Walk In the Fire

by Steph Post

  “I just held a gun on a man while he ate a PowerBar. Tied up. In my garden shed.”

  Benji picked up a bottle and popped the plastic top. He peered inside.

  “Judah’s a prince.”

  Ramey tried to blow a lock of hair out of her eyes and finally used her forearm to brush it away. She looked around for a dishtowel, but resorted to wiping her wet hands on her jeans. The .45 was digging into her back and she yanked it out, tossing it on the counter next to the toaster. She stared at it for a moment and then looked up at Benji in confusion.

  “What?”

  Benji replaced the bottle and picked another one out of the lineup.

  “Leaving us here to deal with that murderer out there. While he’s off with the good old boys, playing gangster at the beach. Just wait until Nash’s gotta piss.”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  Ramey sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. She raked her fingers back through her hair.

  “I am not cut out for this shit.”

  Benji shook a Vicodin into his palm and threw it hard against the back of his throat. He swallowed a few times and jutted his chin toward the backyard.

  “That man out there, the one you just so kindly gave lunch to, killed my friend.”

  “I know.”

  Benji banged his fist down on the table and three of the pill bottles toppled over.

  “My friend! Not Judah’s.”

  “Benji…”

  “And Judah was just sitting there last night, trying to be a badass. Acting like he really cared about Lesser.”

  Ramey pushed out her chair and stood up. She’d had enough of Benji’s muttering, half-coherent rants to last a lifetime.

  “I’m not listening.”

  Benji righted the pill bottles and put them back in line.

  “Well, you should.”

  He looked up at her with a strange fire behind his glassy eyes.

  “Somebody should. Judah may talk a big game about family, but he needs to start acting like we matter. The Cannons do shit together. We make decisions together. You, me and Judah. That’s the way it’s gotta be.”

  Ramey opened the refrigerator and stared aimlessly at the shelves. She didn’t know what she was looking for.

  “I’m not a Cannon.”

  “Might as well be.”

  Ramey slammed the refrigerator door closed. She was over it. So, so over it all.

  “And you were never really involved with family business anyway.”

  “Neither was Judah. And yet look how far we’ve come.”

  She couldn’t take it anymore. Ramey snatched up her keys from the dish on the counter.

  “I’ve got to run up to the garage for a few hours. Think you can manage Nash?”

  “Me?”

  Benji shrugged.

  “I ain’t going out there. He’s gonna have to be all by his lonesome. I got a packed afternoon of Judge Judy, Oprah and Dr. Phil.”

  Ramey thought about it a moment, but finally just shook her head. She had to get out of there.

  “Well, he’s tied up pretty good. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

  Benji waved over his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. The TV’s right next to the window. I’ll keep an eye out. If I see him running toward the woods, I’ll call you.”

  Ramey frowned as Benji reached for another bottle.

  “Fine. And quit taking all those pills. You don’t need them anyway. God knows what that cocktail is doing to your insides. And your brain.”

  Benji twisted off the plastic cap.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ramey stared hard at the back of Benji’s head as she watched him throw back a Xanax. He started mumbling to himself as he edged out of his seat and reached for his crutches. Judah, right before he left, had asked her to take care of Nash until he got back from Daytona. Ramey rolled her eyes and headed for the door. Compared to Benji, Nash was a piece of cake

  CLIVE SAT up straight. Then he slouched down in the chair, stretching his legs out. He put his hands behind his head and tried to affect a bored expression. No, that wouldn’t work with this guy. He sat up straight again and smoothed down the front of his suit. He turned so that he was facing slightly away from the door and rested his forearm on the edge of the table. Professional. Yet, approachable. Confident. Clive glanced up at the controlled circuit video camera mounted in the corner of the interview room. He grit his teeth to suppress his embarrassment, but then realized that most likely no one was watching him. He was only ATF, after all.

  Clive had made it a point not to mention Sister Tulah while at the county jail, and though he still didn’t think he’d be invited to a barbeque anytime soon, the correctional officers hadn’t given him the same hassle he’d received at the sheriff’s office the day before. He’d kept quiet about the preacher, but talked up the Scorpions, whose apprehension was a tremendous source of pride. He’d good naturedly taken the jibes about federals not being the only ones who could handle unruly outlaws, but he’d been purposeful about soliciting opinions on the shootout and fire at the church. Everyone he asked thought the case was cut and dried: the Scorpions were the culprits, they had been caught and there wasn’t anything else to do but pat themselves on the back and order an extra dozen frosted eclairs.

  The door in front of Clive swung open and he jumped up, startled, forgetting his rehearsed pose. This was the first time Clive had ever interviewed a suspect on his own and he wanted to be sure that he did it right. He stood behind the table as an officer with droopy eyelids and a handlebar mustache led Jerry Brown, Jr. into the narrow interview room. The officer loosely shook the man by the shoulder and sighed heavily.

  “Cuffs on or off?”

  Clive looked the inmate up and down. He was muscular, sure, and sporting more than a fair share of badly inked tattoos on his stringy forearms, but he still came in at five foot five and maybe one hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. Clive shook his head.

  “I think we’ll be okay.”

  The officer fumbled with the man’s handcuffs. He gave the man a little shove toward the chair across the table from Clive.

  “He cause any problems, you just holler. There’s bound to be somebody out here can step in and do something. When you’re done, just bang on the door. Somebody should be around to let you out.”

  Clive nodded and sat down.

  “Thank you.”

  The officer gave a limp shrug and closed the door behind him as he left. The tattooed man eyed Clive with a look somewhere between amusement and disgust and then flung himself into the chair. He rested his forearms on the edge of the table and rubbed his bare wrists.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Mr. Brown, my name is Special Agent Clive Grant. I’m with ATF out of Atlanta.”

  “Mr. Brown?”

  Clive took a deep breath.

  “You go by Ratface, yes? Would you prefer it if I called you that?”

  Ratface scratched his recently shaved head and snorted.

  “I’d prefer if you’d tell me what the hell you want.”

  Clive narrowed his eyes at Ratface. The man sitting in front of him did indeed have a rodent-like appearance. His nose was long, but bumpy on the bridge as if it’d been broken one too many times and never properly set. He had dark eyes that were too close together and ears that stuck out awkwardly from the sides of his head. Clive didn’t think there was too much going on upstairs, either, so he decided to try a different tactic. Clive leaned back in his chair and crossed his leg over his knee. He unbuttoned his jacket.

  “What are you, kid, like, nineteen?”

  Ratface scowled at him. When he spoke, Clive could see yellow teeth flashing behind his thin, crusty lips.

  “Twenty-two. And what the hell is ATF? I already spoke to so many of you pigs that it’s starting to get lame-o. Can’t you write shit down so you can remember it? Huh? Or they ain’t teach you how to write in cop school? That it?”

  Cl
ive kept his smile to himself; it was obvious he was just dealing with an underdeveloped high school bully. This was going to be easy.

  “ATF means I’m federal. I’m just looking into the fire, though. I don’t care about the charges against you one way or another.”

  Ratface scratched his head again and then sniffed his fingers.

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s the truth. I have no interest in you or what you did. Though it is pretty weak, I’d have to say, that you’re taking all the blame. I’ve looked at the charge sheet. You’re looking at murder one for Sherwood Cannon…”

  Ratface smacked the table.

  “That’s a load of crap. They can’t pin that on me. No way. Not when I ain’t never even laid eyes on him.”

  Clive calmly continued.

  “And yet, your buddies in here with you are both only looking at felony murder. A piece of advice for you: they’re probably going to throw you under the bus. And then there’s the missing Scorpions member.”

  Ratface shrugged, but Clive caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Clive tilted his head.

  “Don’t you? The Scorpions VP? Goes by the name Slim Jim. Man, where do you get these names from?”

  “Why, you want one?”

  Clive looked off to the side.

  “Too bad you don’t know where he’s at. Info like that could probably put you in the judge’s good graces come sentencing time.”

  Ratface stubbornly shook his head.

  “Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Clive glanced back at Ratface.

  “Of course, I could be wrong. The cops don’t seem to be looking for him too hard, so maybe they’re not all that interested. And why would they be when they’ve got you to pin everything on?”

  Ratface nonchalantly slung one arm over the back of his chair, but Clive could tell he’d struck a nerve.

  “Oh, come on. Like I ain’t heard that same spiel every time one of you assholes sits down with me. Trying to pit us against one another, blah, blah. Like you ain’t know how it works with MCs. You ain’t that stupid.”

  Clive leaned forward and smiled.

  “And yet, you’re not even a full member of the Scorpions, are you? And with your president dead, half your crew dead, the club dead for that matter, you’ll never be one, will you? All your lifelong goals, flushed down the drain. Such a shame. You probably had such potential.”

  Ratface whistled, a little too loudly.

  “Jesus, here you go again. You know, I heard all this shit before, too. You guys are like a broken record. Can’t you even think of nothing different to say? Blah, blah, blah.”

  Clive figured he’d gone through the routine enough now to catch Ratface off guard. He didn’t even allow for a pause.

  “So, who’s Brother Felton?”

  He watched Ratface’s eyes.

  “Who?”

  Clive was pretty sure Ratface was genuinely confused.

  “Brother Felton? Sister Tulah’s nephew?”

  Ratface tilted his head.

  “I think I saw him on the TV when that preacher bitch was doing interviews. Real window licker, right? Like he’s got the brains of a squirrel, maybe. Or like a bug or something. Something stupid like that.”

  “So, who is he?”

  Ratface gave him a blank stare.

  “He’s the guy on TV. Looks like a bug. Didn’t we just go over that?”

  Clive rubbed his temple; he was starting to get a headache.

  “You’ve never spoken to him before?”

  Ratface sat back, insulted.

  “Not before. Not ever. I look like I would hang out with someone like Brother Felton? I didn’t even know he existed until those news interviews started popping up with that one-eyed bible thumper acting all woe-is-me like, all boo-hoo my poor church and Hallelujah, and praise the Lord crap. Like ain’t no one ever heard that routine before.”

  Ratface suddenly looked around the empty room.

  “Don’t I get a cigarette or nothing? For wasting my time in here with you?”

  Clive ignored the request. He leaned forward, watching Ratface closely.

  “How do you know Sister Tulah, then?”

  “I ain’t know Sister Tulah.”

  But Clive had seen the twitch in Ratface’s cheek.

  “Not at all? You’d never even heard of her before you tried to blow her church to high heaven? Come on, everyone I’ve spoken to in Kentsville knows Sister Tulah.”

  Ratface crossed his arms.

  “Well, not me.”

  “But you were meeting Sherwood Cannon at her church, correct?”

  Ratface groaned.

  “How many times I gotta say this?”

  Clive shrugged.

  “I guess one more.”

  Ratface looked like he could spit on Clive.

  “Listen, I ain’t lied about this shit, not once from the start. Jack was meeting up with that turtle dick Cannon about a business deal.”

  He rolled his eyes at Clive.

  “A legitimate business deal, asshole. Something about cars. I ain’t know ’cause I’m just a prospect, remember? I clean out the shitter and make baloney sandwiches. I was just going along for the ride.”

  “And why did you meet up at Sister Tulah’s church, of all places?”

  “Jack said it was Sherwood Cannon’s idea. So you’d have to ask him. But, oh wait, that’s right, last I heard, he turned up extra crispy.”

  Ratface seemed to think about this for a moment.

  “And no, I didn’t kill Sherwood. Quit trying to trick me into saying I did. I ain’t that dumb. Jesus.”

  Clive stood up.

  “I never said you did.”

  Ratface scowled up at him.

  “So, what, you ain’t got no more questions? That’s it?”

  Clive circled around Ratface and pounded on the door.

  “That’s it.”

  Ratface sat staring straight ahead, probably trying to work it all. The door clicked, but before it opened, Clive turned around.

  “Oh, and, Ratface.”

  Ratface twisted around in his seat.

  “What?”

  “If I were you, I’d use the next twenty years in prison to brush up on my vocabulary. You sound like a goddamn moron.”

  Clive opened the door and smiled at the listless officer as they traded places.

  “He’s all yours.”

  JUDAH STOOD in the empty parking lot and squinted up at the sign. It said Stingrays all right, in blue and yellow letters, and the Y was in the shape of a stingray. A smiling, cartoon stingray with googly eyes. There were fish tanks stacked behind the windows and a buy-one-get-one hermit crab sign taped to the glass front door. Judah put his hands in his pockets and waited for Gary and Alvin. They came up and stood on either side of him, silent for a moment as they took it all in, and eventually Gary cocked his head.

  “Looks like a place where you buy fish.”

  Judah nodded.

  “Yep.”

  “Like, Finding Nemo fish.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Alvin, confused, narrowed his eyes at both of them.

  “Nemo? What the hell’s a Nemo?”

  Judah squeezed his eyes shut. Alvin had refused to be seen in Gary’s purple van, recently airbrushed with a mystical scene involving a wizard, a dragon and a topless warrior princess, and had instead kept Judah company in the truck while carrying on an excruciating, one-sided conversation about protein shakes, protein bars and protein powders the whole way down. Alvin wasn’t much of a talker, but once he got going it didn’t matter whether his audience was listening or not. The drive from Silas to Daytona Beach had only taken two hours, but they’d spent just about as long cruising up and down Atlantic Avenue, dodging giggling jaywalkers in string bikinis and muscle heads on crotch rocket motorcycles. Finally, they’d paid five dollars each
to park and walked into the closest establishment: Eddie’s Ink Spot. Eddie was busy tattooing a bright blue dolphin around the bellybutton of a girl wearing enough body glitter to hold her own New Year’s Eve party, but he’d told them where they could find Stingrays. Judah supposed the asshole hadn’t exactly been lying.

  Gary put his hands on his hips.

  “Nemo? You know, Nemo, Dory. The sharks. The stoner turtles. Don’t you watch movies?”

  Alvin glanced warily at Judah for confirmation.

  “Turtles can get stoned? I thought I’d read somewhere that reptiles can’t.”

  Judah smacked his forehead with his palm and walked toward the front door.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The inside of the store was mostly empty. Aside from the burbling aquariums piled up against the windows, each containing only two or three skinny neon fish darting around, there wasn’t much else. A rack against the wall held packets of fish food and empty plastic hermit crab houses with brightly colored lids. A cardboard box in the corner was filled with plastic plants and chipped treasure chests and castles. Half Price had been scrawled on the box with a magic marker. The cement floor was dotted with blue plastic kiddie pools, some filled with water, some with sand. Judah walked over to the nearest one and looked down. Three sickly-looking goldfish were huddled against the rim.

  A door on the back wall suddenly swung open and a woman came charging out, brandishing a newspaper in one hand. She had a potbelly stretching against her Bike Week T-shirt and heavy, dishwater-blond bangs that hung down almost to her eyelashes. With her round face and quick, jerky movements, Judah thought she resembled nothing so much as a bedraggled Shit-Zhou straight from the pound. She glanced briefly at Judah, but headed for the checkout counter.

  “Don’t worry, Oswald. I found it!”

  Judah looked around the store. Aside from himself and Alvin and Gary, both tapping at the fish in the aquariums behind him, the place was deserted. The woman thumbed open the newspaper and spread it across the counter. She began to read loudly in a nasally voice.

  “Thursday, August ninth. Think about taking some time to do something relaxing. Go outside, enjoy nature or have a fun dinner with friends. Keep your eyes open, because someone special may be headed your way today.”