Tear It Down

by Nick Petrie

  Albert took a step back. “Tell me you didn’t.” But Albert found that he knew already. He’d known for a long time. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the knowing, or the not being surprised.

  Judah Lee shrugged. “It didn’t mean nothing to me. Less than nothing, like killing a hog. But it was important. It made me part of something.”

  “Is this about Carruthers and his group? The New Dixie Knights? The new Klan is what they are.”

  “Could be we see things more clearly than you.” Judah’s tone was mild. “The way things really are. Us against them.”

  Albert shook his head. “Carruthers and his crowd are a bunch of ignorant no-account inbred white-trash peckerwoods.”

  Judah Lee took another taste from the bottle, then held it out to Albert. His voice was soft and low. “Let me ask you something. You see our lives getting better, year to year? Or getting worse? There’s more of them out there every day. They breed like rats. Most of our taxes go to pay for their damn kids. They take our jobs, our money, our women.”

  “I don’t know what on earth you’re complaining about.” Albert took the bottle, but didn’t raise it to his lips. The glass was thick and strong, still in use from some bygone time. “You never paid taxes in your life. Or had a real job, neither, unless you count working for cash as a bouncer at that biker bar.”

  Judah Lee shook his head. “You fail to understand. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. We’re coming down to it, now. It’s us or them, brother. Us or them. Who do you want to inherit this earth?”

  Albert had never seen Judah Lee like this before. Even at a whisper, he was passionate. Dang, he was persuasive, even if they were Carruthers’s words coming out of his brother’s mouth.

  Maybe this was what old man Carruthers had seen in Judah Lee. This potential for riling up ugly feelings.

  Albert could see right through the words, though. Race was only part of it. Mostly it was about loss. Watching the old covenants disappear, seeing the world change faster and faster while you got left farther and farther behind. Feeling poor and powerless and afraid, and wanting someone to blame.

  Race was the excuse, the reason to set loose your free-floating worry and fear and anger onto the world.

  To make someone else hurt the way you did.

  To make the world fear you back.

  For Albert, that part of Judah Lee’s argument carried some weight. Not the race part, but the part about their lives getting worse. Except for a lucky few, everyone’s lives were getting worse. Time was, if a man could make it through high school, he could get a job, buy a house, support a family. Build a life. Now those jobs were gone. There wasn’t much left in the world for a man Albert’s age.

  Nothing left but what you could take for yourself.

  Albert was going to have to do just that.

  Otherwise he’d lose the farm that had been in his family for generations. In the end, there was no choice to be made, no choice at all. Just action.

  It surprised him, how easily it came. How natural it felt.

  Like taking off one suit of clothes and putting on another.

  Albert still held the antique bottle in his hand. Some of their daddy’s high-test, he could tell by the color, even through that cloudy glass. He raised it to his mouth and took a drink. It tasted like liquid gold, and it burned going down. He felt it fill his chest and rise into his head.

  He took a step through the open doorway and pushed the bottle back into Judah Lee’s hand. “All right,” he said. “Show me what you’re doing in here.”

  “No turning back,” said Judah.

  “Like I could before?”

  Albert pushed past his brother and stumped toward the lighted table.

  Under a battery-powered lantern, he saw an improvised workbench, planks laid over sawhorses.

  Daddy’s old .44 revolver stood by a roll of duct tape, an old coffee can full of rusty roofing nails, and short sections of threaded black pipe in a neat row. A pile of black caps for the ends. A cordless drill. A long coil of slender rope that Albert knew was fuse. A gallon plastic container of Goex Black Powder. A dirty white funnel. A tube of pipe dope to make the caps go on easy.

  You surely wouldn’t want an accidental spark.

  Their daddy had used the powder for his muzzleloaders. He’d been a Civil War reenactor. He’d also used it to blow stumps and boulders from the fields. It was always the high point of the winter, when you got to blow stuff up with Daddy.

  Black powder wasn’t near as powerful as dynamite, but you didn’t need a government license. You could buy as much as you wanted. And you could make the blast more powerful with tools even a child could use.

  Judah Lee stepped close to the table, their daddy’s old revolver within reach. From a cardboard box, he picked up and held out a piece of black pipe, capped at both ends. One end had a hole drilled in it, with a six-inch piece of fuse coming out. Albert didn’t take it. He was staring past the workbench to a half-rotted brown canvas tarp peeled back from a pair of long rectangular boxes. One box was open. The light showed Albert twelve long rifles, looking worn-down but deadly in their angularity.

  “Those are M16s,” he said. “Where’d you get those? What are these dang pipe bombs for, Judah Lee?”

  His little brother, now grown so much bigger and taller, gave Albert a fearsome smile. “You’re in it now,” he said. “It’s a war. Us or them, remember? These are the kind of weapons we’ll need to win. Guns and grenades.”

  “What in God’s name does this have to do with that house in Memphis?”

  “We need more weapons. Bigger bombs, bigger guns. Whatever prize Forrest left in that house, that’s what I mean to use it for.”

  “Your half, you mean.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Judah Lee. “My half.”

  Albert thought about how Judah had tried to pull Albert’s full dinner plate across the table just a few hours earlier.

  How he’d had to jab a fork into his brother’s hand to keep him from taking it.

  He wondered what he might have to do next.

  Judah Lee held out the pipe bomb again. “Come on, big brother, take it. We need to test a couple, so we know they’re gonna work. Don’t you want to blow some shit up?”

  Thing was, Albert did. He really did.

  PART 4

  36

  Wrapped in his ground cloth under the back of the dump truck, Peter woke, just after first light, to the smell of coffee.

  He turned his head to the right and saw a white cardboard cup standing on the grass an arm’s length away. Steam wafted gently from the hole in the lid.

  Part of Peter had slept like the dead. Another part, not entirely conscious, had monitored the night noises of the city as they changed into the early-morning sounds of neighbors rising before dawn, readying themselves for work. He’d heard a child, crying. He’d heard part of a radio sermon from a passing car.

  He hadn’t heard anyone approach the house.

  No arriving vehicle, no footsteps in the yard.

  No soft sound, three feet from his head, as the cup was pressed into the grass so it wouldn’t tip over.

  Peter peeked out at the street.

  No police car at the curb, either.

  In a single movement, Peter scooped up Chester’s 1911 and rolled out from under the dump truck.

  On Wanda’s front porch, Lewis sat on a wooden folding chair, feet in the air, balanced on the chair’s rear legs without any evidence of effort. He held his 10-gauge sawed-off shotgun across his lap and a white cardboard cup in his hand. A box of shotgun shells stood on the porch floor beside a grease-stained paper bag.

  He gave Peter a tilted grin and raised his cup in salute. His voice was deep and liquid and full of humor.

  “Rise and shine, Jarhead. The motherfucking cavalry has arrived.”

  Lewi
s wore creased black jeans, polished black combat boots, and a crisp white button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up exactly twice. The fine cotton of the shirt was bright against his dark skin. He’d been driving all night, but he looked like he’d just woken from eight hours’ sleep.

  He was the most dangerous man Peter had ever met.

  Peter put the 1911 on safe. “You’re not the cavalry.” He stepped onto the porch. “You’re a band of goddamn Comanchero raiders. Hell, you’re fucking Geronimo.”

  The tilted grin got wider. “Now you’re just sweet-talking. Why I take these little trips.”

  Peter held out his palm. Lewis gave him a slow low five, still maintaining his effortless balance on the chair’s back legs, but ready for anything.

  Like Peter, Lewis was always ready.

  “You practice that chair trick at home?”

  “It’s my natural talent, motherfucker. Like you getting your ass in trouble.”

  “I’m going to get my coffee.” Peter stepped down into the grass, then spun without warning and pitched the pistol at Lewis in a fast, flat arc.

  He caught it in the air one-handed. Without spilling his quadruple mocha, or letting the shotgun slide from his lap, or allowing the chair to waver in any way.

  Peter shook his head. “You totally practice that at home.”

  His coffee was still hot.

  * * *

  • • •

  As it turned out, the grease-stained bag held barbecue breakfast sliders and peach Danishes. Peter’s coffee was thickened with an extra espresso shot.

  “Geronimo wouldn’t have brought Danishes,” Peter said. “I withdraw the comparison.”

  While they ate and drank, he brought Lewis up to speed.

  He talked about the brick through Wanda’s window and the burning cross video, how Peter had come to Memphis to help. He talked about how things had escalated with the dump truck crashed into her living room, then the machine-gun attack. He told Lewis how much progress he’d made on Wanda’s problem—exactly none.

  Instead, Peter had been chasing a talented street kid all over Memphis trying to get his truck back and maybe somehow insert himself between the kid and the group that controlled most of the crime in the city.

  Lewis gave a deep rumbling chuckle. “Let me guess. You want to help this boy.”

  Peter shrugged. “I kind of like him. His name’s Eli. He’s in real trouble. And you should hear him play.”

  When he told Lewis about King Robbie, Brody, and Charlene Scott, Lewis perked up. “I call dibs on the gangsters.”

  “The thing is, I’ve actually made things worse for Wanda,” Peter said. “Because now King Robbie knows she’s connected to me.”

  Lewis gestured at the huge Dumpster and the lumber pile protecting the house. “Well, you sure fortified the place. You got no line on the machine-gun guys?”

  “I might have something, but I’ve been too busy scrambling to follow up. I need to make a phone call, maybe go see somebody.”

  Lewis wiped his fingertips with a paper napkin. “I’m up for whatever. You want me to come?”

  “I’m trying to visit the West Tennessee State Penitentiary.”

  Lewis raised his eyebrows. He knew about the white static. “You up for that?”

  “It’ll be good practice,” said Peter. “You should come. Maybe you’ll be scared straight.”

  “I think I’ll stay here,” said Lewis. “Stand watch. Maybe take a nap.”

  “It might be a little loud for a nap. Wanda’s got some people coming to stabilize the house. The towing company wants to pull the dump truck out without bringing the house down with it.”

  Lewis cast a critical eye at the house. Between the dump truck and the machine gun, the damage was considerable. “Why’re you bothering? Looks like a teardown to me.”

  “The engineer seems to think it has some historical value,” said Peter. “Plus Wanda’s pretty attached.”

  “It’s just a house.” Lewis stuck his thumb into one of the bullet holes in the brick. “A 240 Bravo is serious hardware. Where’d they get a gun like that? You think these guys are ex-military?”

  Peter shook his head. “This whole thing is too goofy for that. They’re making it up as they go. I don’t think they even know what the hell they’re after.”

  The tilted grin again. “Sounds like a jarhead I know.”

  “Fuck you,” Peter said. “Can I borrow your ride for a few hours?”

  “You gonna get it stolen? Or just hand it over to the first threatening preteen you meet?”

  “Probably not. I’ll get lunch, though.”

  Lewis handed over his keys. “Tan Yukon, parked on the next block. Don’t get pulled over, though. Hardware in the back.” He meant weapons.

  “Good to know,” said Peter. “One more thing. You got any money? And maybe a credit card?” Eli Bell had picked Peter clean.

  Lewis looked at him. “Who the fuck am I, your dad?”

  “I’ll be home by midnight, I promise.”

  Lewis flipped open his wallet, thick with bills. “How many phones have you lost now?”

  “I had a backup package this time. Five grand in cash, a spare credit card, and my passport.”

  “So where is it?”

  “Secret hiding place.” Peter smiled and plucked Lewis’s wallet from his hand. “Under my truck.”

  “You can’t use my driver’s license,” said Lewis. “Not until you get a better tan.”

  Peter pulled out five hundreds and handed them to Lewis, pocketing the rest. “In case I don’t come back.”

  Lewis gave Peter a stern look right out of the Brady Bunch. He put on a white suburban voice. “If you’re not home for supper, your mother and I will be very upset.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Before Peter could leave, they heard the rumble of a big engine with a perforated muffler coming up the street. Lewis stepped off the porch, the shotgun held down along his leg. The 1911 was tucked into the back of Peter’s belt.

  An antique one-ton Ford with dual rear wheels rolled into Wanda’s driveway. The hood and side panels were all different colors, parts from multiple different vehicles. The cargo box had been replaced with a wide wooden dump bed with high steel toolboxes for sides, topped with a custom-welded ladder rack.

  Dupree, Wanda’s friend and the bass player from the night before, opened the driver’s door and hopped down. “Put that gun up, sonny boy. I’m invited.”

  He wore crusty brown-duck Carhartts and a clean white T-shirt. He was twice Peter’s age, his face deeply lined, but the T-shirt showed cannonballs for biceps and forearms like carved mahogany.

  Romeo, the drummer, jumped down from the passenger side. He was short, shirtless, and thick with muscle. He wore a ratty straw hat at a rakish angle. Like Dupree, he was over sixty.

  “This is your demo crew?” Lewis looked at Peter. “They don’t get enough from Social Security?”

  Romeo stared up at the house, already taking mental inventory of the damage. He didn’t look at Lewis. “Work yo’ ass into the ground any day of the week, pretty boy.” He had a deep-South marble-mouth accent.

  Lewis smiled. “I do believe you might.”

  Dupree shook Peter’s hand. “We didn’t get introduced last night, but I saw you with Wanda. You running this show?”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Peter, this is Lewis. And I’d rather you run the job, so we can chase the bad guys. Did Wanda tell you what’s been going on?”

  “Yep. But even if she didn’t, you can see it plain as day.” Dupree waved a hand at the house, the dump truck, the machine-gun damage.

  “You know those people are still out there, right? You’re okay with maybe getting shot at?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Dupree. “I like where you got t
he Dumpster dropped. That’ll help some.”

  “Okay,” said Peter. “The engineer’s due with reinforcement plans this morning.”

  “Don’t need ’em,” said Romeo, now hauling scaffold sections from the back of the old Ford. “This ain’ ’zackly rocket science. Just gotta get in there, see what’s what.”

  “Wanda wants to save the house,” Peter said. “I’d appreciate your opinion on that.”

  Dupree looked skeptical. “I always tell people, we can fix anything,” he said. “Just depends how much you want to spend.”

  “Least the truck didn’t knock her off the foundation.” Romeo hauled coiled extension cords and a heavy-duty Bosch masonry drill kit. “That’s somethin’.”

  Peter thought of Wanda the night before, barely able to walk into the hotel lobby under her own power.

  She’d been knocked pretty hard, too.

  He hoped June would be able to get her back on her feet.

  Romeo set down his load and walked back to the truck, eyeballing Lewis. “You gonna help carry or what?”

  Lewis snorted, but leaned the shotgun against the lumber pile and followed Romeo back to the Ford.

  * * *

  • • •

  To Dupree, Peter said, “How do you know your guitar player?”

  The older man’s face split with a smile. “He’s pretty goddamn slick, ain’t he? He hears things I don’t and I been playing for fifty years. That boy’s an old soul. I met him because he’s friendly with my granddaughter. I try to get him to work construction with Romeo and me, give the boy some trade skills, but he’ll only show up for a day or two at a time. He learns quick, he’d be real good if he wanted. But I think he only does it when he’s real hungry.”

  “Do you know where he stays?”

  Dupree shook his head. “I don’t know that he stays anywhere long. He’s living wild, got a hard family history. He won’t talk about it.”

  “You ever ask him to stay with you?”