by N. C. Reed
It did puzzle him why she affected the 'dumb blonde' routine. As he remembered it, she was never dumb, stereotypes aside. She might not have been top of their class, but she had been a good student to the best of his knowledge. That memory made him wonder again how she came to be a waitress here at run down Lorrie's when she had seemed destined for much greater things in life.
He shrugged if off as none of his business. He was the last person qualified to second guess the life choices of someone else, especially considering some of his own.
Amy returned with his water and he shook his head when she asked if he needed anything else. She moved away to wait on the others, occasionally glancing his way and smiling once. Maybe she really did remember him, he decided. Not that it mattered.
As he sat waiting for his food, Clay thought about his situation. To say he was under some time pressure was probably the greatest understatement he'd ever heard. He had some time, but no idea how much. It might be a week, a month, or even a year, but there was no way to know until the day arrived and he had no idea how much warning he would have when the time came.
There was so much to do that it almost boggled the mind. At least one concern might have been answered in his short conversation with Amy. His mother had missed him and spoke of him often, so he would probably be mostly welcome when he got home.
His actions, in hindsight, had been pretty thoughtless where his family were concerned. Tired of being the 'baby', Clay couldn't wait to get away from his family and the pressure of their influence. He hadn't been as smart as his sister nor as skilled as his brother and while neither parent had ever voiced any displeasure in him they had clearly favored the other two, at least in his mind. Looking back he wasn't sure he'd been right about that, but it was far, far too late to do anything about that or the course he had taken because of it.
The important thing, at least in his mind, was no matter what kind of son he had been the last ten years or so, he had come home when they needed him. They didn't even know yet that they did need him, but he did. At least he thought they would, soon. Thought it so strongly that he had pretty much ruined his life in order to get here to them and be able to help them through the hard times that were coming.
He sighed, exasperated by the way things had gone. He should be grateful for the warning such as it was, but he couldn't help but wonder how much better things would have been if he hadn't known.
“Here ya go!” Amy's bubbly declaration shook him out of his reverie and he looked up to see her standing there with his food and drink. He smiled automatically as she sat the plate and glass down before him. He had to admit that Jake just might have had something here. The food looked and smelled delicious.
“Need anything else?” Amy asked automatically.
“No, I think I'm set, thanks,” Clay told her, remembering to smile. He had to remind himself of most social skills these days, being long out of practice.
“Okay, then,” Amy bubbled once more and moved away. Clay shook his head slightly and took a bite of his burger. Jake had been right. The food really was still great.
The distant yet familiar tastes brought back long buried memories of a time that he often remembered poorly. Yet those times hadn't all been bad. In truth, he had had it pretty good overall. His family wasn't wealthy but they had been well off, successful ranchers with a hint of political clout left over from when his grandfather had been a political power in the area. That had given him a far better life growing up than many had, and he wondered if he had been grateful enough for that. Sometimes he didn't think he had been.
He was hungrier than he'd thought and found himself wolfing down the burger and fries much quicker than he'd planned. The milkshake tasted suspiciously like it was homemade, something that was hard to find anymore. He relished every drop. It was difficult to get something like this where he had been.
Finished with his meal, Clay took the time to look around. He took in each patron, but knew none of them. He had apparently exhausted the odds of finding people he knew as soon as he neared home. Another mental shrug accompanied that thought. He hadn't come home to look up old friends or classmates anyway.
He took his ticket, leaving a good tip on the table, and headed for the register. Before he could reach it the bell over the door chimed again. Clay glanced that way and observed three black men entering. That was something you wouldn't have seen much of when he was a teen. Not that the people in his home area were racist because for the most part they weren't. It was just that this was a small rural area that had never had a large minority population. The few black families in the area were all like Clay's people; farmers and stock-men.
But this was a truck-stop, sited along a busy Interstate highway. Seeing strangers was a way of life along such a major supply route. He did notice a faint stirring among some of the other customers but assumed it was people just looking to see who had entered. That was a natural thing to do for most people.
The three men moved to the register instead of taking a seat and Clay hung back to allow them to move in front. It was an automatic move, one learned over the years to prevent people being behind him. He didn't even think about it anymore, it was just part of him. He didn't even realize he was doing it.
“Yo!” the leader yelled suddenly, looking behind the counter. Clay frowned slightly at the rude behavior, but. . .it wasn't his business. As that thought hit him, a harried looking man wearing a cook's apron came out, wiping his hands on the apron.
“Help you?” the man asked warily.
“I'm here to get yo' payment,” the surly man informed the 'cook'. “You late, honky,” the man added. Clay felt a frown threaten to cross his features but suppressed it automatically.
“Payment?” the cook frowned. “For what?”
“For doin' bi'ness on our turf, yo,” the speaker of the trio replied. “You wanna be in bi'ness 'round here anymo', you pay.”
“You're nuts,” the cook laughed. “I don't know who you are, or who you think you are, but I've been in business here for years and I'll keep being in business. Now unless you want something, to eat, gather your friends and get the hell out of my place.” The man had lost any semblance of friendliness and Clay didn't blame him.
“Listen cracker,” the man leaned across the counter. “I don' tol' you, you owe me. Long as you pay, you fine. You don't pay, you got problems. Get it? Now I figure a place like this, you oughta do pretty well. I'm thinking we 'll take twen'y off da top, for starters. Cash.” As he spoke the two other men moved apart slightly, trying to intimidate the cook. Clay eased away from them, tensing slightly.
Not. My. Business, he reminded himself again. He hadn't come home to get involved in some kind of shakedown scheme. He had far more important things to take care of. Far more.
“I ain't paying' you shit, you little ghetto rat,” the cook snarled, large hands curling into fists. “Now get out. And don't come back, while I'm thinking' on it.”
Before anyone else could say anything, Amy walked right into the middle of things not having realized what was happening. Clay didn't know where she had been or what she had been doing. As soon as she appeared all three thugs straightened perceptibly.
“Well, well, well,” the speaker almost sang the words, licking his lips. “You got a fine ass woman workin' here, don'cha old man? Be a shame if you didn't co-operate and somethin' happen to 'er, wouldn't it now?”
Okay. That may make it my business, Clay decided just as one of the non-speaking members of the trio reached out to grab Amy's arm.
“Doug, what the hell?” Amy asked, jerking her arm away from the grabber and taking two steps back.
“Come 'ere you bitch,” the man growled and lunged for her.
He never made it.
Clay's fist slammed into Amy's aggressor so hard that the sound of the breaking mandible bone was audible through the entire restaurant. That same fist had been hardened over the years by long months of combat, training, and work. There was no give lef
t in the fist, or the man it belonged to.
The other two stared for less than a second before moving to help their friend, the looks on their faces showing surprise that anyone would dare oppose them. They were accustomed to being able to intimidate others with threats and physical violence and most people backed down in the face of such odds. They were accustomed to 'victims' who didn't fight back or stand up for themselves.
Such people were hard to find in Calhoun. And the man they were engaging had absolutely no restraint once the battle was joined. He wasn't a police officer or a constable or even just a good citizen. Over the years Clay Sanders had even ceased to be just a soldier. What he had become instead was a hardened killer who never fought in any other way but to win and do it as quickly and brutally as possible.
The speaker allowed his other thug to go first, hanging back slightly as the larger man moved against Clay. Assuming that the 'cracker' had gotten a lucky shot, the second 'enforcer' was going to use simple brute force against the smaller man. At least that was his intention.
Clay stood waiting, feet slightly apart as the man bore down on him. Telegraphing his move, the larger man drew back and swung a roundhouse that would have put Clay in the hospital had it landed. At the last possible second Clay simply stepped out of the way, and the larger man's impetus carried him past his victim, off balance. Clay dropped to one knee and punched through his attacker's right knee, hearing the satisfying sound of bone and cartilage crunching as he wrecked the man's knee beyond repair. Surgery and therapy would help him walk again in a year or so, but he would always have a permanent limp and often need a cane to support himself.
He hit the floor screaming in pain and trying to hold his ruined joint in his hands, thinking that might ease the pain. It wouldn't.
The speaker saw Clay on the floor and decided that was his opening. A switchblade opened in his hand, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee as he stepped forward to deal with the 'cracker'.
Clay saw the knife coming. Somewhere in his mind a switch threw, and his mindset moved from 'disable' to 'dispatch'. The thug had chosen to elevate the situation. Clay's reaction was completely automatic, honed by years of dangerous living.
The mouthpiece of the group fondly imagined himself as a dangerous man. He stepped into range, his right arm sweeping up and around with the blade in a ripping motion, intending to slice Clay right along the belt line as the he got to his feet. It was a move that had worked numerous times for leader over the years and he was certain that this time would be no different.
He was wrong.
Clay rose fluidly from his crouch, stepping inside the arc of the knife and turning his front to that side as he did so. Grasping the man's arm, Clay twisted slightly, slamming his upper arm into the attacker's shoulder joint. The joint gave with a sickening crack and the mouthpiece let go with a scream similar to his minion still writhing on the floor.
Taking the hand which still held the knife in his own, Clay twisted again, this time in the opposite direction, forcing the arm down and under. Before Mouthpiece realized what was happening, Clay's motion forced the hand, knife still trapped inside it, back and down.
The head thug's eyes grew wide as he felt the blade pierce his abdomen below the sternum and be driven up beneath the bone into the cavity containing his vital organs. Unlike in the movies where the now mortally wounded attacker would start in surprise at his intended victim before falling over, Clay instantly released the knife wielder and stepped back into a ready position. A move that was as automatic to him as breathing.
Knife still protruding from his torso, the attacker fell to the floor in a heap, blood flowing from the wound into the floor. Clay turned his attention to the other two on the floor, one still holding his knee and screaming in pain, the other out cold.
Taking two steps to the screamer, Clay rammed the heel of his boot into the man's forehead, knocking him unconscious and bringing an end to the screaming. Satisfied that the threat was passed, he looked up to see if Amy was injured.
“Are you all right?” he was asking before his eyes ever fell on her.
“I. . .you. . .how...” Amy tried unsuccessfully to put a sentence together. Doug the cook came from behind the counter, placing a protective arm in front of Amy. Clay frowned at the motion. Did the man think he was a threat to her?
“Are you all right?” Clay asked again, his voice calm despite the action only seconds passed. He wasn't even breathing hard.
“Fuh. . .Fine! I'm fine,” Amy stammered, huddling behind 'Doug'. “What did. . .who were...”
“I don't know,” Clay shook his head, looking at Doug. “Know them?” he asked the cook. Jake was still looking at Clay as if trying to decide it he wasn't a bigger threat than the three thugs on the floor.
“Heard of them,” he settled for saying, nodding as he spoke. “Just assumed it was bullshit. Guess not,” he added, eyes finally leaving Clay to examine the mess in his diner. “Amy, can you call 911? I think we definitely need the law out here, and an ambulance.”
“Better tell them to send the M.E., too,” Clay remarked, nodding toward the knife wielder. “He won't make it.”
The cook nodded absently at that, having already come to the same conclusion. “Yeah, better tell 'em that, too,” he instructed. He moved to speak to his other customers, trying to calm the crowd, leaving Clay alone. He looked at the three downed thugs and realized that any hope of slipping in unnoticed was pretty much shot at this point.
“Well. Shit.”
CHAPTER TWO
Clay sat outside on his duffel bag, listening to the sound of sirens getting closer. Elbows on his knees, he cupped his chin in his hand and thought about how this day had turned, and how fast it had happened.
“If I had just grabbed that burger to go, none of this would have happened,” he sighed.
“What the hell?” Jake asked, walking over to Clay and squatting down. “What happened?”
Clay briefly went over the events inside, carefully keeping details to a minimum, all too aware that he was going to face a lot of questions.
“Glad you was there, man,” Jake slapped him on the shoulder, once more causing Clay to mentally check his skeleton. “That bunch has been at that shit for a while, man,” Jake spat on the ground. “Ol' Pepper, he ain't done a thing about it, either. Lots of folks think he must be getting something for it. Know what I mean?”
“You mean Pepper is still sheriff?” Clay asked, surprised. Beldon Pepper had to be a hundred years old by now.
“Yep,” Jake nodded. “Just won reelection last year. Ninth four-year term in a row. And I ain't talked to a single person that voted for him, neither,” he added darkly.
“Great,” Clay sighed. “That's all I need.”
“Hey, you ain't done nothing wrong here,” Jake was shaking his head. “Just let Dougie tell them what happened first. I'm sure he's happy your were there. And I bet Amy was glad, too.” 'Dougie' was obviously a reference to the cook/owner, a man Clay did not know. He didn't remember him from when he'd been here as a kid, but that didn't mean anything really.
“Couldn't tell it by looking,” Clay snorted. “Both of them looked at me like I was worse than the gang bangers. Made me feel dirty,” he added morosely.
“Hey man, not everybody sees that kind of thing regular,” Jake's voice lowered. “Give 'em a break, bro. Violence ain't so common around here that everyone is used to it. Know what I mean?”
“I hear ya,” Clay nodded as a patrol car skidded into the parking lot, siren still blaring. An ambulance followed closely behind, along with another sheriff's car that was running lights but no siren. The lead car screeched to a halt before the diner, a young patrolman exiting with gun in hand.
“Freeze!” he shouted to no one in particular.
“Is this guy for real?” Clay asked Jake, who shrugged. Neither offered to move.
“Relax, kid,” the officer from the second car ordered, having pulled in more sedately and gotten out witho
ut fuss. “Remember, the fight's over.”
“All I heard was one dead,” Deputy 'Kid' replied, his gun still out.
“Put it away, Gerald,” the older man ordered. Older was relevant because that 'older' deputy looked like he was about Clay's age.
“Y’all gonna shoot us, Greg?” Jake asked, mirth in his voice.
“Wasn't planning on it Jake,” the older deputy replied, grinning. “Who's your buddy?” he indicated Clay with a nod.
“Greg Holloway?” Clay asked, looking at Jake for confirmation.
“That's right,” Holloway nodded. “And you are?”
“You seriously don't remember me?” Clay looked at him. “Even after I help you paint Mary Burgess' name on the Jordan water tower?”
“Clay?” Holloway's face looked a bit lost. “Clay Sanders?”
“Well, at least he recalls my name,” Clay snorted as he looked at Jake. “And here I was expecting a for-real police man,” he told Holloway. The deputy looked at him for a stunned moment and then threw his head back laughing.
“I will be damned!” he walked forward to where Clay was getting to his feet and hugged him briefly. “Man, it's got to be ten years at least!”
“Right on top of it anyway,” Clay nodded.
“Deputy Holloway?” Deputy 'Kid' interrupted and Clay noted the young man still had his gun drawn.
“Right, right,” Holloway waved. “I imagine you had something to do with this?” he turned back to Clay.
“I think I'm gonna wait until I got a lawyer, Greg,” Clay said carefully. “Just in case.”
“Don't blame you,” Holloway nodded. “Just have a seat again and let us see what's doing, okay?”
“Got it. I may walk over to Jake's if that's okay? Just to stay out of the way.”
“That 'll be fine,” Holloway nodded. “I 'll see you once I talk to Doug.” He disappeared inside, 'Kid' following him.
“Man, that kid is intense ain't he?” Clay said to Jake as he picked up his bag.