Chapter 4 – CASH #2
Mr. Joe should know. Until he paid a guy to do a redesign, his whole homepage was nothing but a photo of a five hundred pound taxidermied alligator that someone had left with his dad back in the 50s and never came back for.
When we were kids, Brice and I would ride him like a toy pony.
Deja liked to dress him up in her mom’s church hats.
Don’t get me wrong, it was an awesome picture, but it wasn’t clear what to click to get the address and shit.
Dina did my website before she went rogue and got married. I hope she’ll keep updating it for me. She’s gotten hinky since she moved out. She seems happy, but she doesn’t come home much. Maybe she’s making up for never leaving before now.
It’d be cool to use Glenna’s photos for my site.
Her stuff is next level. Anyone can take pictures of nature, use a filter, and it’ll be awesome, but Glenna must wait for the exact right moment.
She gets shots of eagles dripping with river water, fish wriggling in their beaks, black bears plopped flat on their backs in a field of wildflowers, snoozing in the sun.
Just amazing shots you’ve never seen before.
Maybe if tell her how much I love her work, she won’t be mad anymore at—well, everything I’ve ever done or said.
Nah. I don’t get the sense that woman can be flattered. Until yesterday, she hadn’t smiled at me once since seventh grade. She’s uncommonly stubborn.
Brice and I are just hanging out on the steps, him whittling, me moping, thinking occasionally about getting a beer, when an engine approaches.
It’s so quiet out here, and so far from the nearest neighbor, I get about ten minutes of advance warning when someone turns off onto the dirt road to my place.
“You expectin’ anyone?” Brice asks.
“Nope.”
We both stare across the meadow to the gap where the vehicle will emerge from the trees. Granger and Red Tail pad over and sit between us. Brice digs in his pocket and pulls out a treat covered in lint. Granger snarfs it up. Red Tail whines until he gets his own.
Birds tweet and the sun shines. Then, like the getaway vehicle in a low-budget 70s heist flick, Ken Dobbs’ busted old turquoise minivan comes hurtling into view, bouncing over potholes, scraping the undercarriage.
As he clears the woods, he leans on the horn for effect, but his mood is clear from the way he doesn’t give a shit about his muffler.
“Damn.” Brice whistles. “You gonna let an old white man kick your ass, or are you gonna lay hands on your girlfriend’s daddy? Where’s my phone?”
“If you record this, I’m gonna slap that phone from your hand.”
“I’ll slap the stupid from your face.”
Ken loses control for a second as he takes the curve in the drive and plows through wildflowers, his tires spitting up dirt. Granger and Red Tail start howling. “Think he’s gonna throw a punch?”
“Sixty-forty.”
“For or against?”
Ken slams on his breaks, and the van slides to a halt, a spray of pebbles and dust rising in a cloud. He flings the door open, and then he takes a minute to climb down ‘cause he’s not as young as he once was. When he comes for us, his fists are clenched and raised waist-height.
“Never mind.” I’m going to get my ass kicked by an old white man.
Brice and I rise to our feet in a show of respect.
Everyone knows Ken Dobbs. He’s the hippy-dippy newspaper man, as my parents call him. Rumor back in high school was you could get a contact high from standing next to the window of his office at the Gazette.
He’s a skinny dude with a gray ponytail, a gray beard, and worn acid-washed jeans older than I am.
Until that takedown piece on Del, he’d never done anyone any harm that I knew of.
He’s out for blood now, though. His face is plum purple, and his hands are shaking. He’s older than my dad by maybe a decade, and the years make a difference. His knuckles are swollen, his forearms are dusted with age spots, and he’s careful of his steps, even mad as hell.
“You shot my girl?” he shouts, spittle flying from his lips.
“No, sir, but she did get shot on my watch. I take full responsibility.”
“Like hell you do! You have a problem with me, you little punk—” He sticks a thumb in his chest. “You come at me!”
“I don’t have a problem with you, sir.”
“Bullshit. All of you are circling the wagons now ‘cause you know the jig is up!” His eyes blaze, and I do not like the shade his face is turning. More blue than red. “Leave my Glenna out of it! What kind of man shoots a girl?”
He’s weaving on his feet. Oh, hell. He’s gonna crap out in my driveway.
“Sir, why don’t you come on in. We can sit down, talk this through.”
“Don’t try to snow me! I know where the bodies are buried! Your family thinks you can get away with anything and that everyone will look the other way, but that time is over. This is the information age! There are no secrets anymore.”
I glance over at Brice. He’s edged away, and he’s gravely nodding along with Ken, arms folded. No help coming from that direction.
“Sir, it was an accident.”
“You think I believe that?”
“It’s the truth. What did Glenna say?”
He sputters a moment and loses some steam. “Haven’t talked to her yet. She just left a voicemail that said she’s okay, and she’s sleeping in.” He narrows his eyes and gives me the darkest glare I’ve ever received. “Because she’d been shot, but it was only a flesh wound.”
He puts the emphasis on “flesh wound,” and it makes the impact he intended. My stomach cramps. I’m an asshole.
“I swear, sir, it was not intentional. I’ll never let anything like it happen again.”
He scoffs. “Sure. ‘Unintentional.’”
“Respectfully, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
He huffs, digging angrily in his front pocket, wrestling out with his phone. “So you don’t know anything about this?”
He stabs a few buttons and puts it on speaker. There’s a beep. A man speaks. I don’t recognize the voice.
Good evening, you mainstream media sack of shit. Listen carefully. We know where you live. We know where you work. If Del Willis goes down, you’re next.
The caller makes the sound of an explosion.
My blood runs cold.
There’s another beep. A different voice, this one obviously altered.
You like to squeal, old man? You’re gonna squeal like a pig. We’re gonna gut you, and then we’re gonna cut out your lying tongue, and then we’re gonna carve up that nosy bitch daughter of yours. Do yourself a favor. Leave town.
Beep.
My guts lurch. I stride down from the porch. Ken kind of shrinks, but he doesn’t back away. I’ve got eighty pounds on him, at least, and he might be raging mad, but I don’t believe he’s the type who’s ever used his fists.
“What the hell? Did you call the cops?” I take his phone. He makes to snatch it back, but he hesitates, and then his hand drops limp at his side.
He’s got the look of a beaten man, and we haven’t been at it more than a minute. The long drive from town must’ve taken most of his temper. I got the dregs.
I scroll through his box. The numbers are all hidden. And there are more calls. A dozen at least.
“Who?” Ken says bitterly. “Your brother, Del’s protégé? Ernst, good ol’ Del Willis’s golf partner?”
“What about the feds? Aren’t you talking to the feds?”
“They do what they can. They take reports.”
“Do you recognize any of the voices?”
He shakes his head. “They mostly disguise them. Could be the same guy. Could be different townies. Del’s sheriff buddies.” He shrugs a hunched shoulder.
“Does Glenna know?”
“She doesn’t need to,” he says, a spark of his earlier ferocity returning. “She worries too much as it is.”
Oh, holy hell. She’s walking around oblivious.
“Ken, we gotta do something.”
He closes his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose, and sighs. “Do what? We can’t leave. Everything we have is here.” He opens his eyes again and pins me with a watery glare. “And who’s this we? You’re the shit who got her shot.”
“So you believe that I’m not part of some plan?”
He sighs. “I knew when I saw your face. I was just lost in the moment. You’re dumb, not malicious.”
Well—damn.
Brice snorts.
“I need a drink,” Ken says, shuffling past me toward the porch. “Brice, son. Good to see you.”
They shake hands.
“You know each other?” I ask Brice under my breath.
“Everybody knows everybody in Stonecut,” Ken answers.
“He bought one of my first pieces,” Brice says, leading the way inside.
Ken follows, checking out the framing and the floors. “Not much to look at, is it?”
“It will be.” I follow them both out the back door to the picnic table by the outside freezer.
“Brice, you never did come down to see what I did with it. She’s in the lobby of the newspaper building. Got a velvet rope around her. Pride of place.”
“You know I don’t get into town much.” Brice grabs us all beers, and we sit. Ken’s color is looking a bit better.
“You’re on to something,” Ken says and taps his bottle to Brice’s. “Well, what the hell happened, Cash?”
“I had clients up on the mountain. One was trigger happy. I should’ve vetted them better, Ken. I should’ve gone with my gut. It was my fault, and I take full responsibility. If y’all wanna sue me, I’ll settle. No fuss.”
“Why the hell do you think I’d sue the owner of a house with no interior walls when I could sue the man who hired him—and actually shot my daughter?”
I keep my face straight when I say, “Well, I’ve been told I’m dumb. Rather recently, in fact.”
Brice clinks his bottle to mine. “I’ll drink to that.”
“You’ll give me his information?” Ken asks.
“I will. He left me his lawyer’s number.”
“That’s convenient.” Ken’s distracted by a hawk swooping low on a downdraft. He elbows Brice, and they both admire it for a moment in silence.
I watch Ken. Glenna must favor her mother. It’s clear father and daughter are related, but it’s not in the color of the eyes—Ken’s are a faded blue—or the hair or the build.