Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  I press my hand to the dirt the backhoe had piled into the grave. It’ll be covered up with sod, and grass will grow above him, flourishing while his body fades.

  If I’m to believe the god Momma believed in, he’s probably burning in hell.

  If I believe Duke, the god of my childhood, he’s sneaking into heaven, looking for her.

  If I look too deeply in myself, I’ll have to face the fact that it’s probably neither of those. That there are pretty lies or hard truths and little room between for a woman like me.

  So I don’t look too deep. Not yet. I close my eyes and I press my hand into the dirt and I think about the two of them, meeting up in some bright place. Her smile, his relief.

  Even if it isn’t real, the truth remains: He is finished with the world—or maybe it was finished with him. No more revenge. No more pain. No more anger.

  It has to be a relief. Even if he isn’t wrapped in some white light and Momma.

  I should get up and leave. But getting up and going to the Tropics means saying goodbye to Duke, and going home means saying goodbye to Will, and if I just sit here a little longer, I don’t have to do either. Just for a few more minutes.

  A branch cracks behind me. I tense, my hand going for my purse. I have Momma’s little pearl-handled pistol in there.

  “I’m sorry, Harley,” says a voice.

  Frankie Daniels steps into place by my side, and I rise to my feet, brushing off my dress, leaving the purse—and my gun—on his grave.

  “Thank you,” I say. It should get easier every time I have to say it, but it seems to get harder instead. It’s like trying to swallow gravel.

  “He loved you very much,” she says.

  It’s the truth she can offer, and it’s sweet of her to do it. I look at Momma’s headstone, next to his now. I didn’t know the Momma Frankie knew. Maybe I would’ve liked her.

  Maybe we wouldn’t have gotten along at all.

  She was a woman led by her heart instead of her head, my momma. She was made up of secrets. I’m not sure I want to unravel the woman she was more than that. There are so many stones I could turn, but I don’t think I want to.

  I could forgive her, but there’s nothing to forgive.

  She made a choice. She did her best for me and for her. She didn’t know what was to come. How the father she chose for me and the man who never deserved the role would both shape my life with their war, hatred, and greed.

  “You know, I haven’t quite figured it out yet,” Frankie says, jerking me from my thoughts.

  “Figured what out?”

  “How you did it,” she says. “You wiped the playing field in North County clean. Everyone who was a threat to you is out of your way, and now there’s a Duke-sized hole in the market. I’m guessing you’ll be filling it.”

  My mouth twitches. I could lie to her—the instinct trained into me tells me to.

  But some things should be fought. And some fights need allies.

  I guess that’s the question, isn’t it?

  Am I Duke’s daughter? Am I my momma’s girl?

  Or, deep down, am I Carl’s?

  McKenna? Springfield? Am I both?

  Or am I better?

  I turn to her. “The next election’s in, what, six months?”

  Her pale eyebrows—almost white against her freckled face—scrunch together. “Five, I think.”

  “Sheriff Harris is running unopposed.”

  “He always runs unopposed.” It’s unspoken, the bitterness there, but it’s also the truth.

  Or it was the truth.

  I zero in, like Frankie’s my target. A beer bottle set on a fence rail. A red circle painted on a tree.

  “You should think about running,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “You’re crazy,” she says.

  “No, I’m not,” I say. “People like you, Frankie. You just need money for a campaign. For posters and buttons and commercials and all that shit. And you need enough dirt on Harris to ruin him.”

  “I don’t have any of that,” Frankie says firmly, shaking her head.

  “Well, I do.”

  She props her hands on her hips. “You trying to buy me, Harley?”

  I shake my head. “You can’t be bought, and I’m not stupid enough to try.”

  “Damn right,” Frankie says, that iron note of pride in her voice betraying exactly why she’ll be good at this.

  “Harris is lazy and dirty,” I say. “It makes him easy to manipulate. The whole damn county knows it. It would just take some proof to topple him.”

  “You can keep Harris in your pocket easy,” Frankie says. “Why do you want me?”

  “Because you’ll actually do your job.”

  She fixes me with a glare. “My job is to catch people like you, Harley,” she says bluntly.

  I smile. “But you and me, we want the same things,” I say. “We don’t want someone organized moving in. And you know the Aryans will come sniffing around too when they hear Duke’s gone. You won’t be able to keep a lid on it by yourself. That’s where I come in.”

  “So you hand me over your competition and I look the other way while you keep peddling your shit?” Frankie asks, disgusted.

  “We work together, from both sides,” I explain. “If we team up, we can at least keep out anything organized like the Aryans and the cartels. Or another man like Duke springing up, crowning himself the new kingpin. Think about it: No more men powerful enough to buy off your deputies. Just tweekers with labs in their car trunks and cooking it shake and bake in the motels. Think about how much easier that would be.”

  “So you…you don’t want to take over the trade,” Frankie says slowly, skepticism fading as the realization hits her. “You want to destroy it.”

  “I have other business pursuits,” I say.

  She sighs. “I’m not crooked.”

  “Then be smart,” I say. “My family’s kept control over the county for decades, and Duke had a hold on it that no one else ever did. Now that he’s gone, there’s too much opportunity, not just for weed, but much worse: for meth, for pharmaceuticals, for heroin, for trafficking—drugs and girls. Hell, give the small-time dealers a month, and they’ll have half the town hooked on Oxy. Three months, and it’ll be half the county. Unemployment rate spikes again, and it’ll be heroin because pills are too expensive. You’ll have people OD’ing all over the place.”

  “I can handle it,” she says, but we both know that’s a lie.

  “You’ve got no power, Frankie,” I tell her. “You’re a good cop, but you’re never gonna make any kind of difference unless you start playing the game.”

  She’s looking closely at me, like she’s searching for something. The lie in my words, maybe?

  But she’s smart. She knows I’m telling the truth.

  “That’s not the way it’s supposed to be,” she says.

  “But that’s the way it is,” I say. “You want some fairy tale? You’re never gonna get it. You want to actually make some change? Then put your black-and-white bullshit aside and work with me. Become sheriff. Get some fucking power. And use it.”

  “And what happens when I use it to do something you don’t like?” Frankie asks. “I disappear?”

  “You talk to me,” I say. “We compromise. We figure out a solution. We trust each other.”

  Frankie snorts. “You don’t trust me,” she says.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s wrong.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m on the edge, and I can step back or I can leap.

  “You really want to know how I did it?” I ask her. “How I got the better of those men no one’s ever been able to touch? How I did it without killing any of them or letting them lay one hand on me?”

  She nods.

  “I was smart. I waited. I listened. And I learned. I learned the most important lesson: Even the man who loves you, who’s dedicated his entire life to raising you up into something powerful, that man will underestimate the hell out of you just bec
ause you’re a woman. And the man who hates you? Who’s scared of you deep down in places he’ll never acknowledge? That man will work even harder to dismiss you. There was no way I could’ve won a full-out war against any of them. So I conned them. Every one of them. Even Duke on his deathbed. I blew the lab in Viola. I burned down the warehouse on State Street. And the house on Meadow Lane. I framed Springfield for all of it, and my guys bought it, hook, line, and sinker. They handed over all the product, and I used it to trick Harris and his boys into arresting Buck and Springfield. Now the Feds will take over, and my hands are clean. Because I’m just a woman. I’m not capable of such violence.”

  Frankie stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Fuck, Harley. Why tell me all this?” she asks, her eyes wide with horror, like she thinks I’m about to off her.

  This could very well be the end of me. For a second, we just look at each other, and it’s a dare and a threat wrapped up together.

  She knows there’s no proof. That I’d just recant if she brought me down to the station.

  She knows she can’t catch me. I’ll be two steps ahead, always.

  She knows I’d be an asset. That she and I, we could do something good.

  “I’m trusting you,” I say. “So trust me. And become something powerful.”

  I’ve extended the olive branch. Now it’s up to her to take it.

  I leave her there, and she doesn’t hold me back. But I can feel her eyes on me, all the way down the path through the cemetery.

  One down.

  One to go.

  It never ends.

  Fifty-Seven

  By the time I get to the Tropics, the parking lot’s full. I pull around the back, park, and walk in through the delivery door. Sal’s office is at the end of the long hallway, and when I see her inside, I knock lightly on the open door. Her tiny office is crowded, stacks of papers scattered across her big metal desk.

  She smiles gently when she sees me. “How you doing, Harley?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She stands up and envelops me in a hug. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Can you get Cooper and have him meet me in the back room? I need some whiskey. Top shelf. A few glasses, too.”

  “I’ll go get him,” Sal says.

  I walk through the hall, slipping into the back room. Duke’s domain.

  The long oak table’s the same as it was a week ago, but the room feels different. Like it’s missing something. Missing him.

  There’s a light knock on the door, and Cooper ducks his head in, bottle and glasses in hand.

  “Don’t ask me how I’m doing,” I tell him.

  His mouth quirks up as he sets the bottle and glasses on the table. “They’re all waiting for you.”

  I lean on the edge of the table instead of sitting in one of the chairs. “I didn’t make up a speech or eulogy or anything.” I wouldn’t know what to say. How do you sum up a man like Duke? He was loved. He was hated. He was kind. He was terrifying. But mostly, I think he was scared. Scared of losing me. Scared of losing anything.

  I’m so tired of being scared.

  “They’re not here to listen to you speak,” Cooper says. “They’re here to see if you’re up to snuff.”

  Of course. Everything’s a test.

  I look to the red steel door, listening to the strains of music—someone’s brought a guitar—that leak through. “Who showed?”

  “Paul and the rest of the Sons are out there. Our friends from Shasta and Trinity counties came. And Oregon and Washington. The hippies from Weaverville who bought protection from him last harvest. L.A. also showed. They sent two men.”

  “What about our friends from Mexico?”

  Cooper nods his head. “Everything’s settled with them. They sent their condolences. And some very nice tequila. Sheriff Harris also made it known to me he’d like to speak to you.”

  “That won’t be happening.”

  Cooper raises an eyebrow. “Harris is easy to deal with.”

  “I’m looking for more than that,” I say. “We can talk about it later.”

  “Who do you want to see first?”

  “Paul,” I say. He’s the only one who matters.

  “I’ll send him in,” Cooper says.

  “You can stay,” I tell him.

  Cooper shakes his head. “It’ll come off stronger if you do it alone.”

  I bite my lip. I can’t help the slight hesitation in me, and I know he sees it because he smiles encouragingly at me. “You can do this,” he says. “It’s a good idea.”

  “You have what I asked for?”

  He hands me the tiny brown glass bottle, which I pocket.

  “I’ll tell Paul you’re ready for him,” he says.

  He leaves me alone, and I get up, pacing a little. I should have changed. The dress keeps swishing against my knees and I don’t like it.

  The red door slides open, and Paul steps inside. He’s in a black shirt and jeans, and he’s even replaced his normal red bandanna with a black one.

  It’s a nice gesture. I appreciate it.

  “Harley.” He smiles sadly at me, holding out his arms. I step into his embrace, letting him kiss me on the cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say, pulling back.

  “He was a hell of a man,” Paul says. “One of a kind.”

  “He was,” I agree.

  “It’s an end of an era.”

  I don’t know if I’m just reading into the warning in his voice or if it’s really there. But I’m not taking any chances. Cooper’s right, of course: They’re all here to see if I’m up to snuff. It’s time to make my claim.

  I go over to the bottle of whiskey, pouring out two fingers in each glass, handing one to Paul.

  He raises his glass. “To Duke.”

  “To Duke,” I say, clicking my glass with his.

  He downs his whiskey in one toss, and I do the same, my eyes tearing up a little as it burns down my throat.

  I sit down at the head of the table, in Duke’s chair. If I close my eyes and breathe in, I can almost smell his tobacco.

  “Cooper said you wanted to talk,” Paul says.

  “Will you sit?”

  He pulls up the chair next to me, settling his elbows on the table. His bandanna covers most of his head, but that thin silver braid swings down his back. “I’m not sure how much Duke told you about the business—our dealings,” he starts.

  “I know everything.”

  “That makes things easier,” he says.

  “Oh?” I lean back in Duke’s—no, my chair.

  “We’ve never expanded,” Paul says. “Out of respect for your father.”

  “You mean out of fear of my father.”

  Paul smiles, but it’s not affectionate now. There’s a sharpness to it. “Duke was a fair man. He provided good transport for my product. I have no complaints.”

  “But you have plans to expand and renegotiate the terms of your deal,” I say. “Now that he’s gone.”

  Paul shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “You’re very young, Harley.”

  “Duke was running guns at my age,” I say.

  “You’re not your father.”

  It’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me. I don’t know if I should take it as an insult or a compliment.

  All I know is it’s the truth.

  “No, I’m not,” I say. “My father was a smart man. A dangerous man. But he didn’t think about the future. I do.”

  Paul’s mustache twitches. “And what do you think the future’s gonna look like?” he asks.

  It’s now or never. Either he’s going to go for it or he’ll reject it, and then I’ll be going down a very different path than the one I’ve planned.

  “I’m done with cooking,” I say. “I’m done with guns. I’m done with shit that kills people. And don’t think you’re gonna fill that hole I’m leaving in the market, because you’re not gonna to start with shit that kills p
eople just because I’m stopping.”

  Paul raises an eyebrow. “Is that right,” he says flatly. His anger’s barely coiled. The nerve of me, telling him what to do. I can almost taste his rage.

  In that moment, I know the fact that we’re at my father’s wake is the only reason he isn’t laying me out on the ground for my presumption.

  But I’ve got a trump card.

  Find their weakness, Harley-girl. And exploit it.

  “Your little girl,” I say.

  He goes very still. “You touch Rebecca—”

  “I wouldn’t,” I say sharply, and I mean it. “I don’t hurt children. I will, however, hurt the people who hurt them. How old is Rebecca now?”

  His eyes narrow warily. “Ten.”

  “I remember when your wife passed away,” I say. “I helped Miss Lissa make casseroles.”

  “Everyone made casseroles,” he growls.

  “I’ve always admired you for how you’ve dealt with it,” I tell him. “Rebecca was, what? Only two when Karen got sick? You were so strong for both of them.”

  “That’s what a father does.”

  “That’s what some fathers do,” I say pointedly. “Does Rebecca know what you do?”

  “She doesn’t need to know.”

  “She’ll find out,” I say. “Especially if you expand. She won’t be safe otherwise.”

  “I can keep her safe.”

  “You’re fooling yourself if you really think that,” I say.

  “So what do you say I should do?” Paul asks. His fingers tap the table. My eyes keep skittering to them. “Stay under your thumb, like I was under Duke’s? You don’t scare me, Harley.”

  “I should,” I say, staring him down. “I mean, the two men who posed the biggest threats to me both got arrested within a day of each other. That’s very convenient for me.”

  Paul’s mouth drops. “You didn’t,” he says.

  I fold my arms, leaning back. “Maybe I didn’t,” I say. “But maybe I did. And maybe you should think about what I’m capable of. Because I may be young, but unlike your daughter, I was raised for this.”

  “But you want to stop dealing,” Paul says.

  “No. I said I wanted to stop making and selling shit that kills people. Huge difference.”

  Understanding filters into his face, followed by anger as he jumps—fucking leaps—to the wrong conclusion. “You want to take over the pot business.”