by S. A. Cosby
Ike pulled the hose over to the wood chipper. They’d aimed it at the manure pile as they dropped pieces of the kid into the inlet chute. Then Ike had gotten on the bulldozer and turned the manure over again and again. By the time the sun was coming up the kid was just fertilizer.
He dropped the hose and went back inside the shop and grabbed the bleach. He went back to the chipper and poured bleach in the inlet chute, then grabbed the hose and flushed water through the chipper and out the discharge chute. A chipper was a practical way to chop up a body, but it was a terrible way to get rid of evidence. Despite rinsing it out with Clorox, it was still covered in DNA that wasn’t visible to the naked eye. Bits of bone and hair were probably imbedded in the gears and teeth inside the machine. The only thing he could do now was take it to the dump and toss it onto the ever-growing pile of rusted-out refrigerators, washing machines, and lawn mowers at the rear of the landfill. A thousand-dollar piece of equipment reduced to scrap. He couldn’t even take it to the salvage yard and get some of his money back.
Ike finished with his cleanup job and rolled the chipper around to the side of the building. He’d get one of his guys to help him load it onto his truck later. He’d give them some story about it conking out on him and then casually never mention it again. He was a little disconcerted how easily he was able to slip back into Riot’s habit of lying without compunction. But only a little.
He went back inside the shop and was making his way to the front door to unlock it when Jazzy came in thirty minutes early. Ike stopped and put his hands on his hips. He’d given her a key over a year ago but she’d never arrived early enough to use it.
“This must be the end-times, because you’re actually here early,” he said. Jazzy rolled her eyes.
“Marcus’s car broke down so I had to take him to work at the window plant. It’s right up the road from here. I ain’t see no point in going home after I dropped him off, so here I am. I thought you’d be happy I was here all early and shit,” Jazzy said.
“I am, I’m just recovering from the shock,” Ike said. Jazzy rolled her eyes again and headed for her desk. Ike was about to follow her when he heard a thunderous roar come from the road. He stopped, turned, and looked out the door. A line of motorcycles, about five or six deep, were flying past the shop. They sounded like a pride of lions on the hunt.
EIGHTEEN
Buddy Lee parked his truck and slid out onto his unsteady legs. He closed the door and stumbled toward his trailer. He’d left the cemetery and headed to the nearest bar. A quiet little neighborhood spot called McCallan’s. He started with beer, then moved to whiskey and finished with bourbon.
Sleep. He needed to sleep this off before he called Ike to talk about their next move. He stepped on the first cinder block but immediately lost his footing. He tumbled to the right, hit his trailer, then fell to the ground, landing on his ass. Buddy Lee rolled over onto his knees. As he tried to push himself up, all the air in his lungs evaporated. In its place a wad of phlegm the size of a lemon filled his chest. Buddy Lee’s eyes bulged from their sockets as he tried to get enough breath in his lungs to cough.
Strong hands pounded against his back. The sharp strikes forced the ball of phlegm out of his throat. It spilled across the ground like a squashed toad. Buddy Lee felt himself being pulled to his feet.
“You alright?”
Buddy Lee nodded to his savior. A slim narrow-hipped woman with sharp rough-hewn features held his left arm in an ironlike grip. Her skin shined with a deep burnished tan born of hours under the high hot sun. Two long black pigtails interspersed with snow-white strands trailed down over her chest and fell almost to her waist.
“You a terrible liar, Buddy Lee,” she said.
“Just lost my footing for a minute, Margo. No need to get ya panties in a bunch,” Buddy Lee said. Margo let him go and wiped her hands on her jeans. Her white tank top had dark splotches covering it like it was a piece of modern art.
“I stopped wearing panties when Herb died. That was my second husband. He was a good man but, Lord, he was so uptight he squeaked when he walked,” Margo said.
“Husband number three didn’t mind you going commando?” Buddy Lee asked with a wink.
“Colton? Lord no. That man would’ve banged the crack of dawn if it would’ve stood still long enough. I wasn’t shocked he died on top of a woman, I just always thought it would be me.” Margo said. Buddy Lee chuckled. The chuckle became a laugh. The laugh became a cough. Margo patted him on the back. It was a strangely intimate gesture, and Buddy Lee found it comforted him more than he cared to admit. Finally, his cough subsided.
“You know, we’ve been neighbors for five years now. When I first came around here you had a Sam Elliott thing going on. Now you look like Sam Elliott’s granddad.”
“Gee thanks, Margo. Maybe I should go get a dog so you can kick it,” Buddy Lee said. Margo shook her head a few times.
“That’s not an insult. It’s an observation. You drink too much and you don’t eat enough. You look like you get an hour of sleep every couple of weeks. You need to get that cough checked out. Those are just facts. My first, he had a cough he wouldn’t check out, then he checked out,” Margo said. Buddy Lee wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The world wasn’t spinning but it was doing a little soft shoe. The bourbon and the beer were having a bar fight in his guts, and his stomach was threatening to kick both of them out. The last thing he needed to do was throw up in front of his well-meaning but nosy neighbor. It would probably be more red than brown, and that would just invite a lot of questions he wasn’t in any kind of mood to answer.
“I told ya, I’m fine, Margo. Just been a long week. Hell, it’s been a long year,” Buddy Lee said. Margo’s face softened just a bit.
“I know. I’m sorry about your boy. I’ve buried four husbands, but I don’t know what I’d do if I had to see one of my girls go in the ground. It should be against the law for parents to see that shit,” she said. Buddy Lee felt his eyes moisten without any warning.
“Yeah. Yeah it should. Well, I’m gonna go on inside now and go in a coma,” Buddy Lee said.
“Alright. But you need anything, just holler. I’m out back in the garden.”
“Didn’t Artie tell you to dig that garden up?” Buddy Lee asked with a wink. Margo’s lips curled up at the corners.
“Yeah, and I told him if I had to dig up my tomato garden I might be so depressed I might let it slip I’d seen him sneak into that Carson girl’s trailer while his wife was at work at the nursing home.”
Buddy Lee whistled.
“You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”
“Hey, he shouldn’t be dipping his wick in that girl’s wax. He ought to be glad I caught him instead of his wife or that Carson girl’s boyfriend. I just can’t for the life of me figure how she can stand the smell of him.”
Buddy Lee laughed.
“Me neither. Well, like I said, I’m gonna get some sleep.” Buddy Lee stepped up onto the cinder block and grabbed his doorknob.
“I’m making spaghetti tonight. Gonna use my big beef tomatoes for the sauce. You more than welcome to come over and get a plate,” Margo said.
“You not gonna poison me like you did your husbands, are you?” Buddy Lee asked. Margo rolled her eyes.
“You’re an ass, you know that?”
“That seems to have been the general consensus most of my life,” Buddy Lee said. Margo grunted.
“The sauce probably be ready around seven. I know you miss your boy but you gotta eat. He wouldn’t want you go to seed,” Margo said. She strolled back across the driveway and disappeared around her trailer. Buddy Lee stared after her for a few moments. Margo wasn’t a bad-looking woman. He pegged her at fifty or fifty-five. A few years older than him but she was in way better shape. She worked down at the Lowe’s as a lawn-and-garden specialist. For most of the five years they had been neighbors she’d had what she termed a “friend with some benefits,” who sometimes spent the night. B
uddy Lee had seen him through his kitchen window a few times. A big ol’ hoss with a crew cut who drove an old Jeep Wagoneer with a faded MITT ROMNEY FOR PRESIDENT bumper sticker. Crew Cut hadn’t been around much these past few months. He wondered if that had anything to do with Margo inviting him over for dinner?
“Get your head out of your ass. She was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all you gonna get nowadays,” Buddy Lee murmured. He went inside his trailer and kicked off his boots before peeling off his shirt. The AC sounded like someone had tossed it in a washing machine. It clanged and wheezed asthmatically, but at least it seemed to be actually working today. The cool air made gooseflesh pop up all across his back and chest.
Buddy Lee’s eyes had just closed as he sprawled across his couch, when someone began pounding on his door. He groaned as he sat up and his feet hit the floor.
“Damn it, Margo, I said I was fine,” he mumbled as he opened the door.
Det. LaPlata was standing on his bottom cinder block. He was alone except for his shield and his gun.
“Mr. Jenkins, we need to talk,” he said. He didn’t ask if he could come in, but instead just stepped up into the trailer. Buddy Lee took a step back. LaPlata was giving him the long stare. Buddy Lee knew what that meant.
He had fucked up and LaPlata wasn’t fucking around.
NINETEEN
Ike went over the work orders for the day while Jazzy clicked and clacked away at her computer, paying invoices and emailing clients their monthly bills. His crew would start trickling in within the hour. Soon the sounds of trucks loading up with mulch and planting soil and manure and fertilizer would be rumbling through the warehouse.
Ike tried not to think about the manure. Or more specifically, what was in the manure.
He heard the bell on the front door ring and then he heard Jazzy’s sunny greeting. A few seconds later she popped her head around the corner of his cubicle.
“Ike, these guys asking for you,” she said. Her eyes were wide and her breath was coming in ragged little bursts. Ike stood up from his desk.
“What’s wrong?”
Jazzy spoke in a low voice.
“’Bout five bikers out here asking about you,” she said. Ike sat up straight. It sounded like a bad joke. Five bikers walk into a landscaping office.… Ike rubbed his forehead. Last night he and Buddy Lee had run into a couple of boys that had that peckerwood look all over them. He’d busted one of them boys in the head, and he and Buddy Lee had killed the other. Now some bikers come strolling into his shop. The kid had said he had been hired to look for Tangerine. What if the bikers had been the ones that hired him? Ike had told Buddy Lee they weren’t detectives, but you didn’t have to be Easy Rawlins to put this together.
We should’ve took the other boy, too, Ike thought.
“Tell them I’ll be out in a minute,” he said.
“I can just tell ’em you ain’t here,” Jazzy said.
“No, that’s okay. Let’s see what they want,” Ike said. He walked around his cubicle and headed for the lobby. As he was on his way he grabbed a machete off the wall.
Five men in leather vests and various degrees of hirsuteness were standing in the lobby. A couple of them were reading the advertisements on the walls. Two more were standing near the door. A big blond man with a wicked scar on his cheek that cut through his beard was leaning against the soda machine with his heavily tattooed arms crossed.
Ike placed the machete on the counter.
“Can I help you?” Ike asked.
The blond biker pushed himself off the soda machine. He glanced at the machete, then smiled at Ike. His teeth were crooked and he was missing matching incisors.
“Well, that depends. We looking for a friend of ours, and I think you might know where he is,” the tall blond said. The pale scar on his face wound its way down to his chin like an EKG pattern. The vest he wore had a patch over the heart that said PRESIDENT. The other four men came up and stood next to him. The one to his left had a patch that said SERGEANT AT ARMS. He reached for the small of his back and pulled out a metal pipe. There was electrical tape around one end. The other three men pulled out their own homemade weapons. One had a chain with a padlock on the end. The other two had sawed-off pool cues with bright-green and red handles respectively. The one with the president patch leaned forward and put his hands on the counter. He was within an arm’s length of the machete.
“I don’t think you have any friends here,” Ike said. He stared into the man’s light-blue eyes. Behind him Jazzy continued to tap away at her computer.
Ike usually liked the way the shop smelled first thing in the morning. It was strange but it gave him a sense of tranquility. The scent of gasoline, oil, topsoil, even the goddamn manure. It all smelled of an honest day’s work. Of hours spent beautifying someone’s yard who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire but had to pay you because they wouldn’t or couldn’t be bothered to put down their own mulch or fertilize their own flower gardens. Their disdain was inconsequential to Ike. Those countless shovelfuls of dirt had paid for his house. Those untold rolls of sod had put food on his table. Those endless wheelbarrows full of mulch had put Isiah through college. As long as the checks cleared, they could think whatever they wanted.
But there was another scent that floated under the pungent odor of refined petroleum and pulverized lime. A bitter metallic fragrance that reminded you of pennies and old batteries. Did that smell register with the bikers? He’d cleaned up for hours, but it seemed like that coppery aroma had soaked into the walls.
“What? You telling me we ain’t friends?” the blond man said. Ike curled his fingers around the handle of the machete. He let his eyes linger on the blond man for a long time.
“Not even a little bit,” he said finally. The man nodded as if that was the answer he expected. He straightened and turned to his sergeant at arms.
“Fuck this shit up.”
As Dome raised his pipe to smash the complimentary candy dish on the counter, Ike’s left hand shot out like a tiger’s paw. He grabbed Grayson by his right arm. He snatched him forward and at the same time pulled downward until his head bounced against the countertop. Dome froze with his pipe raised above his head as Ike placed the edge of the machete against the side of Grayson’s neck. The big man started to struggle until Ike pressed the edge of the machete into the soft flesh below his ear.
“Back the fuck up or I’ll cut off his goddamn head,” Ike said. Dome didn’t move. The pipe was vibrating like a tuning fork. The other three bikers were similarly paralyzed.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Get this motherfucker!” Grayson said. Ike sucked his teeth. He felt like the room was rapidly shrinking by the foot, then by inches. His heart was fluttering in his chest. Once upon a time, he had found himself in a situation much like this one. It had not gone well for him. Not well at all.
Ike bit down on the inside of his bottom lip and gripped the handle of the machete tighter. He couldn’t let his face betray one ounce of the fear that was slowly working its way up his spine. You let an animal know you’re afraid of it and it loses all respect for you. If it doesn’t respect you, it has no qualms about ripping your belly open and showing you what your stomach looks like. Men might walk on two legs but they were the most vicious animals of all. Especially when they thought they had a numbers advantage. If these biker boys caught one whiff of weakness, they’d be on him like a pack of wild dogs.
Dome swallowed hard. He took a halting step toward Grayson and Ike.
Ike pulled the blade backward across the blond man’s neck. A needle-thin ribbon of blood appeared as if by magic. It slipped over Grayson’s throat like quicksilver and spilled onto the counter.
“This thing sharp enough to shave with. I’ll cut his throat to the bone before you get around that corner. Believe that,” Ike said.
“Jesus Christ, Dome, rush this nigger. It’s five against one for fuck’s sake!” Grayson said. It came out somewhat muffled, but Ike heard t
he word “nigger” loud and clear.
Grayson tried to push himself up off the counter again. Ike applied more pressure to the blade. It bit deeper into his thick neck. He stopped struggling.
“Them is some good odds, boy,” Dome said. The shock of seeing Grayson thoroughly overwhelmed was wearing off. Ike watched as the other three bikers seemed to shake off their own malaise and began to advance as well. He’d have to take out the president first, then move on to the one called Dome. Ike caught his gaze as he moved toward the end of the counter. If you had blinked you would have missed it, but for a split second Dome hesitated. There was murder in Ike’s eyes, as pure and as potent as corn liquor.
“How about five against a .38? What do you think about them odds?” Jazzy said. Ike chanced a glance to his left and saw his receptionist pointing a small chrome-plated pistol at the biker holding the pipe. He stopped in his tracks.
“You ain’t gonna shoot nobody. A pretty little thing like you ain’t got it—” Dome started to say, but then Jazzy fired into the ceiling and he closed his mouth with an audible plop. The echo from the shot reverberated through the building and bounced off the exposed girders above their heads.
Ike tried to hire a lot of ex-cons for his crews. He knew the value of a second chance, and he also knew how hard it was to get a job when your employment history had ten-to-fifteen-year gaps. But for once he was glad one of his employees wasn’t a convicted felon. Jazzy was the only person in the entire building who could legally own a gun. Ike gestured to Jazzy with his head.