by Eric Beetner
Garret tried piecing it together, but the pain in his gut made it hard. He must have noticed the missing gun. Maybe his dad followed him. No, then he would have seen what happened at the Smart Mart. Maybe the girl, Nicole, called the cops. She seemed like she didn’t want Rafael to kill him.
It didn’t really matter. For the first time since he’d been shot, Garret thought he might not die.
Sutherland listened to the low rumble of the engine, the loose paper noises of the trash heap, the scrabbling of rat feet. He tried to stand, but his leg wouldn’t hold weight anymore.
“Garret, you okay?”
“Not really.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a lot explain right now, Dad.”
“I mean how are you hurt.”
“Oh,” Garret said. “I’m shot.”
“How many times?”
“Just once. It’s bad though. Or I guess it was a good shot, if you ask him. Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”
“Okay, quiet now.”
His son, up to something that would get him shot and the goddamn sheriff had no idea about it. He thought back to every late-night argument with Tracy, every time Garret ran out to one of his friend’s houses. He and Tracy let it get too far well before tonight, when it went so far over the line there was no coming back.
Sutherland may have pulled the trigger on Tracy, but he felt like he’d put the bullet in his own son as well.
Three quick shots raked the trash pile behind him. Sutherland dove into the muck. He couldn’t leap far without the benefit of one leg, but none of the shots landed. His head rested on what had to have been a week’s worth of dirty diapers. Luckily they were balled up tight and not leaking. They made a soft landing if you could forget the smell, and with the bouquet around him, a pile of baby shit was just one more scent in the potpourri.
Sutherland aimed his gun, sighting down the barrel for a target. He saw nothing. He thought, God damn but Cliff would love to be out here for this.
Rafael had an empty clip. He’d had that same clip in the gun for over a year. He hadn’t fired it in all that time until Willy a few days ago. The pipe was always motivation enough, and he and Troy never liked the use of guns in the loan business. A dead customer never pays off.
Now he hated them even more. Ever since the hot-headed night he’d lost his cool, things had gone down the shitter. He stood in center of the place where everything comes to meet its last. Even the sewer got to process the water and then eventually let it join back up with the river and run wild. But here, at the dump, this is where the world gets The End tattooed on its ass.
And now he was out of bullets.
The night he bought the gun, off a guy named Shaky Earl, he stuffed it in the glove box and kept it hid from Troy for a good month and a half before he copped to owning it. He’d gotten it out of the glove box and tried several hiding places around the house before settling on one, but Rafael knew that he’d never gone to get the spare clip from the glove box. His slip of the mind then seemed like ingenious planning now. He just had to get close to the car.
The exhaust smell overpowered the rotting dump stink from where Garret lay with his head facing up at the tailpipe. He noticed his breath coming shorter. The searing pain in his side had given way to a tightening. He cramped and felt his body starting to revolt over the lack of medical care.
Garret saw his dad still moving on the far side of the dirt patch. Those shots hadn’t gotten him. Garret rolled his head and looked under the length of the car. He saw movement along the fringes of the trash pile, a shadow too big to be a rat. It was Rafael.
Rafael crept closer to the car. If he got in, he could reverse over Garret, finishing the job from before. And he could get away. Or maybe he had some secret weapon in the car. Something to use to kill both Garret and his father.
If he called out to his dad, Rafael would surely kill him. He needed some way to slow Rafael and give his dad a chance to take him out.
Rafael reached the front bumper of the car. Garret saw him bend down low, nearly to the ground, to pass under the headlights so the sheriff wouldn’t see the shadows. Garret had to act. No time to sit back. This time he needed to act for good, not vengeance.
With no time to think, Garret twisted his body and summoned each last ounce of energy he had left. He pushed to his knees, grabbing on with both hands to the bumper of the car. He swallowed the scream building in his throat. He was making enough noise already. Rafael broke for the passenger door, knowing that Garret was up and moving.
Garret let his body flop forward into the trunk. He landed face down on top of Kyle, balled his fists and grabbed hold of his still-soggy shirt, then pushed himself back up. Garret felt his insides tear, thought for sure he would look down to see his innards streaking down his front and slopping onto the dirt.
He pushed on. Lifting Kyle in front of him, Garret moved toward the front of the car.
“He’s here, Dad. He’s here.”
Like a waterlogged battering ram, Kyle’s body led the way as Garret lunged forward and pumped his legs in a one-way trip to the front end of the car. No stopping. No turning.
Through the narrow gap between Kyle’s slack head and his collarbone, Garret saw Rafael lean back out of the car, his back against the passenger door, and take aim with his gun. He fired and Garret felt the dull push of the bullet absorbing into Kyle’s body. Rafael fired again, and again. The thumps and wet impacts did nothing to slow Garret’s trajectory. A fourth shot pounded into Kyle and then they were upon him, slamming Rafael against the door with a sound like being hit with a wet sponge.
Garret spun off to the side, out of push and all his muscles throwing in the towel at once. He landed on his back in the dirt. Rafael had to push Kyle’s body off him. Rafael’s face was streaked with dirt from the garbage pile, his hand dripped blood, his eyes were wild with rage. Rafael searched the ground for his fallen gun, pawing the dirt around Kyle’s slumped body.
With his eyes downturned, his head bent and hunting for his prize, the top of his skull burst open. The sound hit Garret’s ears as he watched Rafael go limp and fall to the dirt. Garret saw his father step around the back end of the car, his gun outstretched, his limp pronounced and his face set and determined.
CHAPTER 22
Sutherland set Garret in the back seat, handling all the movements so Garret could keep two hands on the open wound in his side.
“Hang in there, kid. It’s ten minutes to the hospital.”
“Okay.”
Sutherland slammed the door, got in behind the wheel. His son spoke to him from the back seat.
“I guess I got a lot of explaining to do.”
Sutherland turned on his headlights, the hill of trash in front of him bathed in a harsh light. Beyond the pile ahead and down the incline were two fresh bodies. One of whom would need some explanation.
“We both do, kid. We both do.”
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ERIC BEETNER has been described as “the James Brown of crime fiction—the hardest working man in noir.” (Crime Fiction Lover) and “The 21st Century’s answer to Jim Thompson” (LitReactor). He has written more than 20 novels including Rumrunners, Leadfoot, The Devil Doesn’t Want Me, The Year I Died 7 Times and Criminal Economics. His award-winning short stories have appeared in over three dozen anthologies. He co-hosts the podcast Writer Types and the Noir at the Bar reading series in Los Angeles where he lives and works as a television editor.
EricBeetner.com
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BOOKS BY ERIC BEETNER
The McGraw Crime Series
Rumrunners
Leadfoot
The Lars and Shane Series
The Devil Doesn’t Want Me
When the Devil Comes to Call
The Devil at Your Door
The Fightcard Series
Fightcard: Split Decision
Fightcard: A Mouth Ful
l of Blood
The Lawyer Western Series
Six Guns at Sundown
Blood Moon
The Last Trail
Stand Alones
The Year I Died Seven Times
Criminal Economics
Nine Toes in the Grave
Dig Two Graves
White Hot Pistol
Stripper Pole at the End of the World
A Bouquet of Bullets (stories)
All the Way Down
Dark Duet: Two Noir Novellas
With JB Kohl
Over Their Heads
Borrowed Trouble
One Too Many Blows to the Head
The Bricks and Cam Job Series (with Frank Zafiro)
The Backlist
The Short List
The Getaway List
As Editor
Unloaded Volume 1
Unloaded Volume 2
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Here is a preview from Countdown by Matt Phillips, published by All Due Respect, an imprint of Down & Out Books.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
“…Marijuana is still illegal on the federal level. It’s listed by the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration as a ‘Schedule I’ drug—the same classification as LSD, ecstasy and heroin. While the federal government allows banks to work with cannabis businesses in states that have passed laws approving recreational marijuana, banks still have to file suspicious activities reports in addition to following standard banking guidelines. That means extra costs. And since the federal prohibition against marijuana is still in effect, banks fear they could be held criminally liable should a marijuana business run afoul of the law. As a result, many cannabis businesses become all-cash enterprises, with stories abounding of business people hauling duffel bags filled with cash, making them targets for robberies…”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune, July 5, 2017
“We’re making money, okay? Making the money isn’t a problem. It’s more like—”
“Where to put it all.”
“That’s right. Where to put it all. Because the banks, they got federal insurance. And they don’t touch this marijuana money. Puts them in an awkward position, if they do.”
“Like, maybe the feds decide to go and do something about this marijuana thing. And if they do, shit, you get all your assets frozen. Banks get got, and so do you.”
“But it’s a lot of money. Like, bags of the stuff. I can’t spend it too fast—I do, and the next thing I know, I got the tax man up my ass about how I’m living.”
“All this money…You need to hide it.”
“But where? And how?”
—Overheard in a bar
THE FOUR
ONE
Donnie Zeus Echo ordered a double cheeseburger and a lemonade, sat on the boardwalk looking at the waist-high surf and girls walking by in bikini tops and cutoff jean shorts. The way the girls wore shorts now, with the bottoms of their asses hanging out and jiggling, not too classy a look. But Echo liked to watch those asses hang and bounce down the boardwalk. Makes a decent show when you’re chewing a burger and sipping something sweet, feeling that sea breeze on your face.
He wanted a cold beer but he didn’t know a hamburger stand where they sold any. He’d have to go next door to the Surf Shack Tap House for that. No problem. He’d finish the burger and head over there, get a little drunk before he met with Glanson, his old battle buddy.
Glanson? Shit. Still the same fuck up who shot himself in the foot with a Russian pistol.
Echo used to be a grunt. Did a couple extended vacations in Eye-Rack. Learned to embrace the suck. Also learned to pull teeth and rip off fingernails. Arabic didn’t come easy to him so Echo had to find other ways. That’s another thing he learned: There’s lots of ways to get a thing done.
A man has to be creative. Six years in the service and Echo got himself an honorable discharge and not a damn thing besides. Also of note: A panther tattoo on his chest and an M16 on each wrist. Talk about a gun show. Echo drove a ’99 Honda Civic with a leaky head gasket. He lived in a studio apartment off Garnet—fell asleep to the sound of coeds vomiting in the gutters. Close to the beach though. That was something he liked. And those asses hanging out. He liked those.
He chewed faster and watched a brunette waddle past him. Man, he’d like a piece of that. Something juicy besides a cheeseburger. She ignored Echo’s big probing eyes, one of them a bit off point—his somewhat lazy eye. He was used to women ignoring him. Best way to get a girl’s attention was to wave some money in her face. Didn’t have to be much either. Enough for a decent meal and a cab ride. Simple pleasures, you know?
That’s what he and Glanson should do, run down to Tijuana and get themselves a couple whores. Make the girls wear towels over their heads so the two grunts could pretend they were back in Eye-Rack. Good times, baby. The bad thing about Middle Eastern girls is they hold still while you fuck them. Far as he knew, Mexican girls bucked like wild horses.
Yes, sir—he craved some señoritas with some decent ta-tas.
Echo finished his burger, sucked down lemonade until the straw whistled. He watched a skinny blonde roll past on some roller blades. Not bad. But it’d be better with a few beers in him.
He stood to go next door, careful to cover the bulge of the .45 tucked into his waistband. He touched the gun tenderly through the fabric of his Hawaiian shirt—oh, you wanna wanna lay her?—and smiled. Echo knew Glanson. Sure he did. But that didn’t mean he trusted Glanson.
No fucking way. Not in this life. And not in the next one.
TWO
Abbicus Glanson had a small dick and he knew it. Sure, it bothered him. The way to make up for that—in Glanson’s mind—was to act crazy as shit, draw as much attention as you can. That worked in a war zone. It worked damn well. Not so much back home—in Murica, as Glanson liked to call it. Not when he needed a job, money, a place of residence.
When he left the service, Glanson had a neon green Honda CBR crotch rocket, three shotguns, and a respectable collection of pocket knives.
He rode the bike cross-country, decided to rent an apartment in San Diego. He liked the weather and, growing up in the Midwest, he dreamed about living near the Pacific Ocean. Didn’t use it much, but he liked to know all his childhood buddies back home were talking shit about him living in California. Let those suckers freeze their asses off in April. Glanson wore flip-flops and board shorts every fucking day, walked around in December with his shirt off.
Fuck Glanson? No—fuck the small-town Midwest.
Fuck you, motherfuckers.
Still, Glanson had a bitch of a time finding steady work. He could always go back to the war zone with a private firm, but you can’t wear flip-flops and fuck surfer girls in Eye-Rack. About the best you can do is smoke a joint and drink a forty oz. But you had to avoid being killed.
That was the big thing, the hard part.
So, no private security gig in Eye-Rack. No steady job. Nothing. Nada.
But then he met a guy at Ray’s in Ocean Beach, a favorite locals spot for live music. Glanson liked Ray’s for the drink specials and the scent of marijuana hanging in the air.
This short bald guy, burly as hell in a blue tank, nods at Glanson and says, “Where you do yours, amigo?”
“My what?”
The guy points at a tattoo on Glanson’s wrist: An M16 wrapped by a hissing serpent. “Your tat, man. Where’d you get it?”
“Eye-Rack,” Glanson says. “What’s it to you?”
The guy turns around and lifts his tank over his head. His back is covered with a detailed soldier in full body armor. The soldier’s eyes squint at Glanson and the gun in his hand is pointed right at Glanson’s heart.
Glanson says, “Holy shit.”
The guy lowers his shirt and turns around, says, “Fucking A. Grunt through and through, baby.�
��
Glanson got lucky. Turns out this other grunt—Abel Sendich—hit on an innovative business idea. With the legalization of marijuana in California, and the federal illegality of the drug, there’s a teeny weeny money problem. You can grow weed. You can sell it. You can smoke it and you can eat it. You can do just about whatever you want with it. But the money you make off it—there’s the motherfucking rub. You can’t put it in a bank because the IRS will start asking important questions. You can’t keep it at the dispensary—that’s asking for an ass whipping.
So, what do you do with it?
“Fuck if I know,” Glanson says. “You gotta launder it some way, clean it.”
“Whatever you do,” Abel says deep into his fifth beer, “You got to move it, and you got to store it. No two ways about that—move the money, store the money.”
Okay, then. Glanson thought about that for about half a beer. Next thing he knows, Abel’s asking Glanson if he needs a job. Bada-fucking-bing.
Yes. He. Does.
Two weeks later, Glanson found himself wearing a 9mm and a collared black Dickies shirt, watching the parking lot outside Acee’s Apothecary on Thirty-Second and Adams. “Might as well do it now,” he said. “Light traffic and it’s the end of business.”
Next to him, in the driver’s seat of the white Econoline van, Abel nodded. “I’ll pull in along the door. Make sure you unclip the nine. Be ready, Glanson. We haven’t got pinged yet, but a couple guys got shitcanned up in North County just last week.”
“I read about that,” Glanson said. Two private security guys shot down by ’bangers knocking over a dispensary in Del Mar, of all fucking places. The ’bangers escaped. The security guys were still sleeping. Taking permanent naps. “Came at them with automatics.”