by Brom
Jesse glanced back and forth between the gun and Dillard—he didn’t get it.
“Jesse, you know what I’m about to do? Huh?” Dillard chuckled. “I’ll tell you. Right after I finish this smoke. I’m gonna go inside this nice big house of mine, gonna take that pretty wife of yours upstairs and then, and then . . . well, I’m gonna shove my big hard prick right in her sweet little mouth.”
“What?” Jesse gasped.
“That’s right. Gonna make her slobber all over my knob. Smack her ass and make her bark and whine. Now, if you’re inclined to stop me, all you got to do is pick up that gun right there and shoot me. It’s that simple.”
Jesse squinted at him, his hands clenched into fists. “What? What the fuck is wrong with you? Fuck you!”
“Is that all you got? Son, I’m about to go in there and make your wife choke on my broom handle. Gonna blow my load all over her face. And all you can do is cuss me? If a man done that to my wife . . . said it right to my face like that . . . I’d shoot him dead regardless. Because that’s what a real man does.”
Jesse looked at the gun.
Dillard grinned. “You won’t do it, Jesse. I know this for a fact. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking the measure of a man. Thirty years on the force will do that. And I could tell from the very first time I set eyes on you that you were one of the nobodies that don’t matter squat. A loser. And now Jesse . . . you know it, too.”
Jesse glared at Dillard, then at the gun, back and forth, his heart drumming. He took a step forward, then another, until he stood right beside the gun. All he had to do was pick it up and shoot. There was nothing Dillard could do to stop him.
“C’mon, Jesse. Ain’t got all day.” And the worst of it was Dillard looked so confident, so completely at ease, this was not a man wagering his life, this was one who was absolutely sure of himself.
Jesse’s breath sped up, his hand began to tremble. Do it. Shoot him. But he didn’t and right there, right then, he saw exactly what Dillard was showing him. I am a loser. Don’t have the guts to shoot myself. Don’t have the guts to shoot the man screwing my wife. Don’t even have the guts to send my music off to some jackass DJ.
Jesse let out a long breath, fell back a step, and just stood there staring at that gun.
Dillard flicked his cigarette butt into the snow, walked up to the hood of the cruiser, and retrieved his gun. He shoved it back into its holster. “Believe it or not, son, I ain’t trying to be a dick. I’m trying to do you a favor, trying to save you years of heartbreak. A man needs to know himself. And now that you can see just the sort of man you truly are, maybe you’ll quit trying so hard to be something you ain’t. Go home, Jesse. Go home to that piece-of-shit trailer of yours and get drunk . . . then do us all a favor and just disappear.”
Jesse barely heard him; he just kept staring at the spot where the gun had been.
“Okay, Jesse. I’m done with you. Done talking, done wasting my time. I’m going in, and when I look out that window in a few, you and that rig of yours best be gone. And just so we’re clear, just so there ain’t a lick of confusion between us: if you ever set foot on my property again, ever . . . I’ll break every one of your fingers. I mean that. You won’t be playing that guitar of yours ever again.”
Dillard turned and walked away, leaving Jesse staring at the car hood.
Chapter Three
The General
Jesse pulled up in front of his trailer, killed the engine, and once again found himself confronted by his front door. “My piece-of-shit trailer,” he said, his voice laden with scorn. He barely even remembered driving back; the incident with Dillard played out over and over in his head, all the way home. Only each time when he came to the part where Dillard challenged him to pick up that gun, he actually did pick up the gun, actually did shoot Dillard, emptied every round right into the son-of-a-bitch’s face.
Jesse spied the bottle of whiskey still lying in the snow and heard Dillard’s voice in his head, Go home and get drunk . . . then do us all a favor and just disappear.
“No. That ain’t gonna happen.” He glanced at the Santa sack. Because this loser’s got a plan. A damn good plan. A plan that’s gonna fix everything. He tugged the Santa sack up onto the seat next to him, gave it a pat. “Time to get busy.”
He got out, walked down the road to the line of mailboxes, checked the newspaper bins until he found one that still had a paper in it and took it. He plucked the sack from the truck on his way back and went inside.
He dropped the sack and newspaper on the floor, walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge searching for something to eat. Found only two dried-up slices of pizza wrapped in foil and rolled them into a pizza burrito. He took a seat on the floor, eating as he dug through the newspaper. He pulled out the Walmart circular and tossed the rest of the paper aside. He flipped to the toy section, found a pen, and began thumbing through the pages, circling pictures here and there as he went.
“Yes. Umm . . . no. Hmm . . . maybe.” He tapped his teeth with the pen. “Most certainly. That one would certainly work.” He nodded. “Has to work.”
He pulled the crimson sack over. “Okay, baby. Do it for me.” He clinched his eyes shut, concentrated, wished, and prayed as hard as he could, then stuck his hand into the sack. His hand hit a box. It felt the right size, the right weight. “C’mon.” He pulled it out. There, still in the box, was a brand-new PlayStation.
“Yes!” he cried. “Yes! Now we’ll see who the real loser is.”
AN HOUR LATER, Jesse headed back up Route 3 with four black garbage bags of video game consoles and handhelds piled into the back of his camper. He’d stashed the Santa sack back down into the passenger foot well. It was his golden ticket and he intended to keep it close.
He pulled into a salvage yard on the outskirts of town and tried to avoid the larger potholes as he drove past a few grungy outbuildings and a handful of wrecked semitrailers. He came to a cinder-block wall strung with barbed wire and deer skulls at the very back of the compound, followed it to a metal gate topped with broken glass, and stopped. Jesse honked twice and waved at the security camera mounted above the gate.
A moment later he heard a click and the gate rattled open along its rusty track, revealing a short alley of garage bays. The door of the tall middle bay hung halfway up and Jesse could see five figures leaning over a diesel engine. He pulled up to the bay, cut the ignition, and listened to his engine rattle to a halt. He got out and retrieved one of the garbage bags, then walked under the eave and waited.
The bay was part auto shop and part everything else. Greasy power tools, air tools, and various hand tools lay scattered across every available surface. A dismantled riding lawnmower was shoved into one corner next to an avocado-green refrigerator, the door stained almost black with grimy handprints. Aerosol cans and taxidermy supplies lined several of the back shelves, while above them hung well over a dozen mounts, including a twelve-point buck and a one-eyed black bear rumored to have killed three of the General’s hunting dogs.
None of the men bothered to look up, so Jesse ended up just standing there holding the bag, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Jesse could see the General fiddling with the camshaft. Finally, one of them—a tall, blond, solid-built man in a pair of faded, grease-stained coveralls—looked up, made a sour face, then put down his wrench. He wiped his hands on an oil rag and headed over to Jesse.
Chet was the General’s nephew, had gone to school with Jesse and the two had hung out on occasion. These days Chet was Jesse’s contact man—Jesse never actually having talked directly to the General before. That’s the way the General handled matters, at least small matters, and it had been made clear that Jesse was a small matter.
Chet scratched at his thick handlebar mustache. “Why, we was just talking about you, Jesse.”
Jesse squinted, wondered what that was supposed to mean.
“Nice of you to show up.” Chet wore a big smile, what Jesse’s grandmother used to
call a crocodile smile. “Save me the bother of tracking you down.”
“Yeah, well, here I am.”
“Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight. ’Cause if you did, they just got changed.”
Jesse’s jaw tightened.
“Got a run for you. Short trip . . . just up to Charleston.”
“Can’t do it.”
Chet raised an eyebrow. “Can’t do it?”
“Nope. I’m done with that.”
Chet pushed back his cap. “I’m not liking the sound of this, Jesse. Why, you got folks counting on you.”
“I’m in a new line of business now.”
“Is that so? Just what sort of business would that be?”
Jesse sat the garbage bag down.
“What’s that?”
“Something Santa left me.”
Chet eyed him. “Ain’t got time for your nonsense.”
“Got a business proposal for the General.”
“Shoot.”
“You ain’t the General.”
Chet squinted at him. “You got something to say, then you best say it to me.”
“I’m here to see the General.”
Chet grabbed Jesse by his jacket collar, yanked him up onto his toes.
“Chet,” a deep voice called out. “Hold on.”
“Watch yourself, boy,” Chet growled, and gave Jesse a shove.
The General walked over, followed by the other three men, all of them Boggses—nephews and cousins of one sort or another. They gave Jesse the once-over.
The General wore the same getup he had on every time Jesse had ever seen him: a suede cowboy hat over his baldness, a matching fringed jacket like Daniel Boone might wear, and alligator boots. A bristling salt-and-pepper beard sprouted out from his rough, windburned face. Jesse guessed the man must be pushing into his sixties by now. Even so, he still looked like he could hold his own against any comer. His real name was Sampson Ulysses Boggs. His parents had given him a big name in the hopes he’d grow into it, but since the General stood a head shorter than most men, Jesse felt he was trying to compensate in other ways. He’d taken the reputation that the Boggs clan had built running ’shine back in Prohibition, and used it to strong-arm and intimidate his way into every profitable illegal activity in and around Boone County.
“Go on then, son,” the General said. “Say what you got to say.”
“Well,” Jesse said. “I’ve got a proposal you might be interested in.”
“Have you?”
“I do.” Jesse tugged the garbage bag open so they could all see the boxes of game consoles.
“I don’t play video games,” the General said.
“I got a truck full of ’em and can get more.”
“Can you now?”
“Yes, sir. And I was thinking you and me should partner up. I got a handle on a steady supply and could sure use a bit of help distributing them.” Jesse realized he was talking too fast and made himself slow down. “Be willing to go fifty-fifty the whole way.”
The General grinned at that, but Jesse didn’t like the look of that grin.
“And just how’d you come by these?” the General asked.
“Well,” Jesse hesitated. “Well, sir . . . not really at liberty to say.”
“You’re not?”
“No, sir. We could just say that Santa brought ’em to me.” Jesse made a weak laugh, but no one else even cracked a smile.
The old man stared at him. Nobody moved or spoke. Jesse didn’t like the mood, didn’t like the way this was playing out, something wasn’t right, and all at once he wanted to leave.
The General nodded. Jesse knew the nod meant trouble, but before he could act Chet caught hold of his arm. Jesse tried to twist free, but they were all on him.
They dragged him over to the row of shop tools, forced his right hand onto a drill press, held it over the plate, right where the bit pushed through once it got spinning. Chet snatched up a roll of duct tape and began wrapping the tape around Jesse’s hand and arm, round and round, strapping his hand to the press. Jesse struggled to yank his hand free, but it was bound tight. The men pushed him to his knees and held him fast.
The General walked up. “Got a call from Dillard. Any idea what that might’ve been about?”
Jesse’s blood went cold.
“He said you were talking crazy, like maybe you’d turn snitch. Start squealing if you didn’t like the way we was treating you.”
Jesse shook his head. “No. That’s not what—”
The General kicked him in the gut. “Shut up.”
Jesse coughed and choked, struggling for breath.
Chet tore off another strip of tape and wrapped it across Jesse’s lips. The taste of glue filled Jesse’s mouth and his nostrils flared as he fought to get enough air into his lungs.
“Talk like that makes me nervous,” the General continued. “I believe you and me, we got a few things to work out. Let’s start with what you got to lose. I hear you’re pretty sweet on that guitar of yours. Ain’t that what you said, Chet?”
“Yup,” Chet replied. “Why, I’m willing to bet he’d rather fiddled with that guitar than a hot slice of poontang pie. Told me his dream was to make it big down in Memphis.”
“Well, that’s gonna be hard to do with big holes in your hand.” The General nodded and Chet hit the switch on the drill; a high-pitched whine filled the bay. A half-smirk pushed at Chet’s cheek as he slowly lowered the drill, lowered it until the spinning bit just nipped Jesse’s skin.
Jesse grit his teeth, struggled not to yell.
Chet let the drill sink near a quarter inch into Jesse’s flesh.
“Fuck!” Jesse cried through the tape.
Chet laughed, pulled the drill bit back up, leaving a dot of blood on the top of Jesse’s hand.
“Didn’t tell you to stop,” the General said.
The humor left Chet’s face. He looked at the General confused. “But—”
“Do it.”
“What? You mean all the way?”
“Hell, yes, I mean all the way.”
Chet continued to stare at the General.
“You gone deaf? Press the fucking drill through his hand.”
“Thought we was just aiming to scare him.”
“He don’t look scared enough to me. Now, do it. I want to give him something to remember who he’s fucking with.”
Chet still didn’t move.
The General’s face twisted into something resembling a wadded-up dishrag; he stepped over and jabbed a thick finger into Chet’s chest. “You need to learn to do as you’re told, boy.” He shoved Chet aside, nearly knocking him off his feet. The General took hold of the drill and leaned over to Jesse. “Next time your tongue feels like wagging, you’ll want to remember this.” The General slowly lowered the drill into Jesse’s hand, driving it deep into Jesse’s flesh.
Searing pain shot up Jesse’s arm. His palm felt on fire. He screamed and choked on the tape, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes.
Chet and the men winced as the drill punched completely through. The General didn’t so much as blink, just nodded the way you would while enjoying a favorite song, letting the drill spin in place. Specks of tape, flesh, and blood spattered Jesse across the face and the stench of seared flesh filled his nose.
The General raised the drill and shut it off. The men let go of Jesse and he slumped against the drill stand, quivering.
The General removed his handkerchief and wiped a speck of blood off his cheek, then squatted next to Jesse. “You listen up, son, ’cause you’re only gonna get this one time. If I ever hear talk about you spilling the beans . . . there won’t be no more games. And if you ever cross me . . . in any way, I’ll put you and that pretty little girl of yours in a box together and bury the both of you alive. That’s a promise, Jesse. You just think about how that would be the next time you get a wild hair up your ass. You get me?”
Jesse nodded.
“We’re g
ood then,” the General said and stood. He looked at Chet, looked him up and down, looking in no way pleased. “We’re all squared up with Jesse now, so let him be.” The men nodded and the General headed across the bay and up a set of open stairs draped in flickering Christmas lights. He entered a second-floor office, shutting the door behind him. The moment the General was out of sight, Chet flipped him the bird.
“Better watch that,” warned the lean, wiry man standing to Chet’s left. Lynyrd Boggs wore a sweat-stained cowboy hat with an eagle’s feather stuck in the band. His father was a big Lynyrd Skynyrd fan, so Lynyrd had the good fortune to have his name misspelled in tribute.
“Fuck,” Chet said. “That son’bitch needs to chill the fuck out. Just because things is shit, don’t mean he’s gotta treat us that way.”
“Pressure’s getting to him, that’s all. I remember not too long back when the General was about the only place you could get your fix around here. Now every tweek-head is brewing their own shit right in their own damn basements. General’s losing ground and in case you ain’t noticed, he ain’t taking it real well.”
“And I don’t care none for this talk of hurting children neither. Ain’t the way we do things around here. Not at all.”
“Rules is changing. These meth heads, they ain’t got no respect for the old ways.”
“Goddamn tweekers,” Chet spat. “Goddamn meth. Fucking ruining everything.”
“Well, that ain’t all. I hear we got some competition.”