by S. A. Cosby
“Just go, man. Please, just go,” Ike said.
Deputy Hogge stood and adjusted his uniform.
“If you change your mind, you know how to reach us. And if you don’t change your mind, you might wanna get ready for another funeral,” Deputy Hogge said.
* * *
Buddy Lee could feel eyes on him. It made the hairs on his arms stand at attention. He opened his own eyes and saw Ike standing at the foot of his bed.
“What the fuck happened?” Ike said. Buddy Lee scratched at his chin, then flinched. The wound on his cheek made his whole face tender.
“Your neighbor called and told Mya the house was on fire. She was dead set on going over there. When we got there the Breed was waiting for us. House wasn’t even on fire then. They did that while we trying to get away. They came at us on the bikes, then a son of bitch driving a Bronco ran into us from the side. Ike, they took Arianna. They snatched that little girl right up. They took Mya’s phone, too. Said they’d be in touch. They wanna trade Tangerine for Arianna,” Buddy Lee said.
“No, they don’t. They want us to bring Tangerine to them so they can kill us all,” Ike said.
“Did she tell you anything about this guy?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike shook his head.
“Nope. She still can’t believe he the one doing all this. She even showed me a text message from him. That fucker talks slick as fish grease. She’s hooked,” Ike said.
“I don’t suppose she had his name on the text, did she?” Buddy Lee asked.
“She got him saved in her phone as ‘W.’ I don’t know if that’s the first letter of his first name or the first letter of his last name or what,” Ike said. He grabbed a chair that had been placed against the wall and sat down next to Buddy Lee’s bed.
“What did they say about Mya?” Buddy Lee asked.
“She got a lot going on. She in surgery right now.”
“Goddamn it. Goddamn it to hell,” Buddy Lee said. Ike heard voices in various degrees of distress drift up and down the hallway outside of Buddy Lee’s room. They joined the beeps and whistles of numerous monitors and machines to create an ambient mechanical soundtrack to Ike’s and Buddy Lee’s thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Ike,” Buddy Lee said. Ike didn’t say anything.
“I shouldn’t have let her go. I should have stopped her, but she wanted to save what she could. I should have gone over there by myself. I should have done anything but let her go out that door,” Buddy Lee said.
“Yeah, you should have. And we should have left it alone. Let the cops handle it, whatever that ended up looking like. But we didn’t and now here we are,” Ike said.
“We gotta get her back, Ike. Whatever it takes, we gotta get her back,” Buddy Lee said.
“I’m not giving them Tangerine. And I’m not going to let them hurt Arianna. They killed our boys. They killed Tangerine’s mama. They tried to kill my wife. They burned down my fucking house. I’m not letting them take one more goddamn thing,” Ike said.
“I wish I had never got you into this,” Buddy Lee whispered. Ike scooted his chair up closer to Buddy Lee’s bed.
“You didn’t twist my arm,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee swallowed hard. “What if I did, though?”
Ike cocked his head to the side. “What are you talking about?”
Buddy Lee put his hand over his face. He fingers brushed against the stitches on his cheek. The blood-pressure monitor began to beep erratically.
“Would you have gotten on with this if that tombstone hadn’t gotten smashed?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike leaned forward. His eyes narrowed to slits. Buddy Lee saw the gears in his head locking in place.
“You?” Ike said. Buddy Lee could barely hear the single syllable.
“You wasn’t gonna be down for it, and I couldn’t do it by myself. I’d asked my brother Chet and he blew me off. Look, it made me sick. I swear it made me sick to my stomach, but I knew you wouldn’t help unless…” Buddy Lee said. Ike was up and out of the chair in a matter of seconds. His powerful hands locked around Buddy Lee’s neck and lifted him up out of the bed, ripping his IV line out of the port on the back of his hand. The blood pressure monitor fell over like a rotted tree.
“YOU! Arianna might be dead. Mya is at death’s door. Tangerine’s mama is dead! All because of you! You did this!” Ike said. Spittle flew from his lips and rained down on Buddy Lee’s face.
“We … have … to … finish … it … for … the … boys,” Buddy Lee croaked. Each word cost him precious gulps of air as Ike throttled the life out of him. Buddy Lee could feel the bones in his neck being ground to powder. Ike bared his teeth. He let Buddy Lee fall back in the bed.
“You motherfucker. You guilted me into doing this, you piece of shit,” Ike said.
“I know. It’s all my fault. But we’re in it now,” Buddy Lee said.
“For a minute I thought you wasn’t so bad. I trusted you. But it’s just like I said: you wanted the scary-ass Black dude to do all the hard work for you,” Ike said.
“I wanted the only man in the world who knew what I was going through to help me make it right,” Buddy Lee said, rubbing his neck.
“Guess neither one of us is a good judge of character,” Ike said. He headed for the door.
“Ike—”
“Don’t say a goddamn thing. Not one word. I need to go and see if my wife made it out of surgery. If she did, I have to figure out how to tell her her grandbaby is gone. Then I gotta figure out how to get that baby back without turning over Tangerine. I gotta do all this by myself because your ass went and cracked our son’s tombstone, you stupid fucker,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee watched as Ike stalked out of his room.
Buddy Lee coughed. The act caused his ears to pop. He’d been alone before—that was nothing new. Nights spent out in his car or truck after tying one on so hard he knew he couldn’t drive. Days after being released from the graybar hotel, hitching his way back home because he had no one waiting for him on the other side. Long evenings sitting in his trailer staring at flickering electric shadows on the idiot box as he swallowed beer after beer trying to forget the tender kisses of his first love or the laughter of his only son. Buddy Lee closed his eyes.
This felt different. This felt permanent.
* * *
It was an hour later when his phone rang. Not his cell phone but the phone in the room. Buddy Lee stretched his arm over the railing and grabbed the handset.
“Hello?”
“Buddy,” Christine said.
“What do you want?” Buddy Lee asked.
“I was calling to check on you. I saw the news,” Christine said.
“Red Hill made the news? That’s a first,” Buddy Lee said.
“It’s not every day kidnappers take a little girl and burn down her grandparents’ house. Are you okay?” Christine said.
“We’re her grandparents, too, Christine,” Buddy Lee snapped.
“I know that, okay? This is all so much after what happened to Derek. I don’t want anything to happen to her. I don’t want anything to happen to anyone,” Christine said. Her sadness was palatable. It made Buddy Lee wince.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry. Like you said, this is a lot,” Buddy Lee said.
“Do you think this has anything to do with what you told me the other day?” Christine asked. Buddy Lee didn’t answer.
“Okay. I’m going to ask you again: How are you?” Christine said.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Care about me. It’s easier when we hate each other,” Buddy Lee said.
“I never hated you, Buddy Lee. You got on every one of my nerves, but I never hated you,” Christine said.
“Gerald don’t mind you yapping with your ex-husband? Or is he listening in on the line?” Buddy Lee said.
“Ha. Gerald Winthrop Culpepper doesn’t have time to stalk my calls. He’s too busy working on his campaign,” Christine said.
Buddy Lee sat straight up in
his bed. A nurse came in the room but he waved her away.
“Say what now?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Gerald is gearing up to run for governor. I told you that the other day. His daddy been pushing for this since he lost his own bid for the governor’s mansion.”
“No, not that part. Say his name again. His whole name,” Buddy Lee said.
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Gerald Winthrop Culpepper. He was named after his great-grandfather. Are you okay?” Christine asked.
“I’m fine,” Buddy Lee said. Pieces were falling into place in his head like a giant game of Tetris. It all made sense now. Why Derek was so pissed about Tangerine’s boyfriend. What had he called him? A hypocrite and an asshole. Christine had said Derek had called her before he got killed. She had ignored it, but Derek wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. He probably went over there to see her. Ran into Gerald. Told him about himself.
“Motherfucker,” Buddy Lee said.
“What did you call me?” Christine asked.
Buddy Lee knew why Tangerine had him saved in her phone under “W.” Now it made sense how they met. Gerald Culpepper and Christine were always in the paper at this or that high-society get-together. When Tangerine had mumbled “We can’t win,” she wasn’t saying they couldn’t make it. She was saying “Wynn.”
Short for Winthrop.
“What’s the name of that place you moved to in King William County?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Garden Acres. Buddy Lee, what’s wrong?” Christine asked.
“Nothing.”
He put the handset back in the cradle. He got out of bed and went over to the teak cabinet in the corner. His clothes were in a clear plastic bag on the second shelf. By the time he had his boots on, the nurse he had waved away had returned.
“Mr. Jenkins, you need to get back into bed. The doctor wants you under observation for the next twenty-four hours,” she said.
“Darling, I’m walking out that door in the next ten seconds. If you need to tell the doctor I left against medical advice, well, I reckon that’s okay. But I’m not staying here one more minute,” Buddy Lee said. The nurse threw up her hands and grabbed his chart off the foot of the bed.
It took him a while to find his truck. Ike had parked it way out in the far end of the lot. Buddy Lee grabbed his key ring, unlocked the door, climbed in the truck. He flipped open the glove box. The big semiautomatic was in there. He checked the clip. It was empty. So was the chamber. Ike had been riding around empty-handed. The MAC-10 was in Mya’s car sitting in some good ol’ boys’ salvage yard. That was alright. He started the truck.
The engine clanged and shook as the truck struggled to idle. Buddy Lee reached behind the bench seat. He moved his hand carefully over the broken glass that had fallen in the gap.
When he found what he was looking for, he closed his hand around it and pulled it from behind the seat. It was an old wooden baseball bat with nails driven into it at regular intervals. His former co-worker Chuck called it a homemade mace. A lot of folks still paid in cash when he made his deliveries. He could have gotten a gun, but if he got pulled over by the DOT, he’d lose his job, go to jail, and his boss would probably have to pay a fine. This peacemaker seemed like a good alternative. He’d only had to use it twice. Usually pulling it was enough of a deterrent.
A baseball bat with nails. A tamper. A .45. It occurred to Buddy Lee that anything could be a weapon if you were dedicated enough. Even love. Especially love.
Buddy Lee pulled out of the parking lot and merged into traffic. He started to sing. It was a song his grandmother would sing at every funeral for a member of the Jenkins clan. When her time came they sang it at hers.
“O, death … O, death, Won’t you spare me over ’til another year,” Buddy Lee crooned as he rode down the highway.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Garden Acres was indeed in the middle of nowhere. The GPS had gotten him within ten miles of the planned community. From there, it was looking for real-estate signs that advertised lots for sale, which led him to a wide side road with a blacktop so smooth it looked like it was poured fresh every night. Buddy Lee had the gas pedal to the floor. His truck was barely hitting fifty. The motor cried out for mercy, but that particular emotion was in short supply tonight.
Buddy Lee turned onto Garden Acres Drive. A cloud of gray-and-black smoke billowed from his duals. The road was lined by pink rhododendrons and had a concrete gutter that ran alongside the road. Buddy Lee passed house after house that cost more than he had ever made, legally or illegally. Intricately landscaped lawns would have given Ike and his crew a run for their money, bisected by long paved driveways. Many of those driveways had brick columns with a mailbox built into its center. A few had gates. Most of them had attached two-car garages. There was stunning sense of conformity throughout the neighborhood. Like here was a standard architectural design that denoted affluence.
Buddy Lee brought the truck to a halt. Christine was one of those who parked her car in front of the garage instead of inside it. Buddy Lee thought Gerald probably had a work vehicle and a fun-time vehicle. No room for Christine’s gold Lexus.
Buddy Lee turned onto the driveway. He revved the engine a few times.
“One more time, ol’ girl. Give me all you got one more time,” he murmured.
Buddy Lee hit the gas. His truck, a used rambling wreck that he paid fifteen hundred dollars for six years ago, roared to life even as oil shot out of the exhaust pipe. Buddy Lee raced up the driveway. By the time he flew past Christine’s car and careened through the garage door he was doing forty-five. He smashed into a candy-apple-red Corvette parked next to a black BMW.
Buddy Lee undid his seat belt and climbed out of the truck. Beautiful brass carriage lights ignited on both sides of the front door, a wooden, barn door–style piece of art with wrought-iron corbels running across its face. It sat at the top of seven wide brick steps. Buddy Lee climbed those steps, gripped the Louisville Slugger with both hands, and smashed the nearest brass light to smithereens. He heard footsteps racing around inside the two-story mansion.
“Gerald! Come on down, you fucking cocksucker! Come on down you murdering son of a bitch!” Buddy Lee screeched. Two small terra-cotta lions sat on each side of the front door next to a glazed clay planter. Buddy Lee obliterated each lion and planter with a couple of swings from his bat. Plaster chips flew up and landed in his lank hair.
“You were fucking that girl, Gerald. You were fucking her and Derek found out!” Buddy Lee bellowed. He hopped down off the steps. A picture window to the left of the door felt the fury of his bat. It took two hard swings, but the window eventually broke into a million pieces.
“Buddy Lee! Stop this!” Christine shrieked. She was standing on the other side of a cloth-covered chaise that sat in front of the former picture window. Buddy Lee pointed at her with the bat.
“He killed our son, Christine. He killed Derek. HE KILLED HIM!” Buddy Lee bellowed.
Christine put her hands to her mouth. “What are you saying?”
“Derek found out he was cheating on you with this girl named Tangerine. Come on down, Gerald. Or should I call you Wynn? That’s what she called you, right, you son of a bitch!” Buddy Lee said.
“Gerald, who is—”
Gerald’s voice cut her off midsentence. It echoed through the house with the unmistakable tinniness that came from a speaker.
“The police have been called, Buddy,” Gerald said.
“Come out here, Gerald. I’m gonna bash your fucking brains in, but not before I make you say my boy’s name. Get out of your panic room and come on out here, boy,” Buddy Lee said.
“Buddy Lee, the police will be here any minute,” Christine said.
“You think they can get here before I shove this bat down Gerald’s throat? Come on out, boy. Face me. Face the father of the man you killed. You got the stones for that? Or do you get the Breed to do all the work for you?” Buddy Lee
said. Gerald spoke again. Buddy Lee could hear the smirk through the speakers.
“This isn’t a B movie starring Warren Oates, Buddy Lee. I suggest you put that bat down and get on the ground. Right now, you’re just looking at felony destruction of property and trespassing. Don’t add attempted murder to the list,” Gerald said.
“I ain’t attempting anything, bitch. You ain’t coming out, I’m coming in,” he said. He went back to his truck. He tried starting it. The engine sputtered but didn’t catch. He tried again.
“Last time, ol’ girl,” he thought. The truck turned over but just barely. Buddy Lee backed up and disentangled himself from the garage door. He slipped the gear shift into drive.
Gerald came out of the darkness with his cell phone in his hand. He stood behind Christine as she stared out the hole that used to be their window.
“Did he leave?”
“No. Who is Tangerine?” Christine asked with eerie calm.
“Oh my God,” Gerald said. He grabbed Christine by the arm and snatched her away from the picture window just as Buddy Lee’s truck came careening into their living room. The bricks around the window cracked, shifted, and fell to the ground like a meth head’s teeth. The chaise crumpled under the weight of Buddy Lee’s truck. The front wheels spun across the wood floor leaving black streaks of rubber in their wake. Buddy Lee fell out of the truck with the baseball bat in his hand. Using it as a cane, he climbed to his feet.
“I’m coming, you fucker. I’m gonna see what your insides look like,” Buddy Lee said. Gerald dragged Christine through the batwing doors that separated their kitchen from the dining room. Buddy Lee followed them, digging holes in the Sheetrock with his bat as he stalked them. He knocked one of the batwing doors off its mounts with one swing. Gerald stood behind Christine. He had a butcher knife in his hand.
“You ever killed a man, Gerald? Up close and personal like? Not over the phone. Felt his blood splatter on your face? Heard the last rattle of his breath in his throat? Smelled the shit in his pants when his bowels let go? I have. So believe me when I tell you that knife ain’t gonna slow me down one fucking bit,” Buddy Lee said.