by Glenn Trust
“Tell me where you are. You still in Pickham County? I’ll come alone. Just tell me.”
“Shut up! You stop askin’ questions and do like I say.” He paused and then spoke calmly again, but the tone of taunting arrogance was gone. “Head up to Talladega.”
“Talladega?”
“Yeah! You a NASCAR fan? Talladega…out in the country outside Birmingham.”
“I know where it is.”
“Get your ass there. Go to the racetrack. We’ll call you there. Figure it will take you about four hours, and you best be there when I call. Now get movin’.”
The call disconnected. Seated on a park bench, his back to the massive battleship, Clay stared across the parking lot at his truck.
Talladega. He had a choice to make. He felt certain that the call from Albert Stinson had come from Georgia. A strong urge building inside told him to head back to Pickham County and start looking for the Stinsons and Lyn. He could be combing every back road and trail right now. For whatever reason, they were playing him; he knew it.
But if he were wrong…if they were watching…maybe not all of the time, but at different points on his route. Then he would be abandoning Lyn to them. They would know he had not followed their instructions.
He churned the problem over again. Would they risk staying close to home? Maybe.
The Stinsons had been pushing people around all their lives without any real consequences…at least until Carl’s throat was cut with his own knife. There were rumors that they had done worse things than push people around, but none had ever been proved.
He stood up and walked to his truck. There was no way he could chance it. In the end, they wanted him. He was the one who had killed Carl…accident or not. He was the reason Lyn was in jeopardy. It seemed the surest way to find them…and Lyn…was to do what they said.
Jaw clenched, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, he left the lot and found his way to I - 65 northbound towards Montgomery and Birmingham. Accelerating quickly to the speed limit, he added ten miles an hour.
He gazed in the rearview mirror at the gun rack hanging behind him and the Remington, .30 - 06, nestled in the cradle. They might run him around for a month, but in the end, they would bring him right to wherever they were, and that was exactly what he wanted.
57. You Gotta Fight
The two girls stumbled as Albert threw them into the bathroom. Lyn fell, landing on her hip in front of the toilet, her head thumping against the bathtub. Danny landed on top of her.
The door slammed and Albert shouted. “Get cleaned up! Take a shit. Do what girls do. Ain’t nowhere you can go from there, so don’t even try! I’m gonna take me a nap.”
Outside, Albert placed the chair under the doorknob, locking them in. It ground against the door as he wedged it tighter.
Lyn looked around the small room, rubbing her wrists, glad to be free of the tape. Albert was right. The tiny slit window over the tub would provide no exit from the room to the outside. They were no longer taped and bound but were just as much captives as they had been, maybe more so.
“Here.” She reached down and lifted one of Danny’s arms, rubbing the wrist. Glue from the tape grabbed at the fine hairs on her skin and she winced. “”Sorry.” Lyn put her arm down. “Let’s get some soap and clean up.”
As Lyn washed the girl’s face and arms with soapy water from the sink, Danny’s eyes cleared somewhat. She came back to the here and now. She smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“It’s nothing.” Lyn dabbed the washcloth at Danny’s face, trying to remove the tape glue from her mouth and cheeks. “Glad you can still talk.”
Danny shook her head. “Always thought I was stronger than that. When I met up with them boys, they was just another trick. Do what they want, make some money and move on. But then…” Her words stopped and tears welled up in her eyes.
Lyn nodded. “I know. They look just like another couple of white trash rednecks, except they’re more than that…worse.”
“Worse.” Danny nodded and lifted a hand to dry her tears. “Mean…bad like I ain’t never seen before.”
Lyn laughed softly, not wanting to attract Albert’s attention. “I’d say you got them figured out pretty good.”
Danny sat quietly, childlike, as Lyn cleaned her up. She looked at the girl who seemed to be at the center of things, although she wasn’t quite sure how. “Wish I was like you…strong.”
“I ain’t strong.” Lyn shook her head. “Not strong at all.”
“You handle things…stand up to them. I saw.”
Lyn took a deep breath and sat back against the wall. “Not strong. I just been through this before. That other time I was weak. I ran away…up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “I learned that’s no good. You gotta fight…we gotta fight…stay in it, right to the end.” She took Danny’s hands in hers. “It’s the only way.”
Danny nodded. “I’ll try.”
58. ‘Til It’s Too Late
“I’m goin’ across the road to get a beer.”
“What about me?” Bain sat on the bed watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island on the TV Land channel.
“What about you?”
“I want a beer too.”
“Tough shit. You stay here and watch them.” Albert motioned to the bathroom. “Keep ‘em locked up there.”
“How long you gonna be gone?”
“A while. Might get a bunch of beers.”
“That ain’t fair. I could use a beer too.” Bain turned his head from the television. He had a plan. It was a good one, he thought. “We could tape ‘em up again. Then we could both get a beer.”
Albert stood up from his bed, reached out and slapped the television remote from Bain’s hand. “Don’t fuckin’ argue with me!”
“You ain’t got to get mad.” Bain reached down to the floor searching for the remote. “I was just thinkin’…”
“Quit thinkin’. You ain’t all that good at it.” Albert slammed the door behind and stepped out into the afternoon.
Pulling a yellowed handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped at beads of perspiration that had already formed on his face. The motel room’s tepid air conditioning wasn’t very effective, but it was better than the afternoon humidity.
Limp and filthy, the rag smeared the sweat around, making a dirty smudge by his right ear. He stuffed it back in his pants, settled the camouflage ball cap down hard over greasy hair, shoved his hands inside his front pockets and scuffed across the gravel.
A semi roared by on the road. He waited and watched the bar’s parking lot across the street while the truck passed, covering him in dust and diesel fumes.
Stepping out behind it, he crossed without looking. Fortunately, for the mastermind of the Stinson gang, there was no traffic coming from the other direction. His eyes were focused on the flashing sign that said ‘Pete’s Place - Cold Beer’.
The parking lot was full of the usual assortment of motorcycles and pickups, some new…some beat up and rusting under the sun. Sammy Tuss’ new Chevy Suburban painted in a red that the dealer told him was a premium color…Crystal Red Tintcoat…sat at the end of the line of parked vehicles, a respectful space maintained around it. No one wanted to be the person who put a ding in Sammy’s car.
Albert spit into the gravel as he passed the SUV. Who the hell would paint a car that pussy color? He was careful not to let the yellow phlegm fly too close to the Suburban.
Inside, the room was darkened and the air conditioners were working full time, blowing semi-cool air that smelled of decades of beer and sweaty bodies. He stepped to the center of the bar and ordered a beer. The brown bottle came quickly and he turned it up, draining half of it with the first swallow. He had to admit that the service had improved since Sammy took the place over. The beer was cold and it showed up quick.
Elbows leaned on the bar top, Albert scanned up and down the row of stools. Sammy Tuss’ two biker thugs were flirting with one of t
he working girls. They had seen him come in and turned to watch him, reluctantly pulling their gaze from the girl’s breasts, swelling in fleshy mounds out her tank top.
He had been warned last time not to come back. Albert looked at the bikers, lifted his beer to them, and drank down the rest. They started towards him, then stopped when Sammy Tuss gave a shake of his head.
Farm workers, laborers, and a few truck drivers made up the rest of the crowd lining the bar and scattered around the room at the tables. Sammy sat in his accustomed place at the end in a corner reading a newspaper, a glass of bourbon, three fingers deep and neat, on the bar in front of him.
Albert figured he’d better do what he came for before Tuss changed his mind and had him tossed out on his ass. He walked towards Sammy. One of the bikers said something to the other who frowned and followed Albert. As for Sammy, he ignored Albert’s presence.
After standing unacknowledged before the master of Pete’s Place for several seconds, Albert cleared his throat and spoke. “I need to talk to you.”
Tuss sighed, folded the paper, laid it on the bar, removed his glasses, placed them on top of the newspaper and turned towards Albert, a look of resignation on his face. It seemed the Stinsons would not go away.
“I told you not to come back.” Tuss smiled. “Most people understand when I say something I mean it…unless they’re stupid.” He turned his head to the side, curious. “Are you stupid?”
Albert’s jaw clenched and he swallowed hard, conscious of the biker behind him and the other watching from across the bar. Who knew how many others were scattered around the place, waiting for a chance to pile on.
“I know…” He nodded. “I know what you said. Just hopin’ I could ask you a question…maybe have a beer or two.” While his teeth ground themselves to powder, Albert kept his tone respectful.
“Ask.” Sammy’s eyes never left his.
“I was just wonderin’…I mean me and my brother…we was…” Jesus, he thought, annoyed with himself. Pull yourself together. He stood up straighter. “Well, has anyone been askin’ about us…where we were…that sort of thing?”
Sammy’s eyes moved to the biker behind Albert, who gave a quick shake of his head. Sammy looked at Albert. “No.”
“Okay, good…that’s good.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s only ‘cause someone thinks we might be someplace we ain’t.”
“I see.” Tuss shook his head. “Well, no one’s been asking. That all?”
“Well, one more thing…we was wonderin’ if we could come in have a few beers now and again…no trouble…just beers.”
“That’s what your brother said…he’s dead.”
“That’s right.” Albert nodded. “Carl is dead.” He looked at Tuss. “We didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. We wasn’t even in the county.”
Sammy’s eyes bored into Albert’s. The stupid redneck was up to something. The question was what.
Sammy had promised to clean things up to get the place licensed. He didn’t need the Stinsons starting any shit. Still, there might some way to use this. He had found that information was always useful when dealing with the non-corruptible sort of law enforcement, and Sandy Davies and his chief deputy were the non-corruptible sort. It wouldn’t hurt to keep his ears open around the Stinsons…maybe hear something and get on the good side of the sheriff.
“All right. You in trouble with the law for anything?”
“Us?” Albert shook his head. “No, we ain’t got no trouble with the law.” Nothing except, kidnapping two girls and planning the murder of the Purcell boy, but he didn’t feel it necessary to mention that to Sammy Tuss.
“All right then, have a beer. Have a lot of beers. Have a good time. But stay out of trouble.” Sammy’s eyes narrowed. “Any trouble and you’re going to see I meant what I said last time.”
Albert nodded. “No trouble.” He turned and started back to his stool, thought better of it and turned back to Sammy. “Thanks…I…”
Sammy had already swiveled around on his stool and picked up his newspaper, cutting off any further exchange with the man in the sweat-stained cap and dirty shirt.
Followed by the biker, he walked back to his seat and picked up the empty beer bottle. Raising it to eye-level he looked into the brown glass, then thumped it down and ordered another.
Son of a bitch, he thought. Dirty, mother-fuckin’ son of a bitch.
Albert’s minimal vocabulary limited his ability to describe further his actual hatred for the man at the end of the bar, sipping his bourbon and reading a newspaper, acting like his shit didn’t stink like the rest of humanity’s.
Most of all, Albert hated the way Tuss put on airs, like he was ignoring everyone…like he didn’t give a shit about any of them. But Albert knew he wasn’t ignoring them. Sammy Tuss saw everything, and he was lord and fucking master of it all.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered a final time.
The heavyset woman in spandex placed the fresh beer directly in front of him. Albert lifted it in the direction of the bikers again, in a toast, smiled and tilted his head back. When he came up for air he, he looked around, saw that Sammy seemed content to read his paper and sip his bourbon. The bikers were keeping their distance. He tried to appear relaxed, but he had to work at it.
Tuss, the mighty man with his biker boys to do his dirty work, had tried to intimidate him…Clyde Stinson’s oldest son. Truth was, he had intimidated him, and that increased the Stinson rage exponentially.
Catch him out on some back road some night, Albert thought, in that fancy pussy-red car…he’d teach him about being intimidated.
Working his way through the beer, Albert’s reflections moved to other matters. He stared at himself in the bar back mirror and thought about the call with the Purcell boy.
Nobody had been asking about them, at least not in Pete’s Place. Sammy would know if they had. That young punk must have just guessed or been fishing when he said they were still in Georgia. There wasn’t any way he could know. That thought made him feel better and Albert ordered his third beer.
Through the alcohol haze forming in his brain, he managed to give himself a warning. You gotta be more careful…wary and watchful old Clyde used to call it. That boy ain’t so smart. Just keep reeling him in. He won’t know what hit him…’til it’s too late.
59. Worth Fighting For
The vibration in his shirt pocket startled him. Clay pulled the cell phone out, looked at the screen and punched the button with his thumb.
“Hey.”
“Thought you were gonna stay in touch.” Cy sounded annoyed. He had a right to be.
“Sorry. It’s been kind of…weird.
Sitting in the passenger seat of his own pickup, Cy looked at George. Weird was a good word to describe things. They were parked at a shopping mall on the outskirts of Mobile with Cy’s cell phone on speaker. He exchanged nods with George.
“So, where are you, brother? I’ve been worried. Still in Mobile?”
The plan was to stake out Clay’s location and wait. If the Stinsons showed, they would watch, follow and provide cover for Clay and hope they had Lyn with them or led them to her. Talking it over, they both agreed it wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all they had.
“No…not in Mobile.”
Cy and George leaned towards the phone as if it could transport them to Clay, wherever he was. Cy took a deep breath. Running him around the country was the scenario they had feared.
“Where then?”
“I’m…” Clay paused. “You haven’t told anyone have you?”
Cy looked at George, gave a cynical smirk and then lied to his brother. “No one.”
“Okay…good. They’re dangerous. They think anybody is on their trail, or I have anybody with me…they’ll kill her.”
“She’s their niece. You really think they’ll hurt her.”
“Carl was her father. Look what he did.” He shook his head. “I can’t take c
hances. I’m not gonna let her pay the price for what I did.”
“All right.” There was no reason to press Clay on it. He wasn’t changing his mind. In fact, he was probably right. “So where are you?” The guilty smirk crossed his face again. “Just between me and you.”
“Headed north on I-65.”
“To Birmingham?”
“Talladega.”
“Talladega! Why the hell they got you goin’ to Talladega?”
“How the hell do I know? They like racing, maybe.”
“They’re running you around.”
“Yeah, making sure there’s no one with me, or I haven’t called the law.”
“They watching you?” Cy looked at George. It was the question that needed to be answered.
“That’s the funny thing. I don’t think they’re anywhere around. Not here in Alabama.”
George had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking. Cy didn’t give him time anyway. “What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know…just a feeling I guess.” Clay paused remembering the conversation with Albert. “Last time he called, I looked at the area code. It was 912. Pretty sure he was on one of those prepaid phones. Made me think he was still in Georgia…not anywhere around me or Mobile.”
“I think you can set those phones up with whatever area code you want. Probably doesn’t mean anything…probably the only area code the asshole knows.”
“Right, but when I said it…told him I thought he was still in Georgia…in Pickham County, he got…confused sort of…worried.” Clay stared out at the passing traffic as he spoke trying to put it all together in his mind and explain to his brother. “It was the first time he didn’t seem in control of things…you know…flustered and nervy.”
“But you’re still headed to Talladega, right?”
“Yeah.” Clay shrugged. “In the end, I figure it doesn’t matter where he’s calling from as long as he leads me back to Lyn. I gotta focus on that.”
“You know he’s leading you to a trap, Clay.” Cy fought down the emotion in his voice. “They plan to kill you.”