by Glenn Trust
Clay Purcell didn’t give a damn for what Carl or his brothers might do. He figured they’d better be worried about what he might do if they ever bothered Ruby or Lyn again. Looking at Lyn’s swollen face, he felt the anger rise inside and had to push it down out of the way. There would be time for that later.
For now, there was just Lyn. She had called him, turned to him, come out of her shell to bring him closer. The reason for it was terrible, but that she had done it made him warm inside.
He smiled. She saw it and smiled back as the fly buzzed around the fake flowers, unconcerned with the humans and their smiles.
31. What A Dumbass
It was not one of the high-end strip clubs. Atlanta had many, scattered in nearly every quadrant of the city. The ‘City too Busy to Hate’, at the center of the Civil Rights Movement, had since gained a level of notoriety for its lounges and clubs where nude women slid on poles or danced in men’s laps in smoky rooms.
Some were high-priced and elitist in their clientele. Others had mob connections. Many were in working class neighborhoods or bordered the seedy streets that demarked the war zones where criminality and the daily lives of the locals mixed in a blurry haze of contradictions.
Located on the Southside, off Moreland Avenue in an area of truck depots and warehouses, the crowd in the Sweetness Lounge was in the latter group. Its patrons consisted mostly of truckers, bikers and day laborers spending the few dollars they made for a few minutes of fantasy.
The Sweetness, known as the ‘Sweet Ass’ by the locals, had the usual rules about not touching the girls in order to keep the Atlanta code enforcement officers at bay. Beyond posting the official rule, however, management turned a blind eye to the activities of its clientele and the contracted dancers. For their part, patrons and girls had a working agreement that anything could be touched, by either party, if no one was looking and the money was right…and paid up front.
Danny sat between Albert and Bain. Tired looking, hard-faced women wearing thongs and nothing else, sat on their laps, gyrating to the piped in music. An eclectic mix of old country, hip-hop, and rock played over the sound system. A sign posted near the DJ’s table read, ‘We try to please all comers …no pun intended’.
Danny watched as Albert leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, grunting as the girl straddling him gyrated her hips over his groin. She considered making a run for it while the brothers were distracted, but thought better of it. Pinned between them, shoved back against the wall, close enough to smell the musky body odor of the sweating girls, there was no way to extricate herself from the tight confines of the little table.
She had to find a way to escape. These two rednecks were not criminal geniuses, but they were not idiots. In addition to their basic meanness, she had come to know that Albert, in particular, had a shrewd cunning about him, an animal alertness, aware of his surroundings at all times.
When she made her run, it had to be for good. She knew there would only be one chance. If she failed, the consequences would be disastrous for her.
Albert groaned, slipped a twenty in the woman’s thong, smacked her hard and said, “Get the hell off me.”
“Oww!” The girl stood up rubbing the red mark his hand had left on her slick bottom. “Dammit. That’s gonna bruise.”
“That’s my mark. You’re branded.” He lit a cigarette and took a pull from the longneck on the table. “Now get the hell out of here.”
“Fuck you.” The woman scowled and turned towards a crowd of men gathered around a girl dancing on a platform that was an extension of the large bar.
“Hah,” Albert laughed. He motioned to her with the beer bottle and spoke to Danielle. “Danny girl, I’ll bet you’d be better’n that old hag up there on the stage.” He looked at her. “You ever done that? Strip in front of a room full of horny bastards?”
She shook her head. Stripping was one of the few things she had not done to make money. Not because she was above it though. Mostly, she just found it easier to sell herself to lonely men when she needed cash. It was simpler…clean in its own way…no connections…no rehearsals…no crowded rooms with drunken men on the verge of being out of control.
The downside was the occasional asshole she had to screw. Albert and Bain fell into the asshole category…and worse.
For the hundredth time, she shook her head and called herself an idiot. She could have been safe in that room in Savannah, screwing who she wanted, when she wanted. As usual, the thought of escape…of adventure…held out its allure and she followed along without thinking things through. This time the adventure had come in the form of two filthy white-trash boys from south Georgia with a mean streak and a wad of cash in their pockets. What the hell was she thinking?
She made no apologies for her life…figured she had done the best she could after her grandma had passed…but this time she was in trouble and she knew it. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her racing heart, and scanned the room, in an effort to come up with a plan of escape. Maybe she could get to the restroom and from there, get away, or hook up with one of these truckers or bikers…someone big enough to keep the brothers from following.
“Let’s go.” Albert’s big hand grabbed her roughly by the arm and jerked her up. “Time to go, Bain. Zip it up and pay her.”
“Aw shit, Albert. I was just…”
“Shut up and let’s go.”
Bain pushed the girl off him, put a few bills on the table and stood.
“That ain’t what we said asshole. Twenty that’s what we said.”
“You didn’t finish and neither did I so I s’ppose that’s all you’re gettin’.” He grinned and followed Albert out of the Sweet Ass.
“I have to go to the restroom.” Danny walked between the two men, Albert’s hand still on her arm.
“You can squat by the truck.”
You are a dumbass Danielle McMurtry, she thought again, stumbling when Albert pushed her down in the gravel by the pickup so she could pee. Sliding her pants down, she squatted and made a pretense of peeing, managing a few drops before he jerked her up and pushed her into the middle of the pickup’s cab. What a dumbass.
32. The Thought Warmed Him
Blue and red neon beer signs glowed in the window, casting their dim light across the gravel parking lot. Several motorcycles were parked by the front door. To either side, rows of pickups extended to the ends of the squatting, gray block building.
The small, dilapidated car with rusted fenders sat alone, separated from the pickups by twenty feet or so as if it were an outcast amongst the other vehicles. In truth, its owner was the outcast.
The patrons of Pete’s Place were not normally an exclusive crowd. You showed up, drank your drinks, and minded your own business, and all was well. Carl Stinson had the ability to alienate even the coarsest of gatherings. The evening crowd at Pete’s Place was no exception.
The former owner of Pete’s had died in a confrontation with local deputy, George Mackey, a couple of years earlier. Its doors had been closed for a while, until an up and coming entrepreneur had come on the scene.
Sammy Tuss was a newcomer to Pickham County, but not a newcomer to the seedy world of dive bars and their borderline illegality. He had sold out his interest in a beer joint in Macon and made his way to Pickham County when he heard about the demise of the former owner. Pete’s Place was just the sort of place he was looking for. Quiet, out of the way in a backwater community, but near the interstate, it was everything he and his customers wanted.
To keep the sheriff happy and secure a business license, Sammy promised to clean up the place and its reputation. That was easier said than done. Pete’s Place attracted trouble like fire attracts a moth, scorching and turning to cinders the unwary and the unlucky, who did not play by its rules.
Clay Purcell pulled up at the end of the row of trucks to the left of the front door. It only took him a second to scan the parking lot and recognize the old car. In the pickup truck world of the rural Sout
h, it stood out. It was even a source of amusement for some as it clattered around Judges Creek, although no one would confront the driver with their laughter.
He had found the vehicle where he had expected. He walked past the pickups and Harleys to the entrance. It was time to find the driver.
Thumping bass from the jukebox inside vibrated through the thick steel door. The sound and yellowish interior light spilled out into the night as he pulled it open.
Even coming in from a dark night, it was dim inside, smoky, the air full of other men’s sweat. The sound, trapped between the concrete block walls, reverberating around the large room, was amplified. Voices, music, bottles thumping on the bar, all mixed together in a cacophony of noise that blurred the senses momentarily. He stood in the doorway waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
He spotted him sitting at a table in a far corner, alone. Clay crossed the room and sat down across from Carl Stinson.
The man looked up from the bottle he held between both hands on the tabletop. Through beer-soaked eyes, he stared at the newcomer, a puzzle on his face.
It took a few seconds for recognition to replace the question in his eyes. When it did, they narrowed, making his beefy face look even heavier. He began the conversation in the usual Stinson way.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“We’re gonna have a talk.”
“You think so, huh?”
“I do.” Clay nodded. “I figure now’s as good a time as any.”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
“Not until we talk.”
“What can I get you?” The chubby girl in shorts and a too-small tank top had walked up from behind.
Clay looked around and smiled. “Beer.”
“You got it.” She nodded and walked smiling to a table nearby where a customer had her bend over so he could shove a five-dollar bill into her cleavage. He grabbed one of her large breasts while he was at it, and she laughed. As he was a regular, she let him have his way for a few seconds then pushed his hand away with a teasing giggle and walked to the bar to get the beers for her customers.
Clay nodded at the table. “They’re having a good time.”
Carl lifted the beer and stared at the intruder over his bottle. “Who gives a shit?”
Clay turned back, looking into Carl’s eyes. “How do you have a good time, Stinson? Beating up women, maybe?”
“Told you to get the fuck outta here.” Carl thumped the beer down on the table. “Won’t say it again.”
Clay leaned back and smiled. “Not going anywhere until we talk.”
“Here you go, hon.” The server placed the beer on the table in front of Clay and eyed the two men, one smiling calmly, the other bleary-eyed, rage boiling just under the surface. She’d been working bars long enough to know the signs. Besides, Carl Stinson and his temper were known at Pete’s Place. She looked down at Clay and said, “You boys take care now.” She nodded over at Sammy Tuss and two large men in leather vests by the bar. “Don’t want to have to get Sammy and his boys involved.”
“We’ll be okay.” Clay nodded. “Just talking.”
“Fuck Sammy,” Carl threw after her as she walked towards the bar. “I ain’t afraid of him…or his boys.”
At the bar, the chubby girl whispered in Sammy’s ear. He motioned to the two bikers, who worked as security for the joint in exchange for free beers and enough cash to keep them in bike parts and women. They turned, leaning against the bar, watching the two men at the table in the corner.
Clay laughed and sipped his beer. “I doubt that’s true.” He put the bottle down. “I think you’re pretty much afraid of anyone strong enough to fight back.” He nodded at the two bikers keeping an eye on them. “I’m pretty sure those boys are strong enough to fight back…you give ‘em a reason to.”
Face red, the ferocity rising inside, Carl looked into Clay’s steady eyes and throttled back his rage. “What the hell do you want? Get it out and leave.”
“Fair enough.” Clay leaned forward, his eyes intense. “I know it was you. They won’t talk. Won’t tell me who did it, but I know it was you.”
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Carl relaxed and sat back in his chair balancing it on the two back legs. “You don’t know shit.”
“Here’s what I know. You ever put a hand on either one again. I’ll find you. I’ll make sure you never hurt anyone else.”
“What the fuck’s that mean?” The chair thumped forward onto the concrete floor. “That some kind of threat? You little pissant, making threats to come after me?” He opened his mouth in a foul grin. “You come around…me and my brothers; we’ll tear you into little pieces and feed you to the gators.”
Clay stood. “You been warned. I won’t say it again, Stinson.” He stared down into the man’s little, red pig eyes. “Hurt them again and I will put you under. You best believe it. You best stay away from them, or I’ll make sure you do, and it will be permanent.”
He turned and walked to the door, enveloped by the smoke haze and the noise. Carl’s eyes followed, glaring at his back across the room until the door opened and then slammed shut. Sammy Tuss and his boys were also watching.
Outside, Clay drank in the night air and stared into the sky, trying to force down the anger. He’d said what he had to say. He wondered if he meant it. Except for the usual boyhood fights, where everyone dusted off and became friends again after, Clay Purcell had never hurt another human being in his life…except the time he shot the man who had kidnapped Lyn as he went down himself wounded. But, that was reflexive. He didn’t even remember pulling the trigger as he fell.
He thought of Lyn’s swollen face and Ruby’s battered body and nodded. He could do it…to prevent that from ever happening again...he could do it.
He turned towards his truck at the end of the building. The noise from inside rushed outside in a wave as the front door crashed open and then slammed shut.
He had started to turn when Carl Stinson’s bulk knocked him into the hood of a pickup. Hitting Clay in the back like a linebacker tackling an unwary quarterback, Carl rode him down, slamming his face into the gravel.
“Threaten me you little son of a bitch. I’ll fuckin’ teach you to threaten me!”
Carl reached into his pocket and pulled a lock blade knife. Sitting astride Clay, his knee on his neck, he opened the knife, exposing three inches of sharp steel. With his left hand, he reached down and jerked Clay’s head back by the hair, lifting it off the ground, exposing his neck.
Unable to extricate himself from under the weight of Stinson’s body, Clay managed to twist as Carl pulled his head back. He squirmed onto his back so that he could face his attacker.
Carl’s right arm came down fast. Clay twisted to defend himself from the man’s beefy fist. At the last moment, he saw the neon lights from the window flash across the knife’s blade. He jerked his free arm up to block it.
The knife ripped through two inches of flesh and muscle. Searing fire shot through his arm. Clay groaned and rolled to his side. The momentum of the attack and the deflected blow from the knife carried Stinson forward so that his hand smashed into the gravel still holding the knife.
There was little time to mount a defense. Clay knew it. The gash in his arm was bleeding. Light-headed and queasy, he already felt the first effects of shock. Stinson would show no mercy to a defenseless victim. He had seen what he had done to the women.
On his hands and knees, straddling Clay, Stinson tried to sit up to make another attack with the knife. Twisting his body as much as he could, Clay reached out and grabbed Stinson’s left hand, pulling it hard and pushing up with his body at the same time. Carl toppled over to his side.
The two men lay twisting and grappling in the dirt. Clay managed to get a grip on Carl’s wrist and kept the flailing knife away from his body. Side by side on the ground, struggling with the knife, his energy fading rapidly from the blood seeping from his wound, Clay made one last, grunting effort
. He managed to get both hands around Stinson’s wrist and shook it hard, trying to dislodge the knife.
Carl’s hand and the knife jerked and swayed between the two men. Clay holding on for all he was worth…for his life.
From far off, Clay heard the wave of music and noise from inside. The door to Pete’s Place was open, spilling the sound out into the night. Hands reached down and dragged the two men apart. A deep husky voice could be heard above the thumping bass from inside.
“Goddamnit! I told you two to watch them.”
“We did, Sammy,” one of the bikers said, panting and looking down at the two men on the ground. “We did. They left and we followed. Figured if they took their fightin’ outside it was no big deal. Then that one pulled the knife.”
“Followed my ass,” Sammy shot back in disgust. “You finished playing grab ass with Tanya and her tits first.” He jerked his head at the two men. “Now look goddamnit! Look!” He turned and kicked the tire of the nearest pickup. “I don’t need this. Not here. Not now!”
“You want us to drag them off? Leave ‘em out in the woods or swamp somewhere?”
Sammy looked down, pushing his anger aside, considering the question. The younger man lay on his back, eyes barely open, bleeding heavily from his right arm. He didn’t recognize him. He might be somebody that someone would miss. Sammy wasn’t sure.
The other was on his side, face in the gravel, panting. Sammy knew him well. Carl Stinson was trouble. So were his brothers. He could handle them, but it would be a distraction. He didn’t have time to settle scores with the Stinsons and did not want the sheriff poking around if they turned up missing.
With the tip of his boot, he pushed Carl over onto his back.
“Son of a bitch!” He looked at the two bikers who avoided his gaze. Pointing at Carl on his back, he said, “Will you look at that? Goddamnit!” Look at that!””