by Steph Post
The room was almost like a separate, private club set directly on top of the actual Stingrays below. Only this place was brighter and the girls were less busted. A three-stool bar in the corner was backed by rows of top shelf liquor and magnum bottles of champagne. Red velour couches and plush armchairs were grouped together in clusters and occupied by women in spandex micro-dresses and men glistening with hair gel and bristling with gold chains and oversized watches. Everyone seemed to be drinking fuchsia martinis out of sugar-rimmed glasses. There wasn’t a plastic cup in sight.
A man sitting on a white leather tuxedo couch against the far wall looked up when they entered. He slowly scanned Judah up and down and then jerked his head. Judah picked his way around the room, ignoring the stares and whispers, and stood before the man. He put his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes.
“Weaver?”
The man was sitting between two women, both of whom looked uncomfortable and bored, and as he leaned back he put his arm around both. He gave each a squeeze on their bronzed, bare shoulders and then shoved at them to move. They stood up and clunked away awkwardly in their platform stilettos. The man flashed his teeth at Judah.
“You wanted to see me?”
Judah nodded.
“Yes.”
Weaver rubbed his palms together and then gestured to the black vinyl armchair on the other side of the glass coffee table. Judah slowly eased himself into it, trying to take everything in as quickly as he could: the lines of cocaine on the table, the heavy gold cross hanging low around Weaver’s neck, his maroon tracksuit and spotless white Jordans. Weaver glanced up at Alvin and Gary, standing behind Judah, but dismissed them with a disgusted look. Judah decided to just hurry up and get it over with.
“Do you know who I am?”
Weaver scooped up a handful of Skittles from a giant glass bowl in the middle of the table. He tossed them all into his mouth at once and chewed as he spoke.
“I have no idea who you are.”
Judah wasn’t sure if had wanted Weaver to know him or not, but the man’s lack of interest in him was unsettling. Judah leaned forward.
“My name is Judah Cannon.”
Weaver swallowed.
“And?”
“And I’ve got your guy. Nash.”
Weaver grabbed another handful of candy, but only rolled the pieces around in his palm.
“I don’t think I know a Nash.”
“Out of Palatka. Putnam County. He’s sure been throwing your name around lately.”
Weaver let the Skittles trickle through his fingers back into the bowl, but didn’t say anything. Judah pushed ahead, not knowing what else to do.
“He’s been saying that you want to use my connections. My network up in Bradford County. For your own operation.”
Weaver licked his lips. His tongue was rainbow colored.
“Now, I think I’m gonna need you to draw me a map or something. That place ain’t ringing a bell. That over there in redneck, screw your cousin, get her pregnant and smoke some meth land?”
Judah grit his teeth.
“A little ways north and west of here, yeah.”
Weaver leaned back and stretched his arms out along the length of the couch.
“What’d you say your name was again?”
“Cannon. Judah. My father was Sherwood.”
Weaver narrowed his eyes at Judah.
“Was, huh?”
Judah was tired of the game already. He dipped his chin slightly and met Weaver’s glittering eyes.
“Was.”
“How’d he die?”
“Got tired of living, I guess.”
They stared at one another for a hard moment and then Weaver laughed obscenely. He smacked the leather couch cushion beside him.
“Happens to us all, I suppose. Anyway, you got something else? Something I care about?”
Judah kept his tone even.
“You care about my business?”
“Nope.”
“You care about Nash?”
Weaver shook his head.
“Nada.”
Judah stood up.
“Then I guess we’re done.”
Weaver stayed on the couch.
“I guess we are, my friend. Now get the hell out of my club and don’t come back, you understand? Your trailer trash vibe is seriously cramping my style.”
“No worries there.”
Judah turned and pushed past Gary. He could hear Weaver cackling behind him, all the way to the door.
RAMEY COULDN’T believe her eyes. She was horrified and disgusted, yes, but mostly she was in shock. Only a few feet away from her lay the awkwardly twisted body of Nash, still tied to the chair as she had left him hours before, but now the chair was turned over on its side and Nash’s throat had been ripped open. His dull eyes were staring straight ahead. There was dark, coagulated blood everywhere.
Ramey backed out of the garden shed, leaving the light on and the door open. She stood in the middle of the yard, the sun slipping away into twilight, the sky arching in a deep purple bruise above her, and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do now. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she looked around at the empty backyard, the line of trees, the shed before her, the house behind her. House, not a home. She tried to steady her breathing as she climbed the back steps and walked, stunned, into the living room. The TV was on with the sound turned down low. Wheel of Fortune. The contestant had just asked to buy a vowel.
“Oh my God, Benji. You didn’t.”
Benji wouldn’t look at her. He was slumped deep into a corner of the couch, his leg thrust up on the coffee table in front of him. He kept his eyes on the spinning wheel on the television.
“He had it coming.”
Ramey put her head in her hands and then rubbed her face with her palms. This was not happening. Judah gone. His brother now a cold-blooded killer. A dead body in the shed. She pushed her hair back out of her face and leaned against the wall, trying to think. Benji, slurring his words, didn’t give her much time.
“And a car just pulled up in front of the house.”
“What?”
Ramey jumped away from the wall and glanced out the front living room window. Benji craned his neck to see from the couch.
“And I’m pretty sure we don’t know the guy getting out of it.”
She turned to Benji.
“Shut up. Just stay here. Don’t say anything, don’t even move. I’ll handle it.”
“That’s reassuring.”
She crossed to the front door, forcing herself to appear calm, willing herself to breathe naturally. Ramey rested her hand on the doorknob, but the moment her fingers touched the brass it hit her. She had to tell Judah. She had to tell Judah before he talked to Weaver. Before he tried to bargain with Nash’s life. Before he made a deal that he would have to go back on. Panic rose up in her like a wave as she heard footfalls on the front steps. There was no time. She yanked open the door and stepped out onto the rag welcome mat. Ramey quickly shut the door behind her and stood in front of it, barring it with her body. Ramey didn’t even try to smile, but did manage to keep her voice a few notes below hysteria.
“Can I help you?”
The man in the suit stopped at the edge of the porch. He had a sheen of sweat across his forehead and he pulled a yellow silk handkerchief out of his pocket and blotted his face before speaking to her. Even that gesture was typical. Ramey had known the minute she had seen the man step out of his car that he was some sort of cop. He folded the handkerchief, tucked it away and took out his badge. He flashed it briefly before her eyes.
“Ma’am, my name is Special Agent Grant. I’m with ATF out of Atlanta and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if I come in?”
Ramey crossed her arms.
“Yes.”
Agent Grant seemed confused. He almost took a step back.
“Yes, you mind?”
“Yes. I mind. Out here is just fine.”
Agent Grant didn’t seem too ruffled, though, once he realized that she wasn’t going to ask him in for a glass of sweet tea. He pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped a few pages.
“All right. So just to be clear, I’m going to assume that you’re Ramey Barrow.”
“I am.”
“And it’s your name on the lease for this residence, but you don’t live here alone, do you?”
Ramey raised her eyebrows.
“That one of your questions?”
He dropped the hand holding the notebook to his side and looked up at her.
“I just want to confirm that I’m in the right place. You live here with Judah Cannon, correct? But it’s your name on the paperwork.”
Ramey smirked, keeping her eyes on the agent’s.
“You know, even all the way out here in Bradford County, not all the women are barefoot and pregnant. Who’d have thought we were modern, huh?”
The agent glanced down at his notebook. Throwing that tone into her voice was risky, but she was beginning to sense that she had an edge on him. She knew that she made him nervous, and Ramey wasn’t afraid to exploit that.
“Just makes Judah Cannon a little hard to track down, that’s all.”
Ramey put her hands on her lower back and looked away from him, down the length of the porch.
“Is there an actual question here?”
“Why? Are you in a rush, or something?”
Ramey gave him a saccharine smile.
“Well, I may not be confined to the kitchen, but I do have supper to keep an eye on.”
“Fine. Is Judah Cannon here?”
“He isn’t.”
Agent Grant sighed.
“Would you like to tell me where he is, then? I already went by Cannon Salvage and there didn’t appear to be anyone there.”
Ramey shrugged.
“You must have just missed him. He’s probably out running errands. And now, Mr. Grant, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
The agent slapped the notebook closed, but stopped her just as she had her hand on the door handle.
“Did Sherwood Cannon know Preacher Tulah?”
Ramey slowly turned back to him.
“Preacher Tulah?”
Agent Grant nodded.
“You know, the woman whose church burned down back in May? Who your boyfriend’s father tried to kill?”
Ramey crossed her arms again.
“Yeah, I know how to change the channel to the news. And more than that, Judah and I already went through enough questioning when it happened to last a lifetime. But if you need to write it down for your own record, no, we didn’t know anything about it. We weren’t even in town.”
She hated the glint that came into Agent Grant’s eye. He knew something. Or thought he knew something.
“So, you’re telling me that Sherwood’s own son, just released from prison, didn’t know what was going on?”
Ramey settled her eyes on his.
“Judah ain’t his father.”
The agent looked away from her stony glare and finally slid the notebook into his pocket. He glanced back at her and nodded curtly.
“Fair enough.”
Ramey tried to smile again. She had to get him to leave. How much time had she already wasted with this guy?
“Anything else? Or can I catch my Stovetop before it burns?”
The agent opened his wallet and took out a business card. He passed it to her.
“When you see Judah next, you tell him to give me a call, okay?”
He started down the stairs, but called over his shoulder at her.
“Save me another trip. Because, trust me, I will keep coming back until I talk to Judah Cannon. You can put money on that.”
Ramey held the flimsy card between her fingers and watched the agent cross the dirt driveway. His threat hung heavily in the air between them, but its significance was the furthest thing from Ramey’s mind. She waited for him to get in his car and circle around. As soon as he disappeared around the bend in the driveway, she dashed inside and locked the door behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back against the door, breathing hard. Benji grunted out a laugh from the living room.
“Well. I take it he wasn’t selling Girl Scout Cookies.”
Her eyes snapped open. She didn’t have time for Special Agent Grant. She didn’t have time for Benji. Ramey thought about her purse, thought about her phone inside it and how quickly she could get to it. She bolted for the kitchen. She had to call Judah. She had to tell him that Nash was dead.
Slim Jim put his hands on his hips and glowered at the motel room. He stood in the narrow space between the bed and bureau and slowly turned around in a circle. It looked as if a hooker’s underwear drawer had exploded in the middle of a frat house kitchen. Lacy panties in Day-Glo colors were strewn about like confetti; matching bras hung from the bathroom door handle and dangled off the edge of the nightstand. More articles of clothing were balled up on the floor—his sweat-stained T-shirts, her mini-skirts, his tube socks, her bikini tops—and created an obstacle course from one end of the stuffy room to the other. Takeout pizza boxes, crumpled burger bags, half-crushed beer cans, empty liquor bottles, cellophane wrappers and cardboard chicken joint boxes, with greasy thigh pieces still lingering underneath the trash of paper napkins and straw wrappers, covered every other available surface, from the top of the TV to the wobbly table jammed in next to the rattling AC unit. Slim Jim stepped over a pair of strappy sandals and lifted up the top of a Styrofoam ice chest on the floor, wedged between the double bed and the wall, to inspect its contents. One lonely, empty, Milwaukie’s Best can on its side, drowning in three inches of stagnate water. Two cigarette butts. A German cockroach belly up. He squashed the lid back on and pulled his dirt-streaked shirt over his head. Slim Jim wadded it up and hurled it into the corner before yelling as loud as he could.
“This place is a goddamn pigsty!”
The only reply was a thump back from the occupants on the floor above him. Slim Jim sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed and stared at the dark TV screen in front of him. Was this better than being back at home, looking over his shoulder every second of every day? Slim Jim wasn’t so sure. He cared about Shelia, he did, though he hadn’t exactly gotten around to telling her so. She was good to look at, even better in the sack, and when she kept her yapping opinions to herself, she could be pretty fun to party with. And he owed her. He knew that. Despite the barbarity of living in a shoebox that always smelled like a girl, and not necessarily in a good way, it was better than worrying about the cops. Or the Cannons. Or that goddamn bitch Preacher Tulah. Slim Jim flopped back and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Maybe there were still a few cans of Schlitz in that case he’d left beside the bathtub. He was pushing himself up on his elbows when the phone rang. Not the prepaid cell in his pocket, but the telephone bolted down to the nightstand. Slim Jim stared at it like it was a snake. He cautiously lifted the receiver, listened and then groaned.
“Yes, I’ll accept the charges.”
Slim Jim scooted back against the headboard while the connection went through. The phone crackled and Legs’s voice came through over the din of the county jail common room.
“Slim, it’s Legs, man. How’s life?”
Slim Jim could have st
rangled him.
“Damnit, Legs. I told you guys not to call me unless it was an emergency.”
“Sorry, man. I know, I know.”
Slim Jim rubbed his forehead with the side of his hand and grimaced.
“Tiny or Ratface had better be bleeding out on the shower room floor right now for you to be calling me.”
There was a loud clanging in the background while Slim Jim waited for a response. Legs sounded put out.
“Well, fine. Jesus Christ, man, if you’re gonna be like that.”
Slim Jim sighed.
“No, it’s all right. Just tell me what you want.”
“That Shelia girl’s got you all spun up, huh?”
“Don’t I know it.”
There was another pause and then Legs dropped his voice.
“Slim, I just thought you would want to know. Some guy came around this morning and questioned Ratface.”
Slim Jim frowned.
“Some guy? What guy?”
“Said he was ATF. Federal. Looking into the fire.”
“So what? Over the past three months, how many times have they pulled you guys out to question you? Come on.”
“No, man, I think this was different. Ratface was really freaked out.”
Slim Jim shook his head.
“Ratface is a pimple-assed squid who should’ve stayed in his garage and polished his bar-hopper. He never should’ve been with the Scorpions to begin with.”
There was a grinding noise on the other end of the line and Slim Jim could hear Legs’s muffled curses to someone. He waited, thinking about how much the call was costing him.
“Hey, sorry, Slim. These guys are assholes in here.”
“You think? Speed it up, Legs.”
“Oh yeah, right, okay. Just listen. Do what you want with it, but listen. Ratface said the ATF dude was acting like he was interested in the fire, but really, he was asking questions about how we knew the Cannons…”