Razorblade Tears

by S. A. Cosby

  Ike’s phone rang.

  Ike touched the screen and held it up to his ear.

  “Listen to me, you goddamn savage: my father has nothing to do with what’s going on. You let him go, and I mean right goddamn now, and maybe, just maybe I won’t have Grayson slit that mongrel’s throat,” Gerald said.

  “I’m getting sick of telling you boys about your mouth,” Ike said. He snapped his fingers. Buddy Lee grabbed Gatsby and pulled him into a sitting position. Ike came into the living room.

  “Don’t you worry about my mouth. Worry about that little girl,” Gerald said.

  “Hey, son? You hurt one hair on her head and I’ll make sure your daddy dies screaming,” Ike said.

  “I want to talk to him,” Gerald said.

  “You get five seconds,” Ike said. Buddy Lee ripped the tape off Gatsby’s mouth. Ike held the phone to his face.

  “Gerald!” Gatsby said. Ike pulled the phone back and Buddy Lee slapped the tape back over his mouth.

  “He’s alive. Arianna better be, too, or you’re gonna have to bury your daddy in a coffee can,” Ike said.

  “You bring him and Tangerine to—” Gerald tried to say but Ike cut him off.

  “No. No Tangerine. Just your daddy and Arianna. That’s how it works. We’ll call you back in one hour,” Ike said. He hung up the phone.

  “You pushing them hard. What if they hurt her?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike put his phone in his pocket.

  “They won’t. We got to his daddy. Right now, they know we willing to do anything. They hurt that girl, they don’t know what we’ll do next. Now we gotta find a place to meet them. And we gonna need guns. Lots of guns,” Ike said. Buddy Lee sucked his teeth.

  “I think we can kill both them birds with one stone. But we gotta go talk to some folks. What we gonna do with him?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “We’ll chain him to the sink in the bathroom,” Ike said.

  “You came up with that quick,” Buddy Lee said.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “I know, mine neither. You got a talent for it, though,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Unfortunately,” Ike said.

  * * *

  “Turn here,” Buddy Lee said. The rising sun bounced light off the metal sign attached to the chain-link fence. The sign said MORGAN’S MARINA in big bold black letters against a white background. Ike drove through the open gate and pulled up to a narrow building with board-on-batten siding. Beyond the building a long salt-treated dock extended into the Chesapeake Bay. On each side of the pier were about a dozen slips with boats and yachts of various sizes and levels of ostentatiousness. Ike put the car in park.

  “Alright. Now it’s your turn to stay in the car,” Buddy Lee said.

  “You gonna be alright in there by yourself?” Ike asked.

  “He might be a gunrunner and crazy right-wing militia maniac, but he’s still my half brother. I’ll probably be alright,” Buddy Lee said. He climbed out of the truck and headed for the office of the marina. A sleigh bell clanged as he entered the building. A couple of good ol’ boys were paying for some bait at the counter. Chet rang them up, glanced at Buddy Lee, then handed them their change. The men nodded at Buddy Lee in an almost unconscious gesture of southern hospitality. When the men left, he and Chet were alone.

  “You should know better than to bring somebody like that to my shop,” Chet said. He gestured to the parking lot. Ike was standing next to the truck talking on his cell phone.

  “Oh, I forgot you don’t like Virgos,” Buddy Lee said. Chet grunted.

  “What you want, Buddy?” he asked. Chet was tall and rangy like Buddy Lee, but he had a thick mop of white hair and wisp of a beard to match. A LIVE FREE OR DIE tattoo undulated on his bicep as he flexed his arm. His gray T-shirt already had sweat patches under the arms. It was only 8:30.

  “I need a favor,” Buddy Lee said. Chet came from behind the counter. They were only a foot apart.

  “I told you the last time you came out here I’m fresh out of favors for you. You know how much trouble you and Deak got me into? Chuly sent Skunk Mitchell up to talk to me about it. The Skunk Mitchell. They thought I was a snitch because you and Deak couldn’t keep it under sixty. That deal cost me a shitload of money and many a sleepless night, but you want a favor,” Chet said.

  “It cost me five years. It would have killed Deak if he had gone inside. But since you brought it up, didn’t the state drop them weapons charges against you after me and Deak got pinched? Huh, ain’t that a coincidence?” Buddy Lee said. Chet glowered at him, but Buddy Lee hit him with his ten-kilowatt smile.

  “Don’t worry, I never mentioned that to anybody. I mean who would believe it, anyway? Wouldn’t no man worth a damn drop a dime on his own brothers to save his own worthless hide, right? We’re all blood. Might be rotten blood but it’s blood all the same. But that’s water under the bridge now, ain’t it, hoss?” Buddy Lee said.

  Chet pulled a container of Skoal out of his back pocket and put a chunk in his cheek.

  “Ain’t nothing I can do for you, Buddy,” Chet said. Buddy Lee fingered a bright orange-and-red lure hanging from a carousel near the cash register. It became a poor man’s kaleidoscope as it spun.

  “You wanna be mad at me because Skunk made you shit your pants, that’s fine. I can take that. You wanna be pissed I cost you a payday, I’ll take that, too, although I have my suspicions about that. What I can’t take, what I can’t abide is you turning your back on Derek. He was my son. He was your nephew. Some dirty no-count sons of bitches shot him down like a dog. Here I am circling in on the cowards that done it, and all I need is the keys to that place you got down in Mathews. All I need is a place to work, and you saying you can’t do that for me? Then don’t do it for me. Do it for Derek. Do it for him,” Buddy Lee said. Chet walked back to the counter and pulled a Styrofoam cup from a shelf under the counter. He spit a huge dollop of dark liquid in it.

  “Your son. The fa—” Chet didn’t get to finish the epithet because in one smooth motion Buddy Lee jumped forward, opened his knife, closed the distance between them, and put the blade to his neck.

  “No. Not that word. Not anymore. Not about my boy. I used it enough myself when he was alive. That word is dead for me now,” Buddy Lee said.

  “You put a knife to my throat, Buddy Lee, you better play the fiddle with that son of a bitch. Come into my house and put a knife to my throat and bring a spook with you? You ain’t shit,” Chet said. Buddy Lee saw his own eyes in his brother’s. The corrosive rot of the rage they had both inherited from their father.

  “You talk all that shit about being a patriot and a warrior, but when I came to you about finding the people who did Derek, you acted like I had asked you to rope the goddamn wind. He was your nephew but you couldn’t be bothered. I tell you what, that man out there done rolled with me harder and deeper than you ever have. He’s the brother I should have had. But you can fix that now. You can help make all this right. So you can either hand me them keys or I bleed you and take ’em. But I promise you one way or the other I’m leaving here with ’em.” Chet bared his brown teeth like a rat. Buddy Lee pressed the knife deeper into the taut flesh of Chet’s throat.

  “We gonna settle up later, brother,” Chet said. He shook a key chain with two keys attached to it. It had appeared in his hand as if by magic. Buddy Lee plucked the keys from his grip. He backed away from him while still pointing the knife at him. The handle of the door pressed into his Buddy Lee’s back. He closed the knife and put in his back pocket.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up, Buddy. You better watch your goddamn back,” Chet said.

  “Life beat you to it, brother, but you more than welcome to try and take your turn,” Buddy Lee said.

  * * *

  Buddy Lee climbed in the truck. Ike got in and started the engine.

  “You alright?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee shoved the keys in his pocket.

  “I was thinking about how the good die young,” Buddy Lee said.
<
br />   “I guess that’s why we’re still here,” Ike said as he put the truck in gear.

  “Let’s go check this place out. Get the lay of the land, so to speak. I’ve been there once but it was a long time ago. I wanna see the dance floor before we cut a rug.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Ike turned right off Route 14 onto Route 198. He’d had a few jobs out in Mathews County over the years but not many. Most of the people out this way worked their own yards.

  “Stay on this until we hit Tabernacle Road. Gonna take a left onto that,” Buddy Lee said.

  Tabernacle Road was the first hard-surface left turn after you drove through the town of Mathews. Past the grocery store and the post office and the library. Past a Civil War statue two steps from the courthouse building. Ike took that left and followed Tabernacle until Buddy Lee told him to turn right onto a long dusty logging road.

  The road wound down through a dense canopy of pine trees until it came to a gravel road bisected by a horse gate. Ike stopped the truck and Buddy Lee hopped out with the keys. He unlocked the gate and Ike drove through it. Buddy Lee hopped back in the car and they continued down the gravel road. At the end it opened into a spacious meadow. To their left was a narrow barn-red rectangular steel building with one roll-up door in the center of the rectangle. There was a window to the right of the roll-up door. The building itself was nearly a hundred feet long. To their right were several tactical targets arranged on a shooting course. Most of the targets were paper silhouettes over plywood. A few of them were cartoonish images of Black and Hispanic men.

  “Your brother is a real asshole,” Ike said when he saw them.

  “Yeah. I won’t argue with you on that one,” Buddy Lee said. Ike parked the truck. They got out and walked up to the main building.

  Buddy Lee unlocked the door and Ike followed him inside. A bunkhouse table sat to the right of the door. A few chairs were scattered around the table. Bits of random bric-a-brac were dotted throughout the space. A couple of fishing rods. A stuffed deer’s head lying on its side. A DON’T TREAD ON ME flag that must have fallen off the wall. To their left the cavernous structure was filled with twenty or so wooden crates, hard plastic totes, and a few gunny sacks.

  Buddy Lee wandered over to the crates. He pulled the lid off one and whistled.

  “Goddamn. You could stop a rhino hopped up on meth with this son of a bitch,” Buddy Lee said. He pulled a fully automatic shotgun with a revolving cylinder out of the box.

  “You got shells to go along with that?” Ike asked.

  “He got more shells than a shark got teeth in this other box,” Buddy Lee said as he pulled the lid off another crate.

  “Those street sweepers ain’t legal in the States,” Ike said. Buddy Lee waved his hand over the crates and boxes.

  “None of this is legal, Ike. Them militia boys he run with don’t cotton to any laws except the Second Amendment.”

  “I know that. I’m just thinking about whether or not the ATF got your brother under surveillance. Gonna be some fireworks here tonight,” Ike said.

  “If the Feds were onto him, this place wouldn’t be here. I don’t think we need to worry about drawing no attention tonight, neither. We so far in the woods we’d have to go back five miles the other way to find the boondocks,” Buddy Lee said.

  “If you say so,” Ike said.

  Buddy Lee continued exploring the crates. The sheer depth and breadth of the amount of machine guns, rifles, pistols, and—God save us—land mines was mind-boggling.

  We might need every bit of this, Buddy Lee thought. He opened a crate against the wall.

  “Well, shit. Ike, come here,” Buddy Lee said. Ike came over and stared in the crate.

  “That’s what I think it is?” Ike said.

  “Yep. I suppose if you got loose lips like Chet you best be paranoid and have a backup plan,” Buddy Lee said. Ike peered in the crate, then at the door of the bunkhouse, then back in the crate.

  “You know it don’t matter how many guns we got here, it’s just two of us. Maybe we need our own backup plan,” Ike said.

  “What’s going on in that big ol’ cranium of yours?” Buddy Lee said.

  “I’m thinking we gonna need more bang for our buck. Come on, let’s get back to Red Hill. We need to go by the shop. I got an idea,” Ike said.

  “What, we gonna challenge them to a duel with shovels?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “Not exactly,” Ike said.

  By the time they’d gone to the shop, gotten what they needed, then gone back to the compound and put it in place, then gone back to Buddy Lee’s, it was a little after one. Buddy Lee could hear a solid thumping sound coming from his trailer.

  “If I gave a damn about this trailer, I’d be upset, ’cause it sound like that ol’ boy in there kicking like a mule,” Buddy Lee said. Ike followed Buddy Lee into his house.

  Buddy Lee went down the hall to his bathroom. He poked his head inside.

  “If you don’t stop kicking that wall, I’m gonna come in there and I’m gonna break your fucking legs,” Buddy Lee said. His statement caught Gatsby in mid-kick. The older man put his foot down flat on the floor.

  “That’s better,” Buddy Lee said. He went back to the living room. Ike was on the sofa, so he melted into his easy chair.

  “We got some time. You wanna go check on Mya?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “I called the hospital while you was talking to your brother. No change,” Ike said. Buddy Lee took a deep breath.

  “She gonna be alright, Ike.”

  “I don’t know if any of us are ever gonna be alright ever again,” Ike said. He pulled out his phone and sent a text message to Gerald:

  3493 Tabernacle Road.

  Mathews Va.

  8pm

  He put the phone away.

  “All I know is, no matter what happens tonight, we putting them boys in the ground. All of them,” Ike said.

  “Ike,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I wish we had met at the wedding. I wish both of us had been there.”

  “My grandmother used to say if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. But I hear what you saying. I wish we had, too,” Ike said.

  “Well, I’m gonna get some sleep. We had a long day. I’d say we committed at least fifteen felonies,” Buddy Lee said.

  A few minutes later Ike heard him snoring. Ike laid his head back on the sofa but he didn’t close his eyes. He knew if he slept, Isiah would be waiting for him in his dreams.

  Or his nightmares.

  FORTY-THREE

  Margo was just about to sit down and settle in for the Jeopardy! Tournament of Champions when someone started banging on her door.

  “God bless it,” she murmured as she went to the door. When she opened it Buddy Lee was standing on her front step.

  “Jesus, you look worse than the last time I saw you. Are you getting any sleep at all?” Margo asked.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you have a way with words?” Buddy Lee said.

  “It’s a gift. What’s up? You get a new truck? About time, if you ask me,” Margo said. Buddy Lee moved stray strands of hair out of his face. For an instant Margo thought she saw a glimpse of the bright-eyed handsome country boy he used to be once upon a time.

  “No, that’s my partner’s truck. Hey, I wanted to tell you, you’re a good neighbor. You check on me and make sure I’m not turning into a pickle inside a bottle of Jameson. I think you’re probably the only person on earth who cares about what happens to me,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Well, that’s nice of you, but why you talking like you about to lead the Charge of the Light Brigade?” Margo asked. Buddy Lee put his foot on her top step and leaned forward.

  “I ain’t never had very many female friends. I’ve known a lot of women, but I can’t say many of them was what you’d call friends. I think you’re my first, Margo.” He stopped. She watched him set his jaw before he continued.

  “You’re a good woman and a good fr
iend. Take care of yourself,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Buddy Lee, what’s going on?” Margo asked. He flashed a crooked grin.

  “Giving you your flowers while you’re still alive, sugar,” he said. He stepped back and gave her a two-finger salute. She watched him lope over to his partner’s truck and climb in the passenger’s side. A cloud of dust followed them as they tore out of the trailer park.

  * * *

  “Come on, Gatsby. Last stop, everybody off,” Buddy Lee said. He helped Ike drag the old man out of the truck bed and into the bunkhouse. They tied him to a metal folding chair with another pair of zip ties. The chair was sitting next to a fifty-five-gallon metal drum. At the base of the drum was a box with some wires and a flat circular wheel inside.

  “Alright, I’m gonna move the truck. Keep an eye on him,” Ike said.

  “I’ll try not to kill him,” Buddy Lee said. Gatsby’s eyes went wide.

  “Oh, calm down, I’m just fucking with you.” He turned back to Ike. “Remember, if you go past the other entrance, go down to the post office and turn around. Be quick. There’s not supposed to be another road back here. Chet used to complain about the county charging him more taxes the more egress points he had or something. We don’t want to draw no attention,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Long as that other gate ain’t locked, we should be okay,” Ike said.

  Ike moved the truck to the head of the other road, then made his way back to the compound through a footpath that took him pass a corrugated metal outhouse. The past few nights had been cool, as the last vestiges of winter refused to cede their kingdom to the spring. Tonight, the air was unseasonably sultry. By the time he made it back to the bunkhouse he was coated in a thin sheen of sweat.