by S. A. Cosby
“Please, Buddy Lee, stop,” Christine said.
“HE KILLED OUR BOY!” Buddy Lee roared. He swung the bat in a whistling half circle and took out the coffee maker sitting on the granite countertop than ran the length of the far-left wall.
“Say his name, Gerald!” Buddy Lee yelled. He slammed the bat against a juicer that had evaded his first attack.
“Say it! DEREK WAYNE JENKINS!” Buddy Lee shouted.
“Drop the bat!” an authoritative voice said behind him. Buddy Lee froze.
“Drop it!”
Buddy Lee glanced back over his shoulder. Two deputies were standing behind him with their hands on their guns. Buddy Lee dropped the bat. It clattered against the Italian marble that covered the floor.
“Thank God for white privilege,” Buddy Lee said under his breath.
He launched himself at Christine and Gerald. Gerald pushed his wife at Buddy Lee. Buddy Lee swatted her aside and grabbed the butcher knife in Gerald’s hand by the blade with his right hand. He punched Gerald in the face with his left. The second his knuckles connected with that lantern-sized jaw was the happiest moment Buddy Lee had experienced in months. Even as strong arms snaked around his body, he kept hitting Gerald. He wrenched the knife from his hand and let it fall to the floor. Blood flowed from his sliced palm and rained down on the tile. When he was out of arm’s reach Buddy Lee kicked at Gerald’s face. The deputies struggled to get him down to the ground.
“He killed my boy! He killed my boy! My boy! My boy!” Buddy Lee screamed until his words ran together and became an unintelligible song of sorrow.
* * *
Buddy Lee leaned back against the cold cinder blocks that lined the holding cell. They had bandaged his hand and tossed him in the tank an hour ago. It was a weekend so there were a lot of drunks sharing the twenty-by-twenty space with him—a few raggedy-faced boys who were in the throes of opioid addiction and one quiet fella that seemed primed to burst into tears at any minute.
It was like the good ol’ days all over again. He probably wouldn’t get bail, or if he did, it would be so high he’d have to climb on a table to pay it. He was looking at least a couple of felonies. Add to that his past convictions, he could be looking at real time.
He’d failed. Failed Derek. Failed Isiah. Failed Ike. Failed Mya. Failed Arianna. He was what he had always been. A fuckup.
“Jenkins.” A deputy with a face made for radio said. Buddy Lee squinted at him.
“Yeah.”
“Get up. Somebody wants to talk,” the deputy said. Buddy Lee didn’t move. Who the hell wanted to talk to him?
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Get your ass up, or do we have to come and put you in the chair?” The deputy asked. The “chair” was a four-way restraint device for unruly prisoners. Buddy Lee had been in the chair once. He didn’t seek another ride on that particular conveyance. He stood up and faced the wall. Two deputies joined Hatchet Face. They handcuffed him before leading him out of the cell. They led him down an antiseptic white hallway lit by a series of flickering fluorescent lights. They came to a room marked LAWYER with black letters on a gold background. Hatchet Face opened the door, and the deputies guided him into the cool narrow room. Strong hands pushed him down into a chair. They uncuffed his right hand and looped the empty cuff to a ring on the underside of the table.
“Who wants to talk to me?” Buddy Lee asked. The deputies didn’t respond. They slipped out without closing the door.
“We need to have a conversation, Mr. Jenkins,” Gerald said as he walked into the room.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Buddy Lee tried to jump up out of his chair, but the handcuff caught him short. He sat back down as Gerald closed the door behind him. He walked to the other side of the metal table and pulled the chair back just far enough to stay out of Buddy Lee’s reach.
“It has always bewildered me why these tables are bolted to the floor but the chairs aren’t. This room is supposed to be where defendants meet their attorneys. If you are that angry at your advocate that you would hit him or her with a table, you probably are guilty as sin,” Gerald said. He smiled at Buddy Lee. A purplish welt had sprung up on Gerald’s chin. Another one was located just above his eye.
“You killed my boy,” Buddy Lee said. He instinctively wrenched his handcuffed arm.
“Buddy, you need to listen to me.”
“You killed my son,” Buddy Lee seethed. Gerald shook his head. To an observer it would have appeared to be an empathetic gesture.
“Buddy, we have to approach this like adults,” Gerald said.
“I’m gonna cut your dick off and make you eat it,” Buddy Lee said. Gerald leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. He wasn’t smiling.
“This room doesn’t have any recording or video equipment, so we can speak frankly. My associates have the girl. Your granddaughter. You know where Tangerine is. They will contact you when you get out of here and arrange the details of the trade. You and Mr. Randolph will bring Tangerine to a location of our choosing. You will do as you’re told or I’ll have my associates chop that girl into bite-size pieces,” Gerald said.
“You hurt that little girl and there won’t be a hole deep enough for you to hide in. I promise you that, hoss,” Buddy Lee spat.
“Oh, Buddy Lee, you’re so melodramatic. Don’t you see I hold all the cards here? I have the little girl. I’m a judge. You tried to murder me in my own house.” Gerald ran his finger over the wounds on his face. “If I wanted, I could make a call and have your bail set to six figures. You will do what trash like you was made to do. Follow instructions.”
“That scar from that headbutt healed up real good didn’t it?” Buddy Lee said. Gerald laughed.
“Always the hypermasculine hard man, hmm, Buddy? Tell me, in your whole life what has that ever gotten you but misery?” Gerald asked. He seemed genuinely interested in Buddy Lee’s answer. Buddy Lee sat back in the chair and traced his forefinger over the wiry stubble over his chin.
“You’re right. There’s been times I’ve been miserable. Times where all I wanted to do was lay down and die. If I added them up, those times would beat the good times two to one, no doubt about that,” Buddy Lee said. Gerald opened his mouth to speak, but Buddy Lee held that forefinger up and waggled it side to side.
“But good times or bad, I ain’t never lied about who I was. I ain’t never pretended to be anything but a hell-raising, whiskey-drinking, hard-loving redneck son of a bitch. Most nights I sleep like a baby. I ain’t ashamed of who I am. I’d like to think my boy picked that up from me. How about you, Winthrop? How you feel about yourself coming home to Chrissy after spending all night bumping uglies with Tangerine? What do the man in the mirror think about the man who always running his mouth about people he called deviants and disgusting? Who talks about it ain’t Adam and Steve, it’s Adam and Eve and all that happy shit, when the whole time he was lighting it up with the T in LGBTQ? Which one of us you think sleeps better … hoss?” Buddy Lee asked. He leaned forward. Gerald smiled but a vein in his forehead throbbed. Buddy Lee laughed. He leaned his head back and chortled to the rafters.
“Oh, you didn’t know we knew about that? Hey, no judgment here. I’m what you call an ally,” Buddy Lee said. Gerald stopped smiling.
“I’m going to tell the magistrate I’m not pressing charges because I know you are so distraught over your dead pervert of a son. You will go to Ike and the two of you will bring me Tangerine. Do this and the little girl will be returned to you unharmed. However, if you don’t follow your directions to the letter, I can assure you Arianna will die a most horrible death,” Gerald said. He stood and headed for the door. When he turned the knob Buddy Lee spoke. He didn’t shout and he didn’t yell.
“One day sooner than you think the last thing you gonna hear is your heart going still. And the last thing you ever gonna see is me or Ike standing over you holding it in our hands. Remember I told you that,” Buddy Lee said. Gerald chuckled. The echo bounc
ed around the room.
“My associates will be in touch,” Gerald said. He left the room.
“Sooner than you think,” Buddy Lee said softly.
THIRTY-NINE
Ike dropped a few coins into the vending machine to get a soda. He watched the spiral spring spin and drop the soda can into the bin. He reached in and grabbed it. He wished the machine had cans of beer or, better yet, a bottle of whiskey. Mya had come out of surgery but she was still unconscious. The doctor said because of the swelling on her brain she might wake up in a few hours or she might wake up in a few weeks. The hospital staff had offered him a recliner to sleep in beside her bed. He would have slept on the floor. Tomorrow he’d have to see what was left of their house. What was left of their life. Perform all the adult tasks that came with material tragedies. Call the insurance company, get a police report from a sheriff that knew he was holding something back. All the mind-numbing minutiae that kept the world moving even after you’ve lost everything.
His cell phone chirped.
He picked it up and saw it was Buddy Lee. He hit END.
The phone rang again.
He hit END again.
The phone rang again. This time he answered it.
“Call here again and I’ll kill you,” Ike said.
“It was Gerald Culpepper,” Buddy Lee said.
“What? Who is that?” Ike said.
“Derek’s stepfather. He’s who Tangerine was fucking. He’s a judge and he got the Rare Breed in his pocket,” Buddy Lee said.
Ike moved to the molded plastic chair in the waiting room and sat down with his drink.
“Ike?” Buddy Lee said.
“How’d you find this out? Why should I believe you?” Ike said.
“You said Tangerine had her man saved in her phone under ‘W,’ right? Gerald’s middle name is Winthrop. That’s when it hit me. Why Derek would be so upset about some fella dumping Tangerine. Why it pissed him off so bad. Then I talked to his mama, and she said a couple of weeks before the boys got shot Derek had tried to reach out to her,” Buddy Lee said.
“But he got hold of his stepdaddy instead,” Ike said.
“And he probably threatened Gerald. Ol’ Winthrop is one of them rah-rah all-American types. Women need to be barefoot and pregnant, Black people need to know their place, and anybody that ain’t T-square straight is the devil,” Buddy Lee said.
“He wouldn’t want the world to know he was messing around on his wife. Especially with Tangerine,” Ike said.
“Yeah. He’s the one behind all this, Ike. The Rare Breed might’ve pulled the trigger but he pulled the goddamn strings. He wants me and you to bring him Tangerine in exchange for Arianna. He’s gearing up for a run for governor and he can’t have all this hanging out there,” Buddy Lee said.
“And when did he tell you this?” Ike asked.
“Right after I drove my truck through his house and tried to brain him with a baseball bat full of nails,” Buddy Lee said.
“Let me guess: he ain’t pressing charges,” Ike said.
“No. He wants all three of us. They gonna call you any minute now. Look, I know you’re pissed at me, and I don’t blame you one bit. If I could change everything, I would. But if we don’t work together on this, none of us are gonna make it,” Buddy Lee said.
“Mya just got out of surgery,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee sucked at his teeth. “What the docs say?”
“She could wake up in a couple of hours. Or she could wake in a few days or a few weeks,” Ike said.
“I don’t know what to say, Ike,” Buddy Lee said. Ike caught his reflection in the snack machine. The slouch of his shoulders. The defeated tilt of his head like he was carrying an invisible millstone around his neck. His son gone. His granddaughter taken. His wife halfway between this world and the next. His home reduced to a pile of cinders. All because of one man. A man who thought the rules didn’t apply to him. A man who thought he couldn’t be touched.
“Where are you?” Ike asked.
“I’m standing outside the King William County jail. Actually I’ve walked down the road a piece,” Buddy Lee said.
“I gotta get one of my guys to bring me the smaller work truck. Hang tight. I’ll be there in about an hour,” Ike said.
“Hey, I don’t want you to leave Mya if you don’t want to,” Buddy Lee said.
“She would tell me go and get our granddaughter back, so that’s what I’m gonna do. Give me an hour.”
* * *
Ike pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the jail. Buddy Lee loped over to the car. He climbed in and closed the door. Ike made a U-turn and headed back to Red Hill.
They drove in silence for a few minutes for before Buddy Lee started rambling.
“I meant what I said that day in your shop. I can’t live in a world where Gerald Culpepper gets to breathe and our boys are in the ground. But … I shouldn’t have done what I did. I’m sorry.”
“You doing that might have pushed me toward the edge, but I was the one that made the leap,” Ike said.
They turned onto Route 33, leaving King William behind. The headlights illuminated a green road sign that said Red Hill was twenty miles away.
“They haven’t called you yet?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Not yet. They probably trying to find a good place to bury us all. We know too much about where this Gerald likes to stick his dick,” Ike said.
“Yeah. We gotta figure out a way to flip this around them. Get Arianna back without turning over Tangerine.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. When it looked like I was doing this alone, I came up with an idea,” Ike said. Buddy Lee raised an eyebrow.
“We back on?” Buddy Lee asked.
“This is a mess but you didn’t make it by yourself,” Ike said.
“Okay. What’s the play?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Ya know they got something we want and we got something they want. We need something they want more than Tangerine,” Ike said.
“Like what? We gonna steal one of their bikes?” Buddy Lee asked.
“No. My first thought was to find out where one of them lives and scoop up one of their old ladies,” Ike said.
“Goddamn, son. They must clank when you walk,” Buddy Lee said.
“What?”
“Your brass balls. But I gotta admit, I like it. They wouldn’t be expecting it,” Buddy Lee said.
“Yeah. But now we know who the real head of the snake is, I’m thinking we need somebody closer to the throne,” Ike said. He took his eyes off the road and stared at Buddy Lee for what seemed like a full minute.
“Oh. I see where you going with this, but I’ll tell you what, I don’t think Gerald cares all that much about Christine. He can’t if he was doing what he was doing with Tangy,” Buddy Lee said.
“That how you really feel or are you getting soft on me?” Ike asked.
“If we telling the truth and shaming the devil, I still am sweet on her in a way. But the only thing Gerald Culpepper loves is power and…” Buddy Lee said. He stopped and put his finger to his lips.
“And what? I ain’t telepathic,” Ike said.
“One time Derek told me the only bad thing he ever heard his mama say about Gerald was that he could be a daddy’s boy,” Buddy Lee said.
“He loves power but he loves his daddy more,” Ike said.
“Yessir. Derek told me how Gerald and his daddy was as thick as thieves and tight as a pair of pantyhose. Gatsby Culpepper is an asshole just like his son. Derek told me Gatsby wouldn’t let him call him Granddaddy. Talking about how Derek wasn’t a true Culpepper so he didn’t get that honor,” Buddy Lee said.
“You know, you told me you and Derek didn’t get along, but it sure seem like y’all did a lot of talking,” Ike said. Buddy Lee grunted.
“That was only when he was mad at his mama. You know how that is. I ate that shit up, but then he would try to tell me about Isiah and, well, I wasn’t too receptive to that,” Buddy L
ee said.
“Yeah. I didn’t, uh … I didn’t listen to Isiah when he would talk about how happy he was with Derek. I mean, I didn’t wanna listen,” Ike said.
“Maybe we can be better grandfathers than we was fathers,” Buddy Lee said.
“You know where this Gatsby lives? They haven’t called yet, but when they do we won’t have much time to make a move,” Ike said.
“Can we google it?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Probably. You can google anything these days.”
“That’s what they tell me,” Buddy Lee said. They drove on in silence for a mile or two.
“Did you really drive your truck through his house?” Ike said.
“Yeah, but I fucked up and took a left at the sink,” Buddy Lee said. Ike and Buddy Lee stared at each other at the same time.
Buddy Lee started laughing.
Ike just shook his head.
* * *
Ike was right.
When they got back to Buddy Lee’s trailer, Ike pulled up Gatsby Culpepper’s address on a free Google search. The site he used advised him that for $29.99 he could get Gatsby’s criminal record, too.
“This says he lives just outside of Richmond in Charles City County,” Ike said. He checked his watch.
“It’s almost eleven. I say we go now.”
Buddy Lee leaned his chair back on two legs before letting it rest on all four again. He rubbed his face with his left hand. The wound on his right hand was pulsating under its bandage. He took a sip from a mason jar that had a nebulous form floating near the bottom. Once upon a time it had been a half of a peach. He’d found the jar in his closet hidden behind his winter clothes. Like a squirrel and his nuts, Buddy Lee sometimes forgot where he kept his emergency rations.
“Last I heard he was living alone. I don’t know if he has a dog. I don’t know what kind of security system he might have or how many guns he might be packing. I kinda feel like we should at least do a dry run and see what he working with,” Buddy Lee said. He handed Ike the jar. Ike took a sip and handed it back to Buddy Lee. Buddy Lee took it, tipped the mason jar up, and savored the burn of the corn liquor in his chest.