbed his pistol into the woman’s side. She made a sound, something like a grunt, and the couple stopped moving.

  “I didn’t say to stop,” McWilliams said, and they started moving again.

  “You want a hole in this bitch?” Porterfield asked.

  McWilliams knew what he was dealing with, had spent time looking at the man’s priors. Robberies, not home invasions. Assaults, not murders. McWilliams would have laid you good odds that Cleo Porterfield had never shot anyone. Ever. “That what you want?”

  The couple had reached the door, opened it. McWilliams took another step to the counter, held his gun at Porterfield. He sneaked a peek at Roy standing with the other man, a garbage bag of cash on the desk. ing a hadck

  The couple made it through the door. McWilliams heard arms and legs catching as the door closed on them, pressed open again.

  In less than two minutes the street would be spotted with cruisers. Sirens and tire squeals, the swish of Kevlar, scuffle of boots. But for this moment, these next two minutes, McWilliams knew he was in control. Two civilians, Roy Alison, himself. And then Cleo Porterfield. McWilliams counted that as four against one.

  “Where you think you’re going?” Porterfield asked as McWillams came around the counter, pistol held at Porterfield. “Partner, you gonna do something?” he said to Roy.

  Roy pumped the shotgun, leveled it back to the man’s head.

  McWilliams stopped a few feet from Porterfield, both of them even with the counter, the woman between them. McWilliams scanned the area, eyes darting from point to point. Family photos on desk. Corporate calendars. Employee of the month certificates on the walls. “Listen, you want the money. I get that. But Mrs. Martin there doesn’t need to be in the middle of this. Just let her go. Let her go home to her two babies. They’re counting on her. You don’t want the paper to read ‘Janice Martin, mother of two, killed in botched robbery’ do you?”

  “Fuck do I care?” Porterfield spit.

  Maybe McWilliams was wrong about him. Maybe he just hadn’t had the chance to be the worst person he could be. Then McWilliams saw Porterfield steal a glance at the nearby desk, the photograph of the kids.

  Might have a minute left, McWilliams thought. He backed toward Roy, kept his eyes on Porterfield, but moved his aim to Roy’s side.

  “The fuck?” Porterfield asked.

  “Mrs. Martin, I’m sure everything was confusing for you, but do you remember when the deputy and perpetrator struggled? When one of the masked men went for the deputy’s pistol and it went off?”

  She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat and she wiped her nose. Porterfield wrapped his arm around her neck, raised the pistol to McWilliams. “Now, let’s just all calm the fuck down. You ain’t shooting nobody. Leave him the fuck alone.”

  McWillliams heard a ping, a tiny crack of sound. Then a blast, a small sun exploding in the distance.

  Then his head was filled with a list.

  A shot. The window. Porterfied down.

  A shot. Hot. Fire. On fire.

  McWilliams heard the thudding clang of metal on concrete, saw he’d dropped his gun.

/>   The Martin woman screaming toward the front door. The man with Roy falling under the desk.

  The fire on his shoulder. Fucking Porterfield got off a shot. Fuck. He reached up with his left hand, pressed the fire on his shoulder, the sticky dampness. Then he knelt to the floor, reached for his pistol.

  Movement to his side. He saw Lacewell step into the hall, looking at him. Then he saw Roy with the shotgun, slamming it across Lacewell’s arms, the butt of the weapon into his jaw. Roy stepping over him to the back door, garbage bag in hand.

  • • •

  “So another couple days?”

  “Yeah,” McWilliams said to his wife as another little leaguer struck out. “I clear the physical, I can go back the next day.” q,an HMcWilliams used his plastic spoon to dig around the bag of chips. “I think I got ripped off on my Frito pie.”

  Cora reached across, took the bag out of his slinged arm, the fork. Worked the chips and meat around. “Just have to work at it a little. Get the good parts to the top.”

  McWilliams said it still looked like mostly chips.

  “If they filled it up with meat, how would they make any money?”

  “If I wanted a bag of chips, I’d have gotten a bag of chips.”

  “My, aren’t you in a bad mood today?”

  He grinned. “Just ready to get back to work. Lotta things to catch up on.”

  “It’s been nice having you around for a couple of days. Much safer, too.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ll be riding the desk for a while, I imagine.”

  “You’re lucky Owen got there in time, from what the paper says.”

  “Right. Deputy Owen Caskey. Regular Annie Oakley.”

  “Good shot, that’s for sure.”

  “Hit his target. Timing left a little to be desired.”

  “Well, all that matters now is that you’re safe.” She patted his knee. “They ever catch the other boy?”

  “No.”

  “Y’all find out who it is? That a state secret?”

  “No telling,” he said. “The guy was a mystery.”

  “All right,” she said, raising her hand over her eyes, looking at the game. “Pitcher for the Tigers seems to be doing a good job. Who is that?”

  “That’s Champion Tatum’s boy.”

  “This his first game?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s going to strike out the side again,” she said. “Good for him. Not afraid of anything.”

  “He’ll be fine, Cora. Look at him. He’s a fighter.”

  McWilliams watched a boy he didn’t know step to the plate, turn up a foot, let the bat fall onto the bottoms of his cleats, clay clumped to the ground. The boy dug in to the batter’s box, getting comfortable.

  “Planning to stop by Ruby and Hank’s this evening to take them some supper. You know Ruby’s laid up again.”

  “Hank Dalton?”

  “Yes. You want to come with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Across the back corner of the outfield, in the parking lot, a teenager was talking to a girl. McWilliams watched the girl move to walk away, saw the guy put an arm against the side of the truck, stop her.

  The deputy stood up, stretched, felt his holster shift under his arm. He kept his eyes on the parking lot. “Need anything?” he asked Cora. “Getting a hot dog.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said as she watched her husband walk away.

  PART THREE

  The day was closing down, and I could hear crickets and frogs in the woods as I made the turn onto Pennick Lane, near the Walkerville Cemetery. I parked in front of the house, where the gravel faded away, and Cassie stepped out onto the porch, left the door open.

  She was wearing a bright yellow tank top and cutoff shorts. “Make up your mind yet?”

  I stepped out of the truck, leaned against the hood. “About what?”

  “About whether you want company.”

  I looked around for something to do with my hands. “Kind of a one-man deal, I figure.”

  “Won’t matter, then. I’m a woman.”

  I nodded. Kept it to myself. “Not sure when I’m coming back.”

  She smiled. “I don’t care about that.”

  “All right.”

  She set her bag in the bed of my truck, and I closed the door behind her.

  “You and that deputy take care of whatever you were working on?” she asked. “All square?”

  “Yeah. You eat yet?”

  “No,” she said. “Thought you might take a girl to dinner.”

  “Andy’s or Dairy Queen?”

  “Well, you do know how to treat a girl right, don’t you, Mr. Alison?”

  “Sky’s the limit. As long as we stay under ten bucks.”

  “So we’re going to Magnolia?”

  “Athens,” I said. “Take care of some business, like I said. We can grab dinner on the way.”

  “Athens? Georgia or Greece?”

  “Arkansas.”

  “There’s an Athens, Arkansas?”

  “Kinda near Mena. Didn’t you say you lived there for a while?”

  “Yeah. Never heard of it.”

  “It’s on the map.”

  “What’s in Athens?”

  I leaned forward, pulled the picture from my back pocket, handed it to Cassie. She opened the glove box, held the picture near the light.

  “That’s my uncle on the right. Who are the other two?”

  “My grandpa on the left.”

  “And in the middle?”

  “Franklin Rudd.”

  “Kin to the folks around here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he’s in Athens?”

  “Was this morning.”

  “And we’re going to see him?”

  “To talk to him, yeah.”

  She turned the picture over, looked at the meaningless pencil scrawl on the back, washed out over the years. “You know your grandma’s worried about you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She said so.”

  “Told you that?”

  “ ming outBRK”>“Yeah, last night. She called.”

  “I had to go out,” I said.

  “Said we needed to keep an eye on you. Her and me. Said it seemed like something was going on.”

  “Yeah.”

  She set the picture between us, closed the glove box. “That thing loaded?”

  “What?”

  “The pistol in the glove.”

  “No.”

  “You sure you’re supposed to have a gun?”

  “It’s not mine,” I said. “Borrowed it off a logger I ran into.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “In case Mr. Rudd doesn’t want to talk.”

  “About?”

  “What?”

  “What might Mr. Rudd not want to talk about?”

  “About why he killed my grandpa.”

  • • •

  We got to Magnolia and I stopped at the EZ Mart, climbed out to put gas in the truck.

  I was standing at the pump, in Cassie’s blind spot. She had her head turned away, looking out at the highway.

  McWilliams might be looking for me by now. I could have stuck around, done what he’d wanted. I guess I’m not so good taking orders. I thought about walking around the back of the truck, getting in, driving back home. Saying something to her about the price of gas. The weather. Then we could sit down for hamburgers and fries, talk about movies and television shows. Whatever it is people do. Like my parents had done for years. How was work? Fine. How was your work? Fine. Or we could drive off somewhere else, forget about her uncle and Franklin Rudd. Forget about my grandfather, too.

  Maybe every choice is a bullet. Doesn’t matter which one you choose. All works out the same.

  I paid for the gas, slid back into the truck, drove along until we stopped to eat.

  • • •

  When we hit Rosston a little later, Cassie opened the Styrofoam box
of leftover fries between us. “This Mr. Rudd old?”

  “Pretty much, I figure.”

  “Where’s he living?”

  “Athens. With some family.”

  “How’d you find all that out?”

  “I talked to a couple people this morning, asked some questinything ever h

  Copyright © 2013 by Steve Weddle. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

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  www.tyrusbooks.com

  “The Ravine” previously published in Crime Factory, edited by Keith Rawson, Cameron Ashley, and Jimmy Callaway, copyright © 2011 by New Pulp Press, ISBN 10: 0-9828-4364-X, ISBN 13: 978-0-9828-4364-2.

  “This Too Shall Pass” previously published in