CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The deal was to be done at ten p.m. with a guy Dale would only refer to as The Mexican, though his name was Omar and he was white. And Bradley would know such a thing because his neighborhood in Houston had been predominantly Mexican, blooming with taquerias and La Michoacanas. Omar was also from Houston but had spent every weekend in Galveston working on his tan, thus Dale’s nickname for him.
Omar had come to see the garden a few months before, and Bradley hadn’t liked him at first sight (glowing teeth, overly-aggressive walk). He had introduced himself to Dale but not to Bradley, because Bradley, lest we forget, was nobody. Omar was a wannabe gangster not unlike Jason, but unlike Jason, his connections were apparent and went beyond men like Dale. He wore a large gold watch, and the soles of the most recently-released Jordans (1996, Air XI, patent leather) did not flop when he walked, his toes forever dry and shiny. He smelled like cologne.
After the many months of work, all there was to do was to wait in the dark yet again. Bradley had watched plants grow for six months, yet the last day had felt, for reasons obvious to everyone, excruciatingly long. He could hear gunshots in the distance all day. They were hunters, Dale had assured him, though Dale hardly seemed confident either. Bradley had seen Dale throw up twice that afternoon. He had slinked off behind a tree, and Bradley could hear the sickness erupting from him onto the dried leaves. But Dale just wiped his mouth and told Bradley to carry on, the pink bottle now a permanent fixture in his bag. So many things to go wrong. Any moment, the police. Any moment, Jason. Any moment, Birdie. Any moment, what?
Dale, in a surprisingly effective camouflage t-shirt, paced around the stacks, checking the fruits of Bradley’s labor, though there was nothing left to do. He was muttering and agitated, the revolutionary before the coup. Bradley smoked a cigarette, slung deep in the camp chair, and watched the moon (waning crescent) and thought of Van. He just wanted to get through the next few hours peacefully, but that was not an option tonight, he knew. There was something in the air.
Dale eventually settled and grabbed a hot beer from his bag crumpled near the stacks. He plopped into the chair next to Bradley.
“Do we gotta worry about Jason tonight?” Dale asked.
“Probably still drunk.” Bradley shifted in his chair and forced a small laugh, but neither of them believed it.
“Boy’s acting crazy. Why’s he freaking out?”
Bradley wanted to say, "You killed a man, Dale." But instead, he said, “Nerves, I guess,” and took another drag off of his cigarette.
“You still nervous?” Dale’s hands shook violently again—bizarre spasms that made it hard for him to bring the can to his lips. Bradley wondered what was happening to him. He looked at the ground, praying for Omar’s truck to roll up.
“Why are you nervous if nobody knows you’re here?” Dale asked. Dale watched him closely, his eyes narrowed. But it didn’t seem to be a real question. It was as if he already knew something, and he was daring Bradley to say it.
Bradley didn’t speak.
“Is it Birdie?” Dale asked.
Bradley dropped the cigarette. He ran through a million scenarios in which Dale could have known he visited Birdie. Maybe he had seen him there. Maybe he had somehow listened with Onie from the porch.
Bradley eyed Dale’s bag behind him, the one with the gun.
“You nervous she gonna find out?” Dale asked. Maybe he didn’t know. Or maybe he was playing games. But Bradley needed to leave.
“She won’t find out, Dale.”
Bradley got up and made some space from Dale, all at once feeling trapped in the maze of the stacks. Suddenly, the line of questioning felt like some elaborate setup to test his loyalty, to catch him in a lie, and Bradley failed. Bradley felt himself unraveling, coming unhinged.
Dale got up, and Bradley flinched.
“What is wrong with you?” Dale said, walking closer.
“Nothing,” Bradley said. “Nothing.” He took a step back. He needed Dale away from him, to end whatever game he was playing. Bradley wanted to run. He wanted to take off through the woods, but Dale would be after him.
“Why you so skittish? I’m handing you a life on a goddamn silver platter,” Dale said, “and you two are freaking out on me.” Dale moved closer to Bradley again but Bradley spun away from him.
“Jason and me just—” Bradley said.
“What? Jason and you just what? You and Jason too good for this all of a sudden? Is that it?” Dale jabbed him hard in the chest with his finger. “Jason and you what?” He poked him again, then again. Bradley jumped back, but Dale stayed on him, each jab harder, more agitated, Dale’s eyes flashing white.
“Y’all should be grateful,” Dale said. “Grateful!”
Bradley swiped at Dale’s finger. He crushed Dale’s hand in his fist and twisted it to his chest. He leaned over Dale, an inch from his face. “Nobody should have died.”
It was an accusation Bradley couldn’t rewind. And with it, the instant realization he had put himself in danger. He had admitted to knowing about the dead man. Dale could kill him right there.
Dale ripped his hand free.
Bradley was ready to run; he leaned forward, feet planted firmly on the ground, toes clawing the earth, ready to sprint. Dale leaned in so close that Bradley could smell his breath, sweet with sugar but rotten, an acid bubbling up from below, wine-cooler sick. He looked right at him, eyes unblinking. “Who died, Bradley?”
Bradley shook his head and eyed a route through the woods.
Dale squinted at Bradley, searching his face. “Who died, Bradley? I want you to tell me who died.”
Bradley could get to Dale’s bag first, get to the gun first. But did Dale have one on him?
“I don’t—” Bradley said, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. He sounded pathetic, his voice a breathy rattle now.
It was then that Dale’s face changed from agitation to bewilderment. “It was you,” Dale said. “You shot Tommy.”
Bradley shook his head, not sure he heard right. More confusion, more head games.
“You boys shot him,” Dale said.
That’s when Bradley saw it. A shudder. Dale afraid of him. In that moment, Bradley had transformed into someone very different than Dale had thought, a man capable of killing. Bradley opened his mouth to speak but he fumbled. “No, Dale, I thought—” But he stopped himself before he could finish.
“Did Tommy come up here?” Dale asked. “Was he trapping? Was he messing with you? Is that what happened? You panicked?”
Dale watched Bradley closely, his gaze darting around Bradley’s face, trying to make meaning of this new revelation. And Bradley, mystified, fell silent, not knowing what to say, what questions to ask, what to defend against, not sure what was happening. But one thing was clear now: Dale had not killed the hunter.
“Is that why Jason’s freaked out?” Dale asked.
Bradley nodded carefully. A lie, of course. But was it? Had Jason somehow…? Everything was reordering, and Bradley’s thoughts tried to catch up. If Dale hadn’t killed the hunter, who?
“I thought someone was messing with me,” Dale said. “But you two—”
Dale stared into the night, as if he could see something, and Bradley thought he might be hallucinating. Dale touched his stomach, but after watching him throw up all day, Bradley couldn’t imagine what was left in his belly to let go.
“I owed him a lot of money,” Dale said.
The extra money.
Bradley looked at the stacks of plants. Less than they thought, the quality worse, yet more money promised. Dale was able to pay more because the hunter was dead. The months of exhaustion, the days of fear, Dale’s paranoia, his hatred for Van and Birdie. Something was starting to crystalize in Bradley’s head. He walked closer to Dale.
“What did you owe him for?” Bradley asked. Dale didn’t say anything and backed away from Bradley. But now Bradley ste
pped closer, something waking up in him. “Why’d you owe that hunter?”
Van ratted me out.
Mayhill thinks he’s a hitman.
Seventy-five thousand dollars.
“Dale, why’d you owe that hunter so much money?” But Bradley already knew the answer. He knew it in his blood, as if Van whispered the secret to him right there in the woods, as he towered over Dale. Dale had hired Tommy Jones to kill Van.
Bradley thought of Birdie and Onie, their broken hearts. He thought of Randy Mayhill, the loyal best friend he wished he had. He thought of Jimmy Nellums telling him that Van had died, a smirk on his face. He thought of what it felt like in his chest that day, unable to breathe, sobbing so hard in the feed store parking lot he couldn’t drive. Bradley thought of the gun just a few feet away.
Then another thought: maybe Dale had sent the hunter to take care of Bradley.
Dale opened his mouth to speak, but his words were interrupted by the loud rumble of a truck. A few moments later, headlights shot through the dark, blinding them, and the two men turned away from the light and covered their eyes.
***
Dale walked into the bright blast of light. His silhouette looked eerie against the blurry white beams, more telephone pole than man, like he was walking into the belly of a spaceship. (And wouldn’t Dale be just the type to be beamed up and represent our kind?) But it was not a spaceship. It was an old Mrs. Baird’s Bakery delivery truck driven by the very-tan-but-obviously-Caucasian courier named Omar.
The driver cut the lights. Bradley rubbed his eyes and waited for them to adjust. Omar got out. He was shifty-eyed and moved quickly. Dale trailed behind him, right on his heels. Omar inspected the stacks with a flashlight and nodded his head, and Bradley was surprised to find himself desiring Omar’s approval at the work they had done. Omar would drive the plants to a Houston warehouse where they would be cut and dried and packaged and distributed, but Bradley didn’t like to think about that part, the dozens of other Bradleys—black, brown, short, tall, urban Bradleys—taking it from there.
Bradley helped Dale and the courier load the bushels into the truck. They piled them in tall stacks like bodies, and Bradley was careful not to touch the truck or say his name to Omar, as if he would remember or care about a man like him. Bradley kept counting down the moments.
Just a few more minutes.
Bradley didn’t look at Dale, even at the very end when the man handed Dale a red gym bag full of cash, and Dale gasped audibly upon seeing the money. Then, the man got in the truck and drove away.
Just a few more seconds.
Dale walked over to Bradley, chuckling and swinging the red gym bag. He unzipped it slowly to show Bradley, the light from the almost-full moon illuminating it like pirate’s gold in a rusty treasure chest. Bradley stopped breathing. There it was—honest-to-God, stamped by the United States Treasury—mounds upon mounds of tightly wound twenty dollar bills, packed in rolls, and Dale then, as if all were forgiven: “I told you, son. I told you I’d take care of you.”
Just like that, after months of boredom and after weeks of agony and after a lifetime of money problems, being a slave to his mother, it was over.
That’s it. I’m free.
But that kind of ease, of course, is not for desperate men. Winning the lottery, walking away scot-free. No.
That was when Bradley and Dale heard the hogs begin to root. They were agitated, and Dale swiveled his head quickly left and right, paranoia out of remission. Dale hugged the bag close to his body and pulled a gun from the waist of his jeans. He looked into the dark and squinted. He looked back at the money, trying to choose. “Hold this,” he said. He shoved the bag of money into Bradley’s chest, then pointed the gun at him. “I swear to God if you move an inch…”
Dale grabbed a flashlight from his bag and edged into the thicket.
It was then, standing in the night with five hundred thousand dollars in cash clenched to his chest, that Bradley Polk, with cat-like vision from weeks of sitting out in the woods in the dark, could see two figures—one large, one small—descending upon Dale from opposite ends of the thicket.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mayhill gripped the gun. The hogs, impossibly loud, chattered to the left of him and moved through the thicket like a bulldozer. The scrub did not bother them in the least, acting as low tornadoes mowing down branches and vines. He kept his gaze on Bradley and Dale.
Bradley stood in the middle of the woods. After days of looking for him, to see Bradley in the flesh was astounding, the relief immense. He was alive. But Bradley looked scared and small somehow, despite his largeness. Suddenly, Dale shoved Bradley, and then the beam of Dale’s flashlight turned toward the trees, toward Mayhill, and bounced through the woods.
Mayhill held up his gun and followed Dale, but there was no straight shot through the trees. Run, Mayhill thought. I should run. What a cowardly thing to think, but it was all he thought when Dale’s sunken face appeared behind the beam. The light narrowed in on a tree ten feet to the left of Mayhill. It settled there for a second and slithered down the trunk. Then, unsatisfied, the beam stalked another tree, closer. More footsteps, louder, slower. Hogs still moving.
“Jason?” Dale yelled, panic in his voice. “Jason, cut it out. You getting paid, boy.”
Dale turned, and the light settled on the hogs.
Run. Yes, I could turn to the right and run. But the path was thick with fallen branches and scrub. If Mayhill ran now, he would stumble only a few strides in, and Dale would have seconds of open shots the moment he bolted. Mayhill needed a clear shot. He held his breath and listened. Dale had stopped. No footsteps. The beam settled on a pine far to his left in the opposite direction. Yes, go there. Mayhill looked through the sight. Dale’s steps waded deeper into the woods, closer to where Mayhill left the hogs, to where he knew Dale could hear them.
Mayhill breathed an uneven breath and crouched down as low as his knees would allow. The trees couldn’t hide him but maybe the underbrush would.
Then a second later, Dale spun. Mayhill’s shoulder, as if in slow motion, flooded with terrible light. Dale’s flashlight pointing at his shoulder. Dale’s flashlight pointing between his eyes, burning like a bee sting. Mayhill’s eyes closed on instinct, and he turned his head to relieve the shock of the light. He tried to look at Dale, his gun up.
Then a yell.
Out of nowhere, out of the dark, behind Dale, someone Mayhill didn’t immediately recognize. A man behind Bradley, shoving Bradley to the ground, ripping the bag from his hands. Dale’s light whirled toward the commotion. Dale ran at them.
That boy. That boy who drove the Datsun.
Mayhill ran to the right and stumbled over a branch and onto the ground. He grabbed his gun and looked to Bradley, then back at Dale for his shot.
The light bounced on the two men rolling on the ground. Bradley grabbed at the boy, who was struggling free. The lantern fell to the forest floor, still half illuminating the scene in stop-motion pictures. The glint of gunmetal in the light. Dale on his feet. Dale firing his gun. Dale running and tackling Bradley. One of the boys on the ground, holding his arm, screaming out in pain.
Dale stood with his back to the thicket and to Mayhill, who still crouched on the ground in the woods. Dale’s gun was now on Bradley, who had the bag. The boy was in the dirt next to him, trying to sit up but going weak. “Dale, no,” Bradley said. “Dale, don’t.”
Bradley’s face twisted in fear, one arm toward the boy, one arm clenching the bag to his chest like a life-preserver. “Dale, please.”
Mayhill’s heart pulsed through his hands. He pointed his gun right between Dale’s shoulder blades. They stuck out so far they looked like wings. It was a straight shot. Dale was going to kill them both, both young men. Dale’s bullet had hit one of the boys. His vision flashed to Van. Van on the ground. His killer over him. Is this how it happened? Suddenly, Dale spun toward the woods, and that’s when Ma
yhill could see Birdie, not ten feet away from him, running into the light, the lantern illuminating the long stretch of her white arms, her gun on Dale. Dale’s gun right on her.
“Birdie!” Mayhill leapt and pulled the trigger.
Two shots—two—blasted through the dark like a string of firecrackers. A scream. Dale dropped backward to the ground, falling hard on Bradley. Bradley scrambled out from under the dead weight of Dale’s body, then drug himself out of the light, and disappeared into the woods. The hogs stampeded forward. Confusion everywhere. Birdie had dropped out of sight.
Mayhill plowed through the thicket, yelling her name, treading through hogs and limbs, his right leg heavy and hot. “Birdie! Birdie!”
Mayhill got almost a hundred yards, weaving through the neat rows of pine, until the adrenaline wore off and pain lanced through him like a fire pick. Something very terrible had happened to his leg. Mayhill fell against a tree and looked at his leg. He had been shot. Thoughts seized him. He should get back to his truck, get back to Birdie’s house, somehow get to the hospital two hours away in Houston. But where was Birdie? Had she been hit?
And then, a split-second vision: off in the distance, a flash of white, like the wink of a fawn’s tail. He knew it was Birdie—her face, her arms—her paleness a ghostly flare in the dark. He cut the lantern, hoping his eyes would adjust to darkness. He would follow her, but all he got was the glitter of white, and she was gone deep, deep into the woods, but in the thunderstorm of hooves and confusion, Mayhill crumpled to the ground.
***
Mayhill could see the blood pulsing through his jeans, bleeding everything out of him so fast. He had to get to his truck. He pulled himself up and shifted to his good leg. The woods went black for a second, but he held onto the pine and stayed upright. His energy, his breath, his thoughts—everything was moving out through the apparent hole in his leg. He stared at the impossible amount of blood, and the woods around him came into crystalline focus. Every pine needle, the glinty eye of every hog.
He closed his eyes and tried to map out where he left his truck. East of here, he thought, not too far. He could make it. He began to walk, tugging his right leg behind him, wincing at every step, stopping every few seconds to lean against a tree and catch his breath. He felt drunk, and the sleep threatened to take him over like a sudden strike to the head, but the thicket ushered him along and eventually he felt like he was floating, slipping above himself into the canopy of the trees, the same words pulsing through him. I did it, I did it.
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