by Sam Cade
“Are you Ms. Chastang?”
“Who cares? What do you want?” She stepped out of the house and pulled the door to.
Chastang got into Jake’s space and caused him to step back down off the porch. Not a timid lady.
Jake spotted the tails of dragon tattoos on both upper arms. They peeked from under the sleeves of her dress. Hard to miss the heavy green ink. Around her right ankle he caught a glimpse of a Confederate flag tattoo. The woman also had a mouth on her.
He was in the right place.
“Ma’am, I’m Jake Montoya, FBI. I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions and then be on my way.” Jake held his badge up as he spoke.
“Well, why don’t you call for an appointment for Christ sakes,” she said. “Another time when I’m not busy.”
“Ms. Chastang, this will only take a few minutes. I’ve got another important meeting to make in half an hour.”
She didn’t have time to answer. The aluminum screen door crashed open, pushed by two heavy guys dressed just alike. They moved in front of Chastang, pulling her backwards at the same time.
“Get the fuck in the house, Linda.”
Jake knew exactly who they were. Bobby and Ricky Talton, probably fifty by now, from the mountains near Lexington, Virginia, General Robert E. Lee’s resting place. Identical twins were an unexpected finding in biker gang circles, made it hard to forget.
Both were beefy with graying long hair woven into a braid down their back. Each wore beards six inches long dangling from their chin, pulled into tight, thin ponytails bound with two skinny rubber bands two inches apart. They wore baggy farmer’s jeans over black boots, square-toed jobs with the steel reinforcement. Each wore a white tee shirt with the sleeve’s cutoff, ham hock arms hanging down, heavy with ink.
The psychology of twins raced through Jake’s brain. Wearing the exact same clothes in middle age, same distinct haircuts, identical beards. Motorcycle gang. Made him think of a Tarantino movie, wacko but dangerous. Need more research on this phenomenon, he thought.
At six-three, Jake had three inches on them. It was a different story on weight. The twins easily hit 280, each sixty pounds more than Jake. They used their bulk to back Jake up three feet. He didn’t want to be in arm’s reach of two men their size.
“Why don’t you hit the road, cop. Or maybe you got some kinda gubment warrant.”
“Fellas, I just needed a few minutes to chat with Ms. Chastang. But I’m glad you’re both here. Makes it more convenient for all of us,” said Jake, wearing a friendly smile.
Bobby spat on Jake’s Merrell’s casual like, almost like he was in a conversation about fishing. It was a heavy green glob landing on the top of his right foot. Jake took a quick glance at his shoe.
“We ain’t talking today. We ain’t talking tomorrow. So why don’t you head on down the highway.”
Jake spotted movement in his peripheral vision. It was a smaller man coming around the side of the house, moving in silence, slow with caution, listening to the conversation. Jake turned. Guy was maybe five-eight with a gaunt face and hollow eyes. He looked unhealthy with a yellowish skin tint. Hep C likely.
This runt was the deal, though. He wore colors of the Dragons on a black, sleeveless leather vest. His dark hair was buzzed into whitewalls on the sides with an inch of growth across the top, a prison cut. Four drops of tattoo tears were on his face below his right eye. Proud ink of a killer.
Billy Chastang, in the flesh. The man the Bureau had hunted for two years.
“We’re kind of sick of this horse-shit cop harassment,” said Billy. “Bobby, you and Ricky want to leave a message for those Washington motherfuckers?”
Billy slid something small out of his right front jean pocket. It was a hammerless, snub-nose .38, all black. Easy to conceal. He held it slack, next to his right leg. One of the big boys bent, slipped his hand down to his boot, never taking his eyes off Jake’s face. He rose with a bone handled Bowie knife.
Jake’s heart rate kicked up. Over five minutes, the day took a bad wrong turn. Thinking maybe he should have had somebody with him. Jake maintained his cool.
Rowdy watched it all unfold in silence.
The dog seemed to float. He glided gracefully over the rear gate of the Tahoe once he saw the man come around the house. He came down soft. Loud voices cranked his nervous system into raw anxiety. His lips quivered. As Billy inched toward Jake with the pistol in his hand, Rowdy crept to the man’s outer flank. The dog was eighteen feet away from Jake, ten feet from yellow-eyed Billy.
No sun, temps dropping. The smell of fireplace smoke drifted by. It was now 6:10. Almost dark.
The Talton boys and Billy suddenly felt the aura of the dark shadow slinking over. Rowdy stopped. Jake knew exactly what his dog was thinking—got my eye on you motherfuckers.
“Ahhh, what’s this shit? Copper brought Rin Tin Tin.” Billy snorted a laugh. “He even went to a cop store, bought him a little costume. Little Deputy Dawg.” Sneered again. “Dog’s gotta be a bitch. That thing’s on the puny side for a cop dog. Need to get him in the gym, Mr. Po-Leece-Man.”
Jake piped up. “Let’s just talk this through.” He didn’t like the direction of this scene. His heartbeat began to thunder.
The three men snickered. One of the Talton’s said, “Billy, take a pop at Lassie. See if that cardboard vest works.”
“Fuck yeah.” Billy turned his hollow eyes back to Rowdy. “Think I will.”
It happened fast. Jake took two brisk steps to his left, away from Rowdy, shielding himself behind one of the Talton brothers from Billy’s line of fire.
Jake hollered, “Billy!” followed by a shrill whistle through his teeth.
Billy caught Jake’s move with the call of his name. Took his eyes off the dog. It was a split second. And it was the biggest mistake of Billy’s life. Two seconds, that’s all the dog needed.
Rowdy bared his teeth. Showtime.
After two broad strides, Rowdy launched into a pile-drive flight toward Billy. A crazed growl pierced the air, then Rowdy’s muscular jaws latched on to Billy’s neck. Billy’s windpipe and left carotid ripped free as he spun to release the psychotic animal. A quick shot flew out of the barrel of the snub nose into the sky as he attempted to pop a slug in the dog. Billy fired a second wild shot. He clipped Rowdy in the left hindquarters, but the dog still hung tough through a 150-degree turn. At this point, not even a half circle, a heavy slab of Billy’s neck tore away from his body. Rowdy hit the ground hard six feet away, spit out the flesh, popped up and trounced back to finish his attack on Billy who was on his back. The Mali latched onto Billy’s central face, ripped savagely side to side like a hungry machine while Billy’s arms and legs floundered like he was being electrocuted. Rowdy shredded the nose and both ears right off Billy’s head leaving him unrecognizable. Blood gushed from his ravaged neck.
Rowdy left him brain dead in only moments. Deputy Fuckin’ Dog.
Bobby lunged at Jake with the knife. Ricky dashed into the house.
Jake was born quick and martial arts sharpened it. He dodged the knife, locked his right hand onto Bobby’s wrist, the knife hand, placed his left on the big man’s right elbow, twisted upwards and forward in a brisk, violent motion. Tendon’s ripped in the rotator cuff as the shoulder dislocated from the socket. Jake swung his right leg with an explosive Muay Thai side kick ramming his shin into Bobby’s left ribcage. Four ribs snapped. The big man went to his knees with his face next to the sharp edge of brick steps, said, “You motherfucker.”
Jake bent, snatched a fistful of ponytail, pulled the man’s head upward then slammed his face into the edge of the steps two times. Hard. Facial bone splintered into the brain. Blood seeped from his ears and eyes.
Jake looked up for Ricky.
The big hoss screamed before he even opened the aluminum door. “You’re dead, cocksucker.” He carried three feet of cold black death, a cut down AR-15.
Jake was still in a crouch. The cross-draw was
faster than a snake. He reached with his right hand across his abdomen to pull the Glock from under the coat. He fired a three-round burst into Ricky’s center chest as the brute crashed open the aluminum door. Ricky dropped onto the steps, rolled onto his brother face down. The assault rifle flew into the boxwoods. The mid portion of his Ricky’s back was blown apart by .45 caliber hollow points.
Jake ran over to Rowdy who was lying on his side, eyes open, low moans coming from his mouth. The dog’s face and hind parts were soaked in blood. The leg wound was visibly a gunshot. Jake wiped blood from the dog’s face with his sport coat, then looked in his mouth. Two teeth were broken, one a lower canine. A three-quarter inch laceration was on the tongue, gushing blood. Rowdy bit it in his hysteria.
Jake heard sirens. Neighbors crowded onto the scene. Some were respectful, others nudged their way right up to the bodies, shooting video on their phones, stunned at this slaughter. This happened in other people’s neighborhoods.
Three Virginia Beach cop cars swerved up simultaneously. A fire engine hung forty seconds out on their tail. Jake held his FBI shield out as they approached. The police approached with caution, flashlights out, pistols drawn. Dark now.
“FBI! Man down. Man down, officers.” Jake went on, “Need an ambulance now! Move those cars out of the way. Make room.”
An ambulance pulled up twenty seconds behind the fire pumper.
Paramedics with flashlights ran a gurney up to the Dragon with the crushed face. Guttural sounds could be heard behind the bubbling blood in his mouth.
“This guy’s alive,” said one of the paramedics. Medics began to load him as the cops attempted interrogation of Jake.
Jake pushed the officers aside, rushed to the gurney, dumped Bobby Talton to the ground. “Come on, dammit, the patient’s over here.” Jake pulled the gurney to Rowdy. He picked his dog up with the gentleness a parent gives their four-year-old after falling off their bike. A flashlight beam hit the dog. Looking closer, the cops saw the Kevlar vest. They knew. Member of the force.
Two cops ran toward their cars. “Load the dog now! Let’s go!” Rowdy went into the back of the bus, covered with a blanket. Jake climbed in at his side. Doors slammed.
Two black and whites scorched out of the neighborhood running hot. Ambulance tires screeched as they reversed, hit the brakes, spun around to follow the cops. Red lights, blue lights, sirens, horns, everything firing. Look the fuck out. Neighbors backed quickly from the street into their yards thinking they were in a movie. Other people ran out of their houses.
Nobody can resist a siren.
Twenty-five minutes later, after x-rays, Dr. Bud Smith was examining Rowdy at his emergency clinic. He reassuringly nodded at Jake. “We should be fine.”
AFTER TWENTY-FIVE MILES ON I-95, JAKE RAN INTO HARD RAIN blasting out of a summer squall. He popped on the headlights and wipers. The Grisham book was at the scene where the FBI agent warns Mitch about the devious bastards at the law firm.
Jake drove head-on into the storm.
PART ONE
7
Black Point, Alabama
Sunday, January 8, 2017
DUDE CODGER WAS METHODICAL ABOUT IT. Three-point-one percent. Slow day. Big day. Didn’t matter. Three-point-one.
Dude ran the Rusty Anchor bar in Black Point, Alabama for the last six years for Vic Stapleton, a well-to-do redneck who lived on the Gulf in Grayton Beach, Florida.
And every single workday for the last six years Dude stole exactly 3.1 percent of Vic’s gross income.
It was 12:20 a.m. on a rainy, thirty-one-degree Sunday morning. The toasty bar office was filled with the remnant scent of fried potatoes from the kitchen in the next room. Radio on low, classic rock from a Mobile station. Cash and coins covered a desktop. Dude had just finished counting Saturday’s receipts, $8174.67. He was about to insert three-point-one percent into his calculator and come up with his daily prize winnings. It had been a busy Saturday and feeling pleased he started humming along with Levon Helm as he sang, I pulled into Nazareth, was feelin’ about half past dead.
A blast of frigid moist air blasted into the room as the back door crashed open. “Gimme the money, motherfucker.” It was spoken in Spanish accented English. Sounded like Cheech. Or Chong. Or that skinny, unhinged comedian, John Leguizamo. Somebody aiming for badass, but it came out funny.
Dude jumped in his seat, saw who it was, then laughed.
“Dammit, Squeaky, you crazy fucker, cut that shit out.”
“Pony up, homes. I gotta get to bed. I’m playing guitar at church this morning then preaching the Spanish Mass at five.” He stood before Dude wearing a down vest over a black tee. An intricate three-inch tall sterling silver crucifix hung around his neck, resting on his chest.
Squeaky Perez ran a three-crew landscaping outfit in Black Point and two taco trucks at the beach. He was also the main supplier for Dude’s sideline dope business that he ran out of the Anchor.
Dude counted out $740 bucks, placed it in a white envelope and extended his hand to Squeaky.
“Join us at church later, man. Come for the music. Leave with eternal life.”
“Fuuuuuck no, jack. I’ll be sleeping.”
8
Grayton Beach, Florida
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
VIC STAPLETON PEERED THROUGH BLUE-TINTED COSTAS, moistened his right thumb on the sweat from a chilled Miller Lite can, and started counting. His thumb flicked through a fat wad of hundreds like a Vegas card counter.
A cold, bright day was closing out on the Gulf coast with sun rays warming the leathery skin of his neck. There was no place on earth he’d rather be than lounging on the flying bridge of his seventy-foot Hatteras. He was up to $4800 in fuel intake when his phone jangled in the ragged pocket of a pair of old Duck Heads.
He snagged the phone, saw the caller. Eileen. Ahhh, hell. Answered anyway. “Eileen. Hope you’re calling to congratulate me on a fine start to the new business year.”
“Somebody’s pissing in your Cheerio’s, Victor. So no, I’m not.” The voice as bland as the woman looked in person. Vic didn’t need this crap during his pre-fish meditation. His eyes cut back to the expanse of Choctawhatchee Bay. Fishing in the morning with Ernest, Cale, Smoke, and Wiley. Life was going great today.
“What the hell, Eileen? You know I fish tomorrow and Tuesdays are about getting my mind and spirit right. I told you I only want to talk about business on Thursdays from 9:00 to 9:15. You know that.”
ON A WHIM THREE YEARS AGO, VIC APPROACHED EILEEN SMISSON to handle some accounting work for his bar operation. She handled the books for her husband Ernie’s cash-only mechanic shop as well as bookkeeping for the Fundamental Pentecostal Redeemer Church in Fort Walton Beach, so he figured she was legit.
Vic Stapleton was a country boy mini mogul who owned fifty-four bush-league, white trash roadhouses spread across the upper Gulf coast, Crystal River, Florida to Padre Island, Texas. Mostly outskirts locations. Selling alcohol didn’t require glamour.
A revelation came to Vic on a hot August afternoon when Eileen’s husband finished the oil change on his F-150 under a shady oak behind their Santa Rosa Beach double-wide. Eileen’s hands were faster than a magician as she snatched Vic’s cash and eased it down into one of her white socks.
“Say, Eileen, any chance you could handle the numbers work on my restaurant chain? I don’t have time for all that QuickBooks crap.”
“Restaurants?” She scoffed. “Devil’s workshops are more like it. Whiskey, whoring, and Lynyrd Skynyrd begging some mister to gimme three steps for the door.”
Vic’s face creased into a frown and he swiveled his head around several rotations. “Wellllll, now hold it...we do serve food...so, I think it’s more of one’s perspective on that.”
Vic watched her as she thought about it. Even wondered if the church let her shave her legs. Hair braided down her back, not a smidge of makeup, long sleeves, woman as plain as a ream of copy paper.
“Sure, Vic.
Cash under the table and I can make your numbers dance to any tune you want to play.”
Vic hired her on the spot.
“IT AIN’T PRETTY, VIC,” SAID EILEEN. “It’s the Rusty Anchor location in Black Point, Alabama. The snake behind this is shrewd, very shrewd.”
He took a deep breath then a slug from the cold beer, but the words still came out as a squeak. “Okay, how much?”
“Ninety. Well, easily ninety, maybe more. Victor, do you know if any of your employees go to church? You need staff with a strong moral code. Or, it could be you. Yes, sir, could be you, the sins of the father as the profiteer of this whoring conglomerate.”
“Look Eileen, I’ve been going to Holy Life Celebration Church in the old Piggly Wiggly in Destin every Sunday for a couple of years. Worship band sounds better than Crosby, Stills, and Nash. You know that. And business has never been better.”
“Ponder this, Vic. I’ve visited Holy Life Celebration. That there could be a whole different issue. The Lord may not think a room darker than a movie theater in a building the size of an airplane hangar with no stained glass and lots of rock and roll music appropriate praise for our Lord and Savior. Not to mention your minister preaching in short pants, flip flops, and a Hurley tee shirt with digital screens behind him big enough for replays in Cowboys’ Stadium. No, sir, capital H, He don’t. So why don’t we do this, Victor. While you explore the blackness of your own heart, I want you to run by and pick up thirty-six months of P and L’s and show them to Andie. Life’s short and hell is closer than you think.”
9
VIC’S PICKUP SKIDDED IN THE SAND as he reached his beach house in the pocket-sized gulf-front village known as Grayton Beach. The place was pure tranquility, mostly a state of mind. He tossed his Braves cap on the dashboard, grabbed a fat manila envelope full of numbers shit... columns, rows, depreciation, amortization, noncurrent assets, debt to equity. Vic had glanced at it. Thought he was looking at calculus.