Dry County

by Jake Hinkson

  “You think too much.”

  I say it as a little joke, but he shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “We go to Austin, you know how to get in touch with him?”

  “Oh, sure. I can text him tomorrow. I haven’t talked to him in a while, but I know he’ll be happy to hear from me.”

  “Think he’ll like me?”

  “What? Of course. Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m just some ignorant-ass Ozark cracker. I’ve never been to college.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “Wally doesn’t give a shit about that. Believe me. If you like me, he’ll like you.”

  I nod. I’m not sure that’s true, but the idea of driving down to Texas and meeting new people is more exciting than scary.

  Gary asks, “What about your mom?”

  “What about her?”

  “Will she be upset that you’re leaving?”

  I shrug. “One less problem for her to worry about. Won’t have to listen to me fighting with Tommy.”

  Gary sits up. “And you don’t think he’s gonna be at the house, right?”

  “Nah. Don’t worry about that. He’s up at the bar. He didn’t go all the way up there just to turn around and come home. He’ll be there ’til after closing time talking about that fucking statue.”

  “When’s your mom get home?”

  “She gets off work at midnight. Won’t be home until one, unless she goes up to the bar to drink with Tommy.” I look over at him. “Don’t worry. We’re almost done. We’ll have the place to ourselves. You can take a shower. I need one myself. We’ll pack up my shit. And then . . .”

  He nods. “And then we go see Richard.”

  TWENTY-ONE BRIAN HARTEN

  As we get into his truck, I ask Tommy, “We really gonna go up to his front door?”

  “Not me. You.”

  I nod. “I got no problem with that.”

  “Damn right, you don’t. You know where the preacher lives?”

  “I think he lives over by the Closes. That’s where they used to live, anyway. Ray’s mom and stepdad used to live over there.”

  “I don’t know where the Closes live.”

  “Just go up to School Hill. I can tell you where to turn.”

  As he drives, Tommy’s all leaned back, his hand loose around the bottom of the truck’s steering wheel, like he’s barely thinking about the fact that he’s driving. He shakes his head. “Jesus, you got yourself in a mess, Harten.”

  I just nod. Like I don’t already know I shit the bed.

  We come to a four-way stop, and a cop car pulls up behind us.

  Tommy sits up, both hands on the wheel. Instead of going straight toward School Hill, he turns right.

  He glances in the rearview mirror. The cop car turns after us.

  “Shit.”

  “Think he’s following us?”

  “No reason he should be,” Tommy says. We drive up to the turnoff and Tommy gets on the highway. The cop goes the other way.

  “We’ll come back around,” he says. “Take the long way. I don’t want the cops involved in this. Might not be a bad idea to wait ’til it gets a little darker, too.”

  I shrug, even though it’s already dark outside. “Okay.”

  I figure he’s still thinking about the cops or Weatherford, but then he says, “You should have asked me.”

  “For what?”

  He just looks at me like I’m a dumb-ass.

  “For money?” I say. “You won’t even pay me what you owe me.”

  “First of all, I don’t owe you shit. But I’m not even talking about money. I’m talking about the place itself. You should have asked me to go into business with you.”

  We’re out on the highway, just a little north of town, and we pass by a big empty building overlooking a good view of the hills. The place has been four or five different restaurants in the last ten years. About every six months, somebody decides that they’re the ones who can make this location work, so they spend a few months fixing up the place. Then they open. And then they close.

  I say, “You telling me you would have gone into business with me?”

  “Well,” Tommy says, “I didn’t know you then like I know you now. Now that I know you’re a fucking moron, I wouldn’t invest ten cents in any of your ideas. But you was a pretty decent employee when you worked for me. Gotta give you that. If you’d come to me and asked me to go in with you, yeah, I would have gave it real thought. I mean, I could have really helped you on that deal.”

  I don’t say nothing to that, and he just gives me the side eye.

  We ride along for a while, but he don’t want to let it go. “You didn’t even have the balls to come tell me you were going into business for yourself.”

  “I gotta tell you every move I make?”

  He says, “Ain’t about telling me every move you make. I never asked you about your business. But you trying to open a rival operation behind my back . . .”

  “Rival operation? It’s not like I’m trying to open Brian’s Bar. I’m gonna open a liquor store. In another town, in another fucking county.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me what you were up to? Be honest now, Harten. You come into work every day and acted like nothing was up. I asked you every day, ‘Hey, man, what’s up? How you doing?’ And every day you looked at me and smiled and you didn’t say shit. Then I got to find out that you’re talking to my distributors behind my back?”

  “It wasn’t anything personal, man. I was trying to start something for myself. That’s all. It was just business.”

  “Fine, but you just remember that you’re the one that made it all about money. You went behind my back, trying to open up a rival operation, and then today you steal from me? I mean, I treated you like a friend before you started all that shit.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I guess I did hide it from him. He’s making it out like it was some big conspiracy, but it was more like I didn’t want to fall on my ass in front of him. Plus, I guess there is a little something to the idea that I knew I would be his rival. If I’d been able to open my place, all the people from Van Buren County who drive over to Tommy’s Bar would have stopped. They all would have come to my store.

  God, it would have been great.

  Tommy says, “Should’ve come to me, Harten.”

  “I get it, man. Lay off.”

  He’s about to talk some more shit when the cab of his truck explodes in blue.

  “Fuck me,” he says.

  “Cop behind us.”

  “You think?”

  He slows down and pulls over to the side of the road and shuts off his engine. We’re a few miles outside of Stock, on the downslope of the highway with the hills above us on the left and the valley below us on the right.

  The cop pulls up behind us and leaves his blues on. Then he just sits there.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  Tommy’s looking in the rearview. “I can’t tell.”

  The door opens on the cop car, and Tommy says, “Shit. It’s the sheriff.”

  He rolls down his window and leaves his hands on the steering wheel.

  “Just shut up and let me do the talking,” he says.

  I nod, but then it kind of hits me. He seems more nervous than I am, which is funny because as far as I know, I’m the only one here who’s broken the law.

  A flashlight sweeps the back window and creeps up the side of the truck. “Tommy,” the sheriff says.

  “Howdy, Bud,” Tommy says.

  I hear Bud say, “Who’s that with you there?”

  I give a little wave. “Hey, Bud. Brian Harten.”

  He comes up to the window and shines the light all over the inside of the cab. Bud’s ex-military and looks it. He keeps his hair high and tight, and he’s stayed in pretty good shape, considering he spends most of his day on his ass.

  “What are you boys up to tonight?”

  “Oh, not much.”


  “No? Where you heading?”

  Tommy shrugs. “Nowhere particular.”

  “Heading nowhere particular pretty fast. You’re doing seventy-eight in a fifty-five.”

  “Oh shit,” Tommy says, looking at the dashboard, like the number might still be up there. “Just wasn’t paying attention, I guess. I was telling Brian some old baseball stories. Got caught up in them, I guess. You remember the no-hitter I threw against Greenbrier?”

  “No,” Bud says, shining his light on the bench seat behind us. “But I never was much of a baseball fan. More of a football guy, myself.”

  You and everybody else in Arkansas.

  Bud says, “Heard you had a little commotion tonight at the bar.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Tommy says, raising his fingers off the steering wheel. “Had a fire. No one was hurt. Lost my statue, though.”

  “That’s too bad. Know how it started?”

  “Nope. Not yet. We got it all put out.”

  “Didn’t have to call the fire department?”

  “Naw. It was just the statue. Damn thing’s all ruint, but there was no other damage to anything or anyone else. It was all over before anyone had time to grab a phone.”

  “No other problems?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t know how the fire started?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sounds like arson.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. I figure some dumb-ass left a cigarette on it. Something like that.”

  “And no other problems?”

  “Nope,” Tommy says. “Everything’s cool.”

  Bud shines the light on Tommy’s hand resting on the steering wheel. “What happened to your knuckles?”

  Tommy rubs his scraped knuckles like he’s petting a kitten. “Nothing. Little altercation.”

  “About what?”

  “Private matter.”

  Bud leans in and smiles a smile that’s pure-bone meanness. “You telling me to mind my own business, Tommy?”

  Tommy tries to laugh it off. “Course not.” He kind of sighs and lifts his palms like it’s all just so silly. “You know how I live with Carmen Fuller, right? Her girl Sarabeth lost her job today. I give her a hard time about it, and her boyfriend, that little weirdo Gary Doane, he swung on me. I defended myself. That’s all.”

  “Gary okay?”

  “Sure. He’s fine. Just had to rake my knuckles on his head to calm him down. Nothing for anyone to get upset about. Everything’s cool.”

  Bud looks back up the darkened mountain, his face going black and blue in the blinking lights from his car. He kind of mutters, “Everything is cool . . . ,” and then he nods. “Okay, well, let me tell you what I know, Tommy. Few hours ago, I get a call from Roy Taggart, the sheriff from over your ways. Tells me that there was a fire at your place. Says that by the time he got out there, you’d already been there and left. He talked to people at the scene, and the employees all said basically the same thing you just told me. But the customers at the scene were under the impression that the fire was set deliberately as some kind of diversion for a robbery. You know what I’m saying? The fire goes off, everybody runs out, someone runs in and hits the cash room. When the staff realize that the money is gone, they freak out and call you. You come up there and then, all the sudden, there’s not any money missing and your boy Frankie James has changed his story.”

  “Who said all that? A couple of day drinkers? One of them was probably the one who left the cigarette on my statue.”

  “You’re telling me there was no robbery?”

  “Naw, man. If somebody stole from me, why wouldn’t I call the cops?”

  Bud looks at me. Then he looks back at Tommy’s skinned knuckles. “I don’t know, Tommy. Maybe you’re a ‘take the law into your own hands’ kind of guy. Harten works for you. Maybe you boys got that bat in the back seat there because you’re on your way to beat somebody’s ass. You ain’t out looking for Gary and Sarabeth, are you?”

  Tommy just laughs at that and shakes his head. Gives me a ‘can you believe this guy?’ look. I try to laugh, but it just comes out like a little cough.

  “Bud, c’mon, man. Gary and Sarabeth are a couple dumb-ass kids. They’re harmless. And I got a baseball bat in the back because I love baseball. There’s a ball and glove on the floor back there, too.”

  “And you’re not on your way to mess up anybody else right now?”

  Tommy says, “Course not.”

  Bud says, “Well, then, here’s another theory off the top of my head. Maybe you didn’t call the authorities because you didn’t want to make it an official matter and have anyone getting within a country mile of your finances. Sheriff Taggart and I have both heard tell of some activities going on at both of your bars.”

  Tommy stops smiling, drops the friendly shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bud. I don’t know who burnt down my statue or why. But I’m not on my way to beat nobody’s ass, and I’m not hiding any illegal activity.”

  He keeps talking, protesting his innocence and all that, but I don’t pay it much mind because I’m just now realizing that Bud has to be right. I wondered why Tommy didn’t just call the cops on me from the start, and now I know. He wants to keep all this shit quiet.

  “How about you, Brian?” Bud asks me. “You got anything to say?”

  “No, Bud. Tommy’s shooting you straight.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bud nods. “I just want you both to think about what I said here tonight. Whatever’s going on, you best watch yourselves.”

  We both say, “Yessir.”

  “And watch your speed,” he tells Tommy.

  Tommy gives him a little salute, and Bud struts back to his car.

  Tommy starts the truck, and we pull away. Bud cuts his blues, but he pulls out behind us and stays there.

  “He’s following us,” I say.

  Tommy says, “Don’t mean nothing. He’s just heading back toward town.”

  “What are we gonna do if he keeps following us?”

  Tommy thinks about that for a bit before he says, “We’ll stop at Sonic.”

  “I think they might be closed.”

  “Then we’ll stop at the Exxon and I’ll get gas or something. Shut up and let me think.”

  I shut up and we ride for a while, and I guess he’s thinking. I watch the trees go by in the dark. Behind us, the sheriff’s car turns and goes down some road.

  “The hell’s he going?” I ask.

  Tommy stares in the rearview. “Who cares? Long as he’s gone.”

  I melt back into the seat. “Jesus.”

  He shakes his head, and I notice that he’s sweating.

  I say, “So what is it? Drugs? Girls?”

  “The fuck you talking about?”

  “Frankie James sells weed and crystal at both the bars. Everybody knows that. And I know that Sweetie and Katie are turning tricks. I bought a blow job off Sweetie myself.”

  “So, what’s your point, Harten?”

  “Bud was right. That’s why you didn’t call the cops.”

  He shrugs. “My business is my business. I don’t need Taggart or Bud asking me a bunch of questions.” He looks over at me. “Don’t get the idea that changes things. It don’t change shit. You still have to get me my goddamn money back.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “We’re still heading to the preacher’s house.”

  I lean forward. “Actually . . .”

  “What?”

  We’re coming down the highway, and I point at the parking lot of the First Baptist Church, which is empty except for one minivan.

  “He’s still at work.”

  TWENTY-TWO RICHARD WEATHERFORD

  They don’t see me as they step into the sanctuary. Stopping by the back doors to take in the size of the auditorium, I hear Tommy Weller say, “Can’t remember the last time I set foot in a church. Never been in this one. Big fucker, ain’t it?”

  “Please don’t talk that way in my church,” I say.
/>
  Weller laughs. “Where you at, Preacher?”

  I’ve locked up the building except for the entrance that let them into the foyer. Most of the lights are off, just one spotlight from the balcony shining down on the microphone stand onstage, where tomorrow I’ll narrate the Passion Play. I’m on the other side of the choir loft, in the shadows beneath Cody Crawford’s cross.

  I ease my way through the darkened set: a stone wall made of plastic, and a papier-mâché boulder in front of a tomb that’s just brown felt draped over the skeleton of a family camping tent. I step gingerly so as not to disturb the handiwork of the Ladies’ Auxiliary. Penny will know if a single detail is out of place in the morning.

  I step into the light.

  “Here,” I say.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Tending to my business.”

  “Yeah?” he says, appearing at the steps of the stage with Brian Harten in tow. “Me too.”

  Brian stops by the pews.

  Weller walks up the steps of the stage. He’s carrying a baseball bat. There’s a gun on his hip.

  “Why do you have that?” I ask.

  “I think you know.”

  “You brought a gun into my church to threaten me?”

  He points the bat at me, and I can almost smell the sweat stains under the arms of his dirty pink polo shirt. “You got my money?”

  I nod without acknowledging the bat or its implied threat. “Yes,” I tell him. “You can have it back.”

  “Where is it?”

  I take it from my back pocket and hold it out. He takes it, looking at me rather than at the money.

  “How much is here?”

  “All that I was given. I haven’t touched it.”

  Over his shoulder, he asks, “How much, Harten?”

  “Nineteen grand,” Brian says. “And eight hundred.”

  Weller wedges the package of money into his back pocket and asks me, “So what the hell is this about?”

  I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Why did this dipshit steal money from me and bring it to you? How come I got to come up to the Baptist church in the middle of the night to recover what was took from me?”