by Kendric Neal
Wisniewski looked at Leidt without expression. “Where'd you get the money?” asked Liedt.
“Your mom's vajayjay. That's why it's so dusty.”
Leidt turned to Wisniewski. “Jesus…”
“That's what she said. 'Jesus, Neely, that feels good but I've got an empty hangar to fill, go get the toilet plunger…'”
Liedt jumped him.
CHAPTER 26
“Gotta say, Mr. Thomas, I've had some interesting clients, but I've never had anyone go from total anonymity to being wanted by five different Federal agencies in three days,” said Elias Cabot, as he and Neely walked out of the station together the next morning, Neely with the file box tucked under his arm.
“Glad I set a record. Maybe now you'll have a story for the next Shitty Lawyer Awards Banquet.”
“I'll get the tape, but I don't think it'll be necessary.”
“Tried to tell them.”
“They want to charge you so bad it hurts, they just can't think of what with.”
“Tell me not to worry.”
“Oh, I think you're well past that now.”
Neely got out of a cab, paid the driver with cash from the box, looked up at the POD sitting in his driveway and sighed. “Ah, Christ. Today? Does this really have to be today?”
He unlocked the door and went inside to find the place in disarray and most of the living room furniture gone. “HOPE!!!” Neely yelled, moving from room to room, looking for signs of life.
The kids' rooms were cleaned out, and so was Hope's closet. “No, no, no, NO, NO, NO…” He grabbed a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose off the bar and slumped to the ground. “I don't need this. I really don't need this.” He reached for his cell and deleted the 43 unread text messages before dialing her number. “Pick up, pick up, pick up…” He swigged from the bottle as his call went to voicemail and a shadow passed across his face. He looked up to see Joseph Wright, Stig and a passel of WNC Hellions filling his living room. “What the fuck do you want?”
Wright picked him up by the front of his shirt and stood him up. “What do you think?”
“Hit of vodka? Fresh out of mixers.”
“Your boy lost.”
“Shit happens.”
“We had a bank on that match.”
“Never risk more than you can afford to lose. First rule of investing—” Wright smashed his forehead into Neely's, silencing him. He then sucker-punched him with 3 G's of force right in the stomach. It made Neely spew the Grey Goose he'd just gotten down. Unfortunately, he spewed it up on Slider, and the guy flew into a rage that Stig had to hold back.
“Somebody's already been working on your face since we last met. Thought I'd try a new tactic,” Wright said.
“Goddamnit… that hurt.”
Wright turned to his gang. “I think I'm finally getting through to him. Trash the house.”
They didn't need to be told twice, especially Slider, who punched a fist through two layers of sheetrock as Threece shattered the wall-sized HDTV with a well-placed high kick.
“Oh, come on, man, you know what media guys cost?” Neely said.
“What are you going to do to make this whole,” said Wright.
“Buy you a new face?”
Wright laughed, about to punch him. Gup interrupted to hand him Neely's gun and box of bullets. “Found this in his briefcase.” Wright checked the cylinder, clocking the one bullet chambered.
“You know, I'm finally beginning to understand you,” Wright said. Meanwhile, Jacy and Ricky wrested the kitchen island from its moorings and threw it through the French doors to the patio, creating an explosion of glass. “You want to die.”
“Sure. Make my day.”
“You knew he was going to lose, didn't you? That's why you didn't come,” said Gup.
“I was in jail, asshole.”
“I get that excuse a lot. It's like 'the dog ate my homework' around the clubhouse. You're going to tell me the truth now,” said Wright.
“Or what? You're going to shoot me in the face? Fat chance, Village People.”
“Stig!” Wright turned back to Neely, “You don't seem to be too worried about a bullet, how bout Stig take out some of his aggressions on you?”
“All you got. Let's go.”
Stig dragged him to his feet again and punched him full in the face. Neely only smiled, so Wright nodded to him and Stig punched him again. Neely suddenly realized what this was about and smiled through the mass of blood and spit and snot. “Holy shit, he won, didn't he?” Wright's smile faded. “Chico won. That's why you're here. Freaked, aren't you? He was the underdog. You pussied out, didn't bet on him after all. Now you're just sick about it.” Wright stared at him, changing his mind about Neely. Before he could say anything, Threece and Will accidentally lit the spewing gas line and blew out the remains of the kitchen, igniting themselves as well. The others ran to pat down their smoldering jackets as the smoke alarm sounded.
“You idiots,” Stig said to them.
“Still got one in the chamber?” asked Neely.
“You betting with the devil now?” said Wright.
“Sure. No one else will gamble with me.”
“I'm not doing you any favors,” said Wright. He tossed Neely's gun to the ground. “You want to die, do it yourself.” With that, Wright motioned to the others to leave.
“U got no jams,” Neely said. They had to drag Slider away from the china cabinet which he was still destroying. Neely retrieved the Grey Goose bottle and took another slug. The kitchen's fancy fire-suppression system did its work and soon only the smoke remained.
Neely laughed as he looked around. He'd finally accomplished what he'd set out to do, the irony was too sweet. He had to be impressed at the thoroughness of the job. He drank deeply from the bottle and was picking up the gun when he heard the front door open. He pointed the weapon at the person who stepped through.
“Oh, hi, sweetie,” Neely said, lowering it as he saw that it was Hope. “Thought you were someone else.”
Hope stared in silence at the wreck of a man who once was her husband, sitting amid the wreckage of their living room, their house, their life together… “I know you're gambling again.”
Neely smiled through bloodied teeth. “Busted.”
She stood crushed, trying to hold back tears, as Jess and Cullen appeared at the door.
“Oh, hi kids,” Neely said. The house was full of smoke, which was now drifting out the front door, where a curious crowd of neighbors were gathered. Mrs. Klingman stood on their lawn, her Maltypoo on a leash, calling the authorities on her cell.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Hope said to Jess and Cullen, but they weren't going anywhere, they were transfixed by the wreckage inside their house—and the bloody, beaten figure who used to be their father. “GO WAIT IN THE CAR,” she repeated and Cullen started to tear up. It forced Jess to action—she turned Cullen and pushed him back toward the car with a quick glance back at her parents, trying to assess whether her mother was in danger or not.
“Get out, Neely,” Hope said to him. “I'm going to call the police and get help. We'll come back for what's left after you're gone.”
“That's it? That's all you got?” She was about to say something, but changed her mind and headed toward the door. “She took away the one thing that was keeping me going, Hope. At first I thought, really, this is my punishment? This is great, she gave me what I always wanted. Then I did what any addict would do with an unlimited supply…” Hope stood, listening, her back to him, her hand on the door. “I guess you don't care anymore. It's easier to walk away. 18 years… The hell with it, flush 'em.” With that he could see her shoulders heave in a sob.
She replied without turning. “Is there anything left?”
He laughed. “Anything left? We're stinking rich, honey.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“You'll get your share. We're up, babe. We're fucking up.” She turned back to the door. “HOPE! Did you ever rea
lly believe me?”
She finally turned to face him. She saw he was still holding the gun. “No.”
“Didn't think so,” he sighed. “The criminals did, the mafia did, hell, the biker gang did finally. You didn't.”
“Neely…”
“She loves me,” he said, spinning the barrel, putting it to his head and pulling the trigger.
“Stop it.”
“She loves me not.” Click. He spun it, pointed at his head and fired.
“Stop it, Neely.”
“She loves me…” Click. He spun again, pointed at his head and fired.
Hope cried at last, trying to stop, trying to finish what she started and leave her life with him behind. “Stop it. Stop it, Neely!”
“Why? I'm on a roll.” Click.
“I know it's not loaded.”
“It's not?” He finished the next spin, aimed at the front window, and fired. The wall of glass exploded, the shards of glass raining down over the carpet and front walkway. Hope screamed and ran out.
Jess tried to shield Cullen who pulled away from her as Hope got in the car, sobbing, and left quickly as they heard sirens approach in the distance. At the end of their street, they passed several police cars with lights flashing. Neely heard them as well—he tossed the gun and box of bullets in with the money and high-tailed it out the back door as the police car pulled up in front.
The officers drew their guns and fanned out as Mrs. Klingman tried to warn them of the danger and they motioned for her and the others to get back inside their homes.
Neely hopped a fence and worked his way through a shortcut blazed by the local kids through the patches of woods between houses. He worked his way through the urban jungle, bypassing streets and neighbors' yards until he came out on a slope leading down to another neighborhood. A lime-green Honda Fit drove by and slowed. Behind the wheel was a college-age girl with short, spiky red hair who pulled over to check her cell. She looked up at a knock at the window—
“Uber?” Neely asked.
“Yeah,” the girl said and unlocked the doors. Neely climbed in and sat in back, keeping his face turned away from her as he set down his box of money.
“Neely Thomas, hi.”
“Samantha. Hi. The Garden Plaza, right?”
“No, sorry, Sam, change of plan. You know where the Naccahaw Reservation is? I need a ride there, no questions asked. Shut your phone off, no distractions. Don't speed and don't freak out.”
“WHAT?! Oh my God! WHAT?!” she said, finally seeing his bruised and battered face.
“Sam, time to be cool. Everything's copacetic. Do it and I'll give you next month's rent as a bonus. Here, what is it…?” He counted hundreds out of his box. “$900? Five, six, seven, eight,” he said, dropping the bills onto the front seat beside her. “Had a lucky day at the track. Got beat up by some muggers. Everything's fine now. We cool?” Samantha wasn't sure what to say but the money had lured her. “Two hours. Totally legal. Let's get going, we're a little conspicuous. Lime green, huh?” he asked, looking around at the car. “You like Mojitos?”
“Well, yeah, actually…”
“Does it have a name?”
“Cuervo.”
“Should have guessed.”
They arrived at the entrance to the reservation and saw four sedans parked nearby. Neely immediately suspected the worst and scanned the faces until he saw a profile of Meghan Sterling. He ducked his head down quickly and said to Samantha, “Keep going, keep going…” As they passed, she spotted IDs on the sedan doors for the SEC, the IRS, the FBI and the DOJ.
“I don't think we're cool,” said Samantha.
“I guess not,” Neely said.
“What'd you do?”
“Would you believe me if I said nothing illegal?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Keep going. There's got to be a way on that doesn't lead to the casino.”
“I don't know this area at all.”
“It's okay. Take the next right. There's a stretch of homes down at the end, someone there will know.”
“Okay, I'm getting a little nervous…” Without saying anything, he dropped three more hundreds on her growing pile and she stopped complaining. They drove down a dirt road that grew rougher and rougher, passing grimy trailers that barely qualified as homes. He spotted a group of youths on a porch taking an undue interest in the lime green car bobbing and weaving through the ruts and potholes.
“This is good.” She stopped and he got out. “Thanks, Samantha. Have a Mojito for me when you get home.”
“I think I'll have two.”
“Good for you,” he said, peeling off more bills. “Take tomorrow off.”
Neely walked toward the porch carrying his box and they all silently stared, pausing their conversation long enough to see what this new development had in store for them. They were all in their late teens, sporting a mixture of Native American features and modern tattoos, piercings and rap culture trappings.
“Anybody here know a woman called Lomasi?” Neely asked. “Anyone know her? Are you guys in the tribe?” Neely asked. No one said anything. “Come on, one of you knows her.” They all looked at him, saying nothing, letting the silence unfold with menace. Neely didn't care anymore. “Okay, how about Jack Wakyza? Killed in a car accident a few weeks ago. Her boy. Hello? Anyone speak English?”
“Yeah, we speak English,” said one of them, sporting shoulder-length black hair, a pierced eyebrow and a jacket covered in racing logos.
“Could you maybe speak some English to me?”
“You the one they're looking for?” said one of the others.
“Who?”
“Feds.”
“Yeah, probably. I mean, yes.”
“What'd you do?” another chimed in.
“It's complicated.”
“What do you want with that old woman?” asked NASCAR.
“I want to ask her something.”
“Like did she put a curse on you?”
“Like yeah.”
“Maybe you pay her to take it off.”
“Maybe.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks. Can one of you take me to her? Do you know where she lives?” They looked at each other again, but no one moved. “Oh, dammit, I'm sorry, I'm slow. I thought you were just being belligerent because you're teenagers. You're actually scared.”
“They going to take you to jail?”
“If they find me, probably.”
“You'll get out again.”
“Yeah, I'm assuming.”
“Cuz that's what white people do.”
“Thanks, sorry, I just don't have time for any white guilt right now. Who is she? What do you know about her?”
“I know you got a better chance with the Feds than you got with her.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, porch monkeys, I got it, you're terrified, you're quaking in your boots. Just point then. Let's end this before you soil your Huggies. Tell me where she lives.”
“She's past the river, man. You came the wrong way.”
“Tell me the right way.” Silence. “If one of you takes me to her, fade's on me tonight. Hundred bucks, what do you say? Anybody brave enough to do that, or is this all you do now, sit around kicking rocks?”
The one with the racing jacket and long hair stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. Neely was impressed, he still had the look of an Indian warrior about him despite the teen angst and battered 10's. “I'll take you to the river. You walk from there. Hundred up front,” he said.
“You da man. Let's go.”
“Bike's in the shed.”
CHAPTER 27
They tore down a rutted road at a dangerous speed, the warrior showing no fear. He didn't wear a helmet and hadn't given one to Neely either. They sped through a forest, no longer on car tracks, but a rarely-used footpath, the motorcycle tires picking out a route made more precarious by speed. Note to Self: Neely
thought, never again accept a ride from someone with dreams of NASCAR stardom.
It was much further than Neely had realized; there were stretches of wilderness within the reservation with no signs of homes or development, though they did pass the odd piece of drilling equipment and what looked like abandoned farm buildings. Neely had never seen the reservation boundaries on a map and began to wonder how far they stretched. Suddenly, they were decelerating as the boy pulled up.
“River's down there. Go down the bank, follow it half-mile upstream, there's a log you can cross. Path on the other side goes through a grassy meadow, then climbs a triple hill. She's on top of the second peak.”
“Another hundred if you take me to her door…” Neely said, holding out a second bill.
“Can't get the bike across the bridge.”
“On foot then.”
“Bye,” the boy said, grabbing the second bill anyway and roaring off.
“Noble people…” Neely muttered. He pulled out his burner and checked his GPS, but there was no signal.
After a trudge along the ridgeline looking for a break in the impenetrable bank, he saw a giant log fallen across the river and a hint of a trail leading down to it. It was more treacherous than he was prepared for, especially wearing battered dress shoes. He stepped carefully, using the cardboard box's weight to help keep his balance. It was a fat log but mossy and slick and he almost tumbled in.