by Jack Hardin
“How was your class?” she asked. Then she frowned and said, “Your hat. It’s not red.”
“You know what? I knew there was something different about me today. I just couldn’t place it.” He shook his head.
Ellie didn’t know if she had ever seen him without his red Hornady ball cap. She wasn’t sure what to think. This one was dark blue and had Reticle’s company logo stitched above the bill in white. “Why the change?”
“My mama. She thought it would be nice to have a hat with my logo on it.”
“You ordered hats for the gun shop, didn’t you?”
“I ordered hats for the gun shop,” he said sheepishly, and then perked up. “Do you like them?”
She examined the hat. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“What? Really?”
“Of course I like it. It’s a great idea.”
He smiled, like he was relieved, like her opinion was the only one that really mattered. “Good, because I ordered branded koozies and t-shirts and keychains too.”
“Koozies? That’s big time, Tyler. You have a koozie with your logo on it and you’re made.”
“Stop it…”
“I want the first one out of the box.”
“Done. They’ll be here next week. Hopefully in time for Mango Mania.”
“I thought you weren’t doing the festival?”
“Someone dropped out, so it opened up a space. I’ve got a couple employees running the table for me. They’ve got Reticle set up right next to Wild Palm’s table. Have you had their rum? Oh, man.”
“I have. Major likes it too. That’s the only rum he pushes at The Salty Mangrove now. Speaking of Mango Mania, I’m going to walk the festival that Saturday morning and then go fishing at Blind Pass.” She jiggled her eyebrows, hoping to convince him to come out on the water with her.
His expression flattened. “Nope.”
“Come on. It’s just a boat, Tyler. Jaws isn’t going to jump out of the water and grab you up.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, there’s all kinds of stuff in those waters. I’m just fine with my boots in the dirt.”
“I don’t like your hat anymore. It’s dumb.”
“So we’re six years old now, are we?” He winked at her and went off to oversee a private lesson on the long range.
Ellie reloaded her empty magazines, slipped her ear protection back on, and fired away.
Chapter Eight
Jean Oglesby's tract of hunting land sat in the southeast quadrant of the intersection of State Road 70 and US Route 27, ten miles west of Lake Okeechobee, the Sunshine State’s largest freshwater lake. Ellie had turned off Route 27 onto a silted road that cut through a thin forest of scrub oaks, hickory, and sand pines reaching upwards amongst clusters of cordgrass. Spanish moss hung lazily from the trees’ fronds and branches, like old abandoned laundry still drying in the breeze. Ellie turned her Silverado left at the dead end and drove another mile before seeing a cabin on the right, tucked back into the trees. She slowed to five miles an hour, and her tires moved over exposed roots and small rocks dotting the long sandy driveway. She parked, grabbed a brown paper bag from the seat next to her, and got out.
The cabin’s exterior was made of uncut cedar trunks split in half. Long strips of thin, aging bark hung off the wood, and cobwebs ran sporadically in the cracks between the posts. There was no awning, no porch. Just an aged pine door with a wooden handle. Ellie stepped up to it and knocked.
A commotion ensued behind the door. She heard someone scuffle to her left and then to the right, then the floorboards creaked as they came close to the door. “Who is it?” a man’s voice snapped.
“Ronnie, it’s Ellie O’Conner. Your mother sent me over to chat with you. She’s worried about you.”
“I don’t know you. You need to leave. Right now.”
Ellie had anticipated this. Almost down to his exact words. “I have Marlboro Red 100’s in a soft pack. A whole carton, Ronnie. What else do I have in here?” She opened the bag and looked in. “Coke Zero, jalapeño bologna, and Twizzlers. Your mother says it’s all still your favorite. So, the deal is you have to open the door. I’m not leaving this stuff on your doorstep.”
There was no noise, no sound from inside for nearly half a minute. Finally, “How do I know you’re friends with my mother?”
“Because I have jalapeño bologna.”
Another five seconds and the door slowly opened. “Careful now,” he said, stepping back with the door. Ellie walked in. She stepped over to an old farm table. The place smelled musty, a combination of sweat, dust, and old wood. She set the bag down and turned to see Ronnie shutting the door with his foot while training a .38 revolver at her chest. She raised her hands and stepped back. “Whoa there, Tiger. Ronnie, I’m only here on your mother’s request. She’s worried about you.”
“Well, I told her not to be.”
“That’s not really the way it works.”
His expression steeled. “Well, I know that, but what else was I supposed to tell her?”
“Why don’t you put that down and we can talk about it? Look,” Ellie pinched the edges of her t-shirt and pulled it up until he could see her waistline. She slowly turned all the way around. “I’m not armed.”
He pointed the gun to a high back easy chair in the corner. “Have a seat over there.” Ellie complied. The cabin was tiny: one room consisting of the table, a couch, and the chair, a short kitchen counter with a stainless steel sink, two double beds at the far end. A deerskin rug sat on the floor in front of the couch. Two makeshift end tables summed up the furnishings; no refrigerator, not even a fireplace.
Ronnie sat on the couch across from his unexpected guest and kept the gun trained on her. He was an average looking man. His deep brown eyes looked tired, and his scraggly brown hair was uncombed. He wore a Ron Jon tank, and a thin gold chain hung from his neck. Days-old scruff covered his face, and a round pink scar the size of a dime sat right between his eyes, reminding Ellie of the bindis that Hindu and Jain women wore, only much larger. Yesterday, before Ellie had left Jean’s house, Jean had showed her a picture of her son and had explained the scar. Ronnie had been eleven, bouncing a tennis ball on the wall of his father’s workshop while his old man, tipsy on Crown, was busy with a drill press, punching holes in a piece of pine intended to be part of a nightstand he was building. No one noticed that the press was loose, and his dad didn’t see his boy running toward him, chasing the rogue tennis ball. Ronnie’s father pulled down on the handle, the press slid off the table and right onto his kid. The boy’s face ended up wedged between the press’s table and the tip of the auger. The auger—a carbon-steel bit, its sharp point like a screw—was still spinning when Ronnie shifted and the feed level mashed onto the floor. That auger started in on him and went right to the bone, stopping just at the other side before getting into the gray matter. One in a million chance, his father had said. Ronnie, it seemed, was the one, and twenty-some years later he still had the bright scar to prove it.
“You know my mama?” he asked. “Then what’s her favorite painting in her house? One she painted herself.”
Ellie resolved herself to answering whatever questions he asked. “The Dolphin on High Seas. But I think she’s gotten to calling it The Jumping Dolphin. Her original is framed in briarwood and hangs near the back door.”
If he was impressed, he didn’t show it. “Where did she work before she became a painter?”
It wasn’t a very good question. That was public knowledge, probably on Jean’s website. “She taught at Pine Island Elementary. She was my art teacher as a matter of fact.”
He nodded like that impressed him more than her previous response. “What did she say about me?”
“You mean, did she tell me about you calling every Friday around lunchtime, that you missed a couple weeks, that you told her in code you were holed up out here?”
He still didn’t look satisfied, but he stared at the floor a
nd nodded to himself as if someone inside his head was telling him to trust her. He lowered the weapon and set it on his leg, leaving his hand splayed on top of the steel. He kept his stare on the floor. “You can’t help me. It’s ridiculous that you came.”
“Maybe it is, but I don’t have anything better to do. So why don’t you humor me and give me an idea as to what kind of trouble you’re in. You’re shut away in here like a scared fox, so unless you think this is just going to blow over, then at least give me something. If not for me, then for your mother.” She watched him as he sat there, his nose flaring, his lips drawing a hard line while he decided whether or not to let the cat out of the bag. When he sighed and his shoulders slumped, she knew the proverbial cat was getting out of the proverbial bag.
“It’s just all messed up,” he said. “Was never supposed to be like this.” He stood up, walked a few paces to a cabinet above the sink, and took out a bottle of gold Bacardi. He set the gun on the counter and poured a generous measure of rum into a plastic cup and had it down in two chugs. He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand and leaned back against the counter. “After Harlan died, we started selling pot.” He shifted his eyes toward her to gauge a reaction. She presented none. Ellie had already decided she was going to keep her cards close to the chest. Ronnie didn’t need to know she was DEA; not yet. It would only spook him, and she would be on the other side of his cabin door within a few seconds. She kept listening.
“It was just a little at first. It’s how we started funding ourselves. I didn’t think it was all that big of a deal. It’s not like we were selling heroin to kids. But then Oswald, he called a meeting one day and said we’re going to be moving guns now. Now I know it ain’t right selling drugs at all, but I drew the line right there. See I’m not talkin’ little .22 plinksters or .410 shotguns. I mean the mothers. Military grade crap. Anti-materiel crossovers like Barrett XM500s and short-stroke SIG MCXs.”
Ellie shot up an eyebrow. She had never shot the MCX; it had been procured a year after she left Brussels. But the Barrett she had fired on many occasions. It was a .50 caliber designed to penetrate armored vehicles and concrete barriers.
“And no way in hell I’m messing with black-market firearms,” Ronnie continued. “Dawson felt the same way. That’s all a whole ‘nother level, and then you have to start dealing with the people that are willing to find that kind of stuff. I’m talking the kind of people that you don’t double-cross; and if you do, the kind of people where someone has to change out the carpet when they’re done with you.”
“Ronnie, back up for me a little bit. Who is Harlan?”
“Harlan Tucker.” He said the name confidently, proudly, like she would know who he was. When all he got back was a blank stare, he said, somewhat quizzically, “Harlan Tucker, the Enlightened Cowboy?”
She shrugged. “I’m sorry...I’ve never heard of him.”
Ronnie rolled his eyes. “Harlan was the truest purveyor of wisdom and national honor America has had in decades. He wrote this.” He stood, walked over to an end table, and picked up a paperback book. He handed it to Ellie.
She read the title out loud. “The Patriot’s Handbook of Anarchy.” The back cover had a small black-and-white photo of an older man sporting a trimmed white beard and wearing a leather vest complete with a bolo necktie. The book was dog eared and creased all along the spine, worn like it had been read and reread a dozen times.
“That there is the best book written in the last century.” Ellie wasn’t sure Ronnie had all the qualifications to make such an assessment, but she didn’t push back. He stuck his hand out, and Ellie gave him back the book. He returned to the couch.
“Harlan fought in Vietnam for a cause he couldn't get behind. When he got sent back stateside early because of a shrapnel wound—‘home alive in sixty-five’ he used to say—he realized he was a mockery to his countrymen. And after everything he saw over there, he quit life and became homeless for twenty years before some guy in a downtown mission gave him a talking-to about purpose and change. It lit a fire under him, and Harlan started speaking against the injustices of our government and the need to bring back the national pride as conceived in the early days of the Republic. After a while of leading a small grassroots movement, he wrote this.” He held the book up again. “It’s his magnum opioid.”
Ellie grit her teeth to keep from outwardly smiling at the misnomer.
Ronnie kept going. “Harlan spoke about things that a lot of us always felt but could never put words to. Like how the government keeps taking our liberties instead of being the institution that protects them. Harlan was different than a lot of these other guys like him who lead groups like ours. He didn’t hate blacks or Jews like the skinheads do. He wasn’t interested in harassing people or looting like the Hells Angels. To him, liberty was not found by getting rid of ethnic groups but by bringing harmony between them.” Ronnie lifted his shoulders, and his chin followed. He said, “‘We are a distracted people. Television, entertainment, concerts, and video games are robbing our youth of the beatific vision of our country’s founders. We were meant to make a better world for all that shall come later, not squander what we have so there is nothing left to leave behind. We must stand up and fight for righteousness, to fight for freedom, to fight for truth. Our society remains in a rapid state of decay, and men and women no longer understand how to work together for a common goal. Unless we act, no one else will.’” Ronnie looked back at Ellie with moist eyes. “That’s from the book. I memorized that last year. Page one hundred and seventy eight.”
Ellie took note of a simplicity about Ronnie. It wasn’t stupidity. Unrefined maybe, but from all she could tell, Ronnie meant well. The Enlightened Cowboy had given him something to believe in.
“You mentioned a Dawson,” Ellie said. “Who is that?”
“Dawson…” Ronnie's voice trailed off. He started picking at the little fuzz balls in the fabric of the couch cushion for a little too long. Maybe the rum had kicked in. He had probably been enjoying some prior to her arrival.
“Ronnie,” Ellie said.
He head jerked up. He blinked. “Sorry. Sorry. Dawson...right?”
She nodded.
“He’s my friend. The best friend I’ve ever had. Dawson Montgomery. I was supposed to meet him at a truckstop in Arcadia a few days ago and then we’d roll out here together. But he never showed, and I’ll tell you what, Dawson always shows. Always. You could set a watch to him.” Ronnie looked at her suspiciously, as if he was deciding whether or not he wanted to tell her something more. “What I’m gonna say now you have to swear this stays here. I don’t want my mama finding out. Deal?”
“Sure. Deal.”
He sighed. “Dawson got busted last year for moving pot. They never tied it back to our group, and it wasn’t anything more serious than that, and it was a only a second offense so he didn’t get the whole book. So he was out in seven months, and as it goes with parole requirements he had to get a,” Ronnie made air quotes, “‘real job.’ So he did. He got a ‘real job.’” Finger quotations again. He paused and looked at Ellie once more with untrusting eyes, then kept on. “He’s had this job at a convenience store in LaBelle for a few months now. Red Rover, they call it. Problem is not long after Dawson gets out, then he revved up the ol’ easy money engine again. Only this time it wasn’t pot, it was cocaine.” Ronnie put up two defensive hands. “I didn’t know he was. I swear. I quit dealing anything myself after Dawson got nabbed last year. Until I bolted and came out here, I’d been putting in forty hours a week doing the night shift stocking shelves at Winn Dixie. Anyway, Dawson said they had this particular shipment coming in that was hidden in repurposed dairy boxes. Cocaine at the bottom, and a layer of packed cheese—like Kraft or something—over that.” Ronnie nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “Dawson called me in a panic. Said that he had gone to the back section of the Red Rover to check the boxes and what had come in a few hours earlier had been changed up.”
“C
hanged up? How so?”
“So Dawson...one time every month he gets the closing shift at the Red Rover which ends at midnight, and then he has to turn around and open up at six a.m. So on that night he just stays there with the lights out, and they come in through the back and drop off the goods. Then a little while later the distributor comes in and grabs it up. But this time,” he shook a finger, “he receives the boxes then happens to fall asleep behind the front counter. He wakes up at around three and hears a sound in the back, and when he gets back there ain’t no one around. He opens the back door, ain’t no one around outside either. So for good measure he checks the boxes again and notices that the packets of cheese had been disturbed. He digs further, sees the cocaine, digs further and sees...guns. Guns. Not only that, some of the coke was gone to make room for the weapons. And that’s the moment the distributor gives their little rap on the back door. They’re there for pick-up. So he lets them in and takes them back to the walk-in cooler and tells them what’s in the boxes and can’t explain the guns or the missing drugs. Near twenty kilos, man, just—swish—gone. The distributor is pissed and doesn’t take anything. I guess them and Dawson got the ol’ bamboozle. The distributor left empty-handed.”
“So it was after that when Dawson was going to meet you at the truck stop?” she asked.
“Yeah. Right after. He calls me from the store fuh-reaking out and I tell him to just play it cool and not to saying anything until we could figure something out. But he called me back a few hours after the store opened and said he was too scared to stick around.” Ronnie had started pacing and ended up at the Bacardi again from which he proceeded to help himself to another couple fingers. “I tell him to just call Oswald and be honest and tell him what happened, and that’s what he does. He finally gets in touch with him a little after lunch, but apparently Oswald accuses him of lying and said he was sending someone up there to get him so they could have a little chat.”