The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by J.D. Rhoades
Reissued in 2015 by Polis Books
Cover design by 2Faced Design
eISBN 978-1-940610-18-4
60 West 23rd Street
New York, NY 10010
CONTENTS
To my wife, Lynn, and my children, Nicholas and Nina.
“She ain’t no damn lesbian,” the stocky man said.
“Sure she is,” the skinny one said. “Didn’t you see that MTV show? Man, Madonna had her tongue right down that girl’s throat.”
They were sitting in the front seat of a dented pickup truck, pulled back into the woods. From there they could see the trailer the timber company used as an office. It was 5:30 in the morning, and the sky was brightening. A few stray wisps of fog hugged the grass, flowing sluggishly in the humid air. Rusting log trucks loomed in field behind the trailer, looking like ancient behemoths in the mist.
They had been in place since 4:00. Boredom had finally trumped the need for stealth so they had turned the radio on low. Britney Spears was moaning that she had done it again.
“Man, you got to be crazy,” the big one said. “She was goin’ with that guy from the who is it, the Backseat Boys. She gave up her cherry for him.”
“Well, there y’are, then,” the skinny one said triumphantly. “Ever’one knows those guys is all faggots. It was all a cover, man. Like that Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. All them Hollywood homos cover for one another.”
“An’ you believe that shit?” the stocky one said. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair. He had kept it trimmed short in prison, thinking it gave him a more menacing appearance. Now it was growing back out, and it was taking some getting used to.
There was a brief flash of headlights through the trees. He reached down and snapped the radio off. “You sure about this now, cuz?” He asked for what seemed like the fiftieth time.
“Sure I’m sure,” the skinny man replied. He recited the facts again, with the patience of a special-ed teacher repeating a lesson for a slow pupil. He didn’t get irritated; it made him feel good to be the one who knew something for a change. All his life, his older cousin had gotten to do everything first. Drink beer, get laid, get arrested. Now it was DeWayne’s turn to lead.
“The old man don’t hire nobody but Mexicans to do his cuttin’and haulin’. They don’t work for nothin’ but cash money. They don’t pay no taxes that way, see, and neither does the old man. I seen him in the bank the last few Thursdays, gettin’ out a big bag of cash. He brings it back here, puts it in the safe for payday Friday.”
“I still think we oughta just break in and take the safe out,” the stocky one said. “We can find somebody to get it open.”
“You wanta bring a stranger in on this?” the skinny one demanded. “Id’nt that how you got caught last time? We can trust each other, Leonard, ‘cause we’re family. But anyone else’ll sell you out in a hot second.”
“You don’t know, DeWayne,” Leonard said. “You ain’t never done nothin’ like this before. Armed robbery is serious shit compared to B and E, man. This D.A.’s got a real serious hard-on for armed robbers. ‘Sides, you think that old dude don’t have a gun, carryin’ around that much cash?” He shook his head and looked out the window, his face glum. “This shit is dangerous.”
“You wanna back out, cuz,” DeWayne said, “You better do it now. Here he comes.” Another pickup, this one at least thirty years old, pulled up in front of the trailer/office. An old man in coveralls got out. He looked to be at least seventy, but his step was sure and confident. He went up the steps of the trailer. He paused a moment on the narrow porch that ran across the front of the trailer. He rummaged through a ring of keys until he found the correct one. He opened the door and disappeared inside.
“When he comes out,” said DeWayne, “he’ll have the bag. He takes it out to the job site so he can pay the Mexicans off at the end of the day.” Sure enough, in a few minutes the old man came out and walked to the truck. He was carrying a large canvas bag.
The two men got out of their truck. DeWayne let Leonard take the lead. Even though he had let most of his muscle go to fat in his last stay in the joint, Leonard’s size still made him intimidating.
“Mornin’, sir,” Leonard said.
The old man stopped and turned towards them. His eyes were pale green, and made a startling contrast to his skin, which was a light caramel color. “Hep you fellows?” he said in the flat nasal accent of the Lumbee Indian.
Leonard pulled his gun. He was carrying a long-barreled .44, Dewayne a snub-nosed .38. “Let’s do this easy, old man, and no one has to get hurt,” DeWayne said.
“Just put the bag down on the ground, and step away real slow,” Leonard said.
The old man didn’t move. He looked first at DeWayne, then at Leonard.
“Shit,” was all he said.
“What are you talkin’ about, man?” DeWayne’s voice was