Fortunes fool chance mcc.., p.25
Fortune's Fool : Chance McCabe Book One, page 25
“You’re asking me to hide contraband for you?”
“No. Nothing illegal. It’s something I came into possession of yesterday. Let’s call it sensitive. I need a place to stash it until I figure out what to do with it.”
“And you don't want it connected to you?"
"Exactly."
"But it's not illegal?"
"Possession of it is not illegal."
"What is it?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He wrinkled his face. Shrugged. “The less you know, the better.”
"Nope. That's what you said yesterday and it pissed me off. We're not doing that again."
He looked at her. Fuck it. "It's a polaroid."
"A photo? Of what?"
"What and who."
"Someone doing something illegal?"
"Yes."
"Your old man?"
"He might have been there, but he's not in the photo."
"Who is? Someone I might recognize?"
“How long have you lived in Hatchootucknee?” McCabe asked.
“All my fucking life."
"You'll recognize him."
"Show it to me."
McCabe hesitated. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the envelope. He held it up, between two fingers. "You can't unsee this. You don't have to look at it. I just need a place to stash it while I think it through."
The cat squirmed in her lap, and she carefully set it on the floor. She reached out a hand, took the envelope from him. She opened the flap and slipped out the polaroid. She looked at it, her expression blank, but the color draining from her face. She put the polaroid back in the envelope and tucked the flap inside. She kept the envelope in her hands and remained silent for a long minute. McCabe could see the wheels turning in her head.
“Our friend from yesterday," she said, "the dumbass deputy who pulled us over. A few years back, when I was still working at Westfield, there was this high school girl. Got community service for getting caught with pot in her locker. Judge sent her to us for a few months of emptying shit pans to work off her sentence. She was a sweet girl, but just got in my way most of the time. One day, I heard noises coming from a utility closet. She was in there with Virgil. He had her bent over. His dick in her ass. She was whimpering but trying to be quiet. He was telling her to shut the fuck up when I opened the door. I was holding a mop and I broke it over his head. Grabbed some lysol off a shelf and sprayed it in his eyes. Kicked him a couple of times when he was on the floor. Knocked out one of his teeth. I would’ve stuck the mop handle up his ass if some others hadn’t come along and pulled me off of him.”
She paused, stared off into the distance. “Virgil claimed it was consensual. She was seventeen. Over the age of consent. And she was too scared to contradict him. Angus Doyle got there and he arrested her. Said she violated her probation. He sent her up. She spent a year in jail."
“What did they do to you?”
“Locked me up. Put a pillowcase over my head and beat the fuck out of me. Kept me in jail for a week before Doyle let me go. Told me nothing happened. Told me I didn’t see anything. Told me if I knew what was good for me I’d keep my mouth shut. So I did. Went back to work and kept it all to myself.” She brushed a few stray cat hairs from her lap. “Your old man had this, didn’t he? It was his get-out-of-jail-free card.”
McCabe shrugged. “That’s my suspicion.”
“Doyle knew he had it?”
“He was fishing for something when he talked to me at Westfield. I think he suspected the old man had it. Just couldn't find it. I think it created a detente between them. Doyle was probably afraid the old man had a plan if something were to happen to him. I think Doyle probably gave him too much credit, but the old man played it well.”
She looked at the envelope. "You trust me with this?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
forty-nine
McCabe retrieved the duffel from the trunk of his rental car. He closed the trunk and inspected the damage from the collision with the pulpwood truck. It was worse than he’d realized. He thought it was just the front passenger panel that was damaged, but he could now see the entire passenger side was wrecked. That kind of damage meant the frame was likely twisted and if so, the car was totaled. He’d rented it in New Orleans using the William Everett ID. He hated to burn that identity when he still had a sizable amount of credit left on the card, but he had no choice now. Can’t return the car in that condition.
He’d drive it for as long as he could, then ditch it and find another. Rent if he could. Steal if he had no other choice. But in the meantime, he’d have to be cautious. There was no shortage of bent and twisted vehicles on southern roads, but one with an out-of-state license plate might draw unwanted attention.
He carried the duffle inside and went to his room. He locked the door, then unzipped the duffle and took out the black garbage bag inside. He dumped the cash on the bed and sorted the bills into stacks based on denomination.
When he’d finished, he found his on-site guesstimate a little short of the actual count. Ninety-seven Franklins, thirty-five Grants, and seventy Jacksons. $12,850. Not nothing, but pretty goddamn close. Certainly not worth the effort he’d put into finding and acquiring it, nor the care he would have to take in transporting and spending it. But the money wasn’t the reason the old man had left him the key. It was the polaroid. Which was now in the possession of a five-foot-tall Choctaw woman with a hundred million dollars in the bank and an ax to grind against the man in the photo.
She took off in the Maserati shortly after he gave her the polaroid. She never said if she had a safe deposit box, but he figured if she did, she was on her way to it and if not, she was on her way to get one.
McCabe stuck a half dozen each of the Franklins and the Jacksons in his wallet, then put the remaining stacks of cash back into the duffle, folded it, and stashed it in the room’s safe. If Pritchard didn’t have good news for him when he returned from his cruise, that was all he was going to have to show for his stay in Barksdale.
His stomach rumbled. He’d check for donuts, but after yesterday’s experience, didn’t expect to find any. He wasn’t crazy about the idea of driving the rental into town, but it was that or go hungry. He hadn’t thought to bum a ride with Margie. He wasn’t hungry then, and it was better if she did whatever she was going to do with the polaroid without him around.
He grabbed the snub-nose from the dresser drawer, tucked it into his waistband, and headed for the parking lot. He passed Esau on the porch. The massive man wore denim overalls and a red t-shirt, stretched tight over his bulging chest and heavily muscled upper arms. Esau smiled and gave him a nodded head in greeting. McCabe returned the nod.
About halfway to Barksdale, his dashboard beeped at him and the gas light came on. He passed a billboard-sized sign advertising Deacon’s Country Store two miles ahead. He remembered seeing it just past the Indian River bridge.
He pulled off the highway and into the gravel drive that led to Deacon’s. He parked at the gas pumps and got out of the car. The pumps were relics from a bygone age. No credit card reader, only a sign that read “Pump first. Pay inside.” The antique pump required an insistent toggling of the lever before the gas flowed, but McCabe topped off his tank, then went inside to pay and use the restroom. Parked to the side of the doors was a black, beat-up, 90s model Ford pickup. A ‘For Sale’ sign on the dashboard was visible through the cracked windshield. ‘Needs work, but runs ok’ written in magic marker at the bottom of the sign.
Inside, he found exactly what he’d expected. Racks of potato chips, pork rinds, and slim jims near the counter. A cooler with soft drinks and beer to the left. To the right, rows of fishing gear. Rods and reels, bobbers and line, and live bait. And because this was Mississippi, there was also a row filled with boxes of bullets and shotgun shells. Ample ammunition for whatever you might feel the need to shoot. Camouflaged t-shirts, jackets, and coveralls hanging from a wire rack. At the back of the store was a lunch counter, presently unstaffed, with a couple of folding tables and unoccupied aluminum chairs. And of course the souvenir section, t-shirts, caps, mugs, and assorted cheap crap imprinted with pithy southern sayings. Because who’s going to drive through Hatchootucknee County, Mississippi and not want a souvenir?
McCabe found the restroom on a wall between the t-shirts and the lunch counter. The door was locked. A handwritten sign taped to the door read, “Attendant has the key.”
McCabe went to the counter. The attendant was a burly man of average height who looked to be around the same age as McCabe. He was balding but had a beard, waxed handlebar mustache, and colorful tattoos running from his knuckles into his sleeves and continuing up his neck. He was smoking a pipe. The smell of cherry-infused tobacco filled the store.
The man’s eyes lingered on McCabe as he walked to the counter. “Do I know you?” the man asked.
“Nope,” said McCabe, sliding across two twenties. “I got $30 in gas and I need the key to the bathroom.”
The man rang up the transaction and handed him his change. “Are you sure? I could swear I know you.”
McCabe pocketed the ten. “I’m sure. You got the key?”
The man reached beneath the counter and came up with a key dangling by a chain from a football-sized hunk of driftwood that had been whittled down to an indeterminate shape that might have been a duck. He slid the key and the wooden duck thing across the counter.
McCabe stared at the hunk of wood attached to the key. “Seriously?”
“Fuckers think it’s funny to walk off with the key.”
“You fixed that, I guess.”
“Wait a minute,” said the man. “I do know you. We went to school together, didn’t we?”
“I doubt it.” McCabe turned toward the restroom, key and driftwood duck-thing in hand.
“Holy shit!” The man laughed. High pitched, almost a cackle. “You’re Lucky McCabe!” He set his pipe down and slammed a hand on the counter. “You are! You’re Lucky McCabe. Goddamn! How the fuck are you, man?”
McCabe turned back and looked at the man, struggling to place the face.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The man laughed again. Another high-pitched sound, this time crossing the cackle threshold. “Can’t blame you, I suppose. You still look like you, but I guess I’ve changed a bit, ain’t I? Little heavier. The beard, the ink, and I used to have hair damned near down to my waist.” He laughed again. “I’m Tucker. Jake Tucker. C’mon, man! You remember? You beat the living fuck out of me several times. We were friends! You really don’t remember?”
“Yeah, right. Tucker. I remember.” He didn’t. “Look, I’m about to piss my pants. Can we catch up some other time?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” The man smiled, almost beaming. “Lucky Fucking McCabe. You think about it. You’ll remember me.”
McCabe nodded and went to the restroom. The lock was a little sticky, but not as finicky as the gas pump lever had been. He put the key and the duck thing in the sink. He flushed and dropped the lid with his foot when he finished. As he was washing his hands and trying not to touch anything he didn’t have to, he heard an electronic chime. Someone entering the store.
“What the fuck, dude?” A loud, obnoxious voice. “I accidentally drive off without paying three goddamn times and you don’t turn on the pump for me no more?”
“The pump is on, moron!” said Tucker. “You just gotta jiggle the lever. I’ve told you that over and over again!”
“Well, why don’t you get off your fat ass and fix the fucking thing?”
“It ain’t broke. You just gotta jiggle it.”
McCabe picked up the key, opened the door, and stepped out. The loud, belligerent man at the counter wore a wife-beater t-shirt and had a mullet of ditch-water colored hair. He turned and looked in McCabe’s direction. He had a haggard, pocked face and a set of shiners, both eyes puffy with black and purple bruising around them. McCabe recognized him. Sandy Wiggins’ brother. Not Ray. The other one. Jesse.
He stared at McCabe. “What are you looking at, motherfucker?”
McCabe shrugged. “A loud-mouthed asshole?”
Jesse tilted his head and took a step toward McCabe. “Wait a minute! You’re the motherfucker from the diner!” He reached for something behind his back.
McCabe hurled the duck-thing that dangled from the restroom key. The hunk of driftwood struck Jesse in the middle of his face. There was a cracking sound and blood poured from his nose. He brought a hand up to staunch the flow. McCabe charged into him, launching a kick that caught Jesse square in the nuts.
Jesse staggered backward, stumbled into a rack of potato chips, spilling the rack, bursting bags, and scattering chips all over the floor. Jesse tripped over the rack and went down. McCabe kicked him again. Under the chin this time. Jesse’s head snapped back and his teeth slammed together with a clacking sound. He lay writhing on the floor.
“Holy fuck, dude!” Tucker stepped around from the counter and looked down at Jesse.
McCabe looked out the glass to the parking lot. Ray Wiggins was sitting in the passenger seat of the Dodge Ram 4x4, parked at the pump on the other side of McCabe’s rental. Ray had his head back against the headrest and didn’t seem to have noticed the ruckus in the store.
McCabe bent over Jesse and checked his waistband for a gun. He found a 9mm tucked in the small of his back. He took it and looked at Tucker. “We were friends, right?”
“Yeah, of course, we were.”
McCabe pointed to Jesse. “Is he your friend?”
“Fuck, no! He’s the biggest asshole in the county.”
He handed the gun to Tucker. “If he gets up, hit him with this. If he gets up after that, shoot him.”
McCabe slipped the snub-nose from his waistband, palmed it, and walked to the door. “Do me one more favor?”
“Anything dude.”
“Whatever happens next, do not call the cops unless I’m dead.”
He pushed the door open and walked into the parking lot.
fifty
Ray Wiggins got out of the 4x4 as McCabe walked toward him. The brute was wearing a black shirt, sleeves removed to show off the collection of prison tats running up and down both arms. His face was bruised and swollen from the beating McCabe had given him earlier. If he had a gun, he was concealing it. He looked at the snub-nose in McCabe’s hand.
“You gonna shoot me, motherfucker?”
“Thinking about it,” McCabe answered.
The brute spit on the pavement. “Pussy.”
McCabe raised an eyebrow. “Pussy? Didn’t I beat the shit out of you just a day ago?”
“Put the piece down and try it again.”
“Look, I’m tired of this bullshit. I got places to be and things to do. Get back in your truck and drive away.” When the brute didn’t move, McCabe said “Does your brother have the keys? He’s inside, laying on the floor.”
Ray took a step forward, his jaw clenched. The look on his face made his intentions clear. He spit again, this time in McCabe’s direction. “Shoot me, pussy.”
McCabe brought the snub-nose up, finger on the trigger. “If you insist.” But something hit him from behind before he could pull it, knocking him down. The snub-nose flew from his hand, clattering to the pavement. His brain didn’t register the sound of a gunshot until he was already falling. Face down on the pavement, he could feel the warmth of the blood spreading, soaking into his shirt. His right arm tingled, his fingers twitched involuntarily.
McCabe rolled over and saw Jesse approaching him from the country store. The 9mm McCabe had taken from him was back in his hands. McCabe tried to get to his feet, but a thunderous right hand from Ray Wiggins slammed into his temple and everything went black for a couple of seconds.
McCabe blinked the world back into existence. His head was swimming. He saw another ham-hock-sized fist coming toward his head. He tried to dodge, but the blow still connected, grazing his cheek and nose. He had to get up, but his right arm was useless and his legs were ignoring him.
The brute hit him again. A looping overhand that landed where his jaw met his ear. McCabe’s head spun around. His vision blurred and his ears were ringing. He turned just in time to see a boot coming at his face. He put up his hands to block, but the boot went right through them. The heel crashed into his forehead, knocking him flat.
Ray reached around to the back of his pants and when his hand came back, he was holding a Glock 19. He pointed the gun at McCabe’s head. McCabe knew he was in trouble. Sandy had been right. Ray was going to kill him and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do to stop it.
“Pussy,” McCabe said, sitting up. “If you’re going to shoot me, do it while I’m on my feet. Looking you in the eye.”
Ray laughed as McCabe got to his knees.
“Shoot the motherfucker or I’ll do it again,” said Jesse, now standing at his brother’s side.
McCabe surged upwards, catching Ray by surprise. He got underneath Ray’s gun hand and drove his shoulder into Ray’s gut. He wrapped his one good arm around the back of the brute’s legs and lifted with all the strength he could muster. Ray’s feet came off the pavement. McCabe had leverage, and he used it to drive the brute into Jesse, knocking him down.
McCabe stepped over Jesse and slammed Ray into the bumper of the 4x4. He heard a grunt and knew he’d knocked the wind out of Ray’s lungs. Ray slumped, but held onto the Glock.
McCabe saw his snub-nose by the gas pump and dove for it, but Jesse realized what he was doing and kicked it away just before he could get his hands on it. The gun went skittering across the pavement and out of reach.
Jesse stomped down on McCabe’s hand, grinding his foot. McCabe pulled his hand free from beneath Jesse’s boot, but Jesse kneed him in the head. The force sent the crown of McCabe’s head into the gas pump.
“How’s it feel, motherfucker?” said Jesse grinning. His nose was red and swollen, bleeding. He was missing an incisor. “You knocked my tooth out, asshole! You knocked my tooth out with that fucking hunk of wood!”
