The District Manager (17 page)

Rusty and I meet at the same sports bar we were at only a week ago.

“So what’s so important?” he asks me.

We’re drinking water. Again, bad country radio is bouncing about us. It’s so horrible I wonder why we both wanted to come back here again. I guess it’s a known commodity. The only one.

“I have something to confess.”

“Confess? I’m not the police or a priest,” he remarks with a snicker, his gumbo accent thick.

“I understand. But what I’m going to confess has something to do, I think, with this whole situation surrounding the dogs and the disappearance of Jules.”

“What the hell are talking about?” he asks as he leans over the table towards me.

“I have a drug deal tomorrow night,” I almost whisper as I lean towards him.

“That’s against the law, Mason Dixon. I could report you to the local sheriff ’s department.”

“I understand,” I retort, falling backward on my side of the booth.

We stare at each other for a few moments. We order beer.

“Okay,” Rusty says. I think he just remembered he’s a private eye now and not a cop. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

I proceed to tell him the whole story from beginning to end. I include Keith and everything.

“Now I understand a little more clearly why you invaded that goddamn adobe the other night.” He takes a swig of his beer.

“Right, but the question is…how do I handle this thing tomorrow? I mean, I think I need to up the ante a bit.”

“You mean get in on more than just this petty dope deal?”

“Precisely.”

“It’s dangerous, Mason. But I must confess your instincts are good, real good.”

“Thanks.”

Rusty and I spend the rest of the evening going over every detail. Obviously he can’t just show up with me, although that would be best. He’s a pro and I’m, well…I’m a beginner.

Nothing is overlooked. Rusty coaches me on not just what to say, but how to say it— down to the syllable.

We finish our beers. This time I pay the tab.

As I leave, I’m amazed that my anxiety about tomorrow night is at bay. I feel relieved, like I’m well studied for a major exam.

How long can that last?

As anticipated, the relief from anxiety that I felt from Rusty’s presence was short-lived.

The wasps in my gut are swarming like mad. My stomach has been upset all day and my bowels continue their state of protest. But I’m committed to this thing now. I’ve drank, chewed, or swallowed a whole menu of gastrointestinal products, which I hope keep me from having to make any emergency stops.

I get ready for the deal.

I leave the D.O. early and head out to Bowers. Traffic is awful, which is only adding to my sense of panic. A feeling comes over me as I wait for the interstate traffic to filter through the cluster-fuck of construction. It’s the same feeling I had at the power plant back at the beginning of the month: I’m in a vial and a nasty thumb has just corked the stopper. I can see the giant fingerprints that grip the tube of glass. They draw me in like a maze. The further I trace their grooves, the less air I can take in.

I’m suffocating.

We’re at a standstill now.

I’m whipping my head about in desperation, looking for a place to hide.

Pecans line the road on each side of the interstate.

I punch the on/off of the car stereo silencing Skynyrd’s,
Street Survivors.

Why aren’t we fucking moving?

I grab my phone and hit Rusty’s name.

“Yeah, kid,” he drawls as if he’s been expecting my call.

“I can’t do this, man…really. I think I’m going to die.”

“Just calm down, kid.”

“It’s Mason! Goddamn it!”

“Then act like it, goddamn it! Either that, or abort mission, kid. I told you that you were in over yer head, but you wanted in—and you’re an asset. But, if you’re gonna freak out like this, then git out! I ain’t tryin’ to hurt yer feelin’s, just lookin’ after ya…”

Something I’ve noticed about Rusty is that the longer he talks, the more redneck he sounds. But, his sermon is working. I’m calming down.

The traffic starts to crawl. I put the car in drive and pat the accelerator.

“I’m cool. I can handle it…really.”

“Are you sure, Mason?”

“I’m sure.”

The last time I underwent this experience there had been a rain shower and it was as clammy as an armpit. That was a month ago. Today it’s over one hundred degrees with the sun’s breath screeching a dull haze over everything. So hot in fact, that some of the humidity has burned off.

Mercifully the traffic budges. We’re rolling…

I focus on the road. Bowers looks burnt. The grass is turning orange and brown, and the trees and foliage that were teeming with every variety of green under the sun are now wilting under it. August is awful, my least favorite month. The bounty of the recent deluge just can’t compete with the gnawing heat.

I arrive at the convenience store. The parking lot is nearly empty—another contrast to my last visit.

I go inside and approach the counter.

“Here’s the key, just go back,” the clerk instructs. I actually needed a smoke, and was looking forward to purchasing a pack of Marlboro Golds. But my nerves won’t allow me to break with my orders. “Spider Monkey is expecting you,” he instructs, like a school principal’s secretary.

The piss colored cave is just how I remember it.

Spider Monkey is happy to see me. “Mason, my man!” he says in a celebratory tone as he rises from his swivel chair. How have you been, brother?” he asks, extending his hand. “Oh, and I ain’t askin’ for money…yet…I wanna shake your hand.”

We shake, looking each other in the eye; not suspiciously, but awkwardly.

“Take a seat.”

We sit simultaneously.

“So how are things down at the hospital? You do work at a hospital, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”
Shit, I almost forgot my cover occupation… nurse…whew.

“So how’s it going?” He forces the question subtly as he rocks back and forth in his chair.

“Great.”
Idiot, how can things be great at a hospital?
“I mean… great, in that it’s…just routine. A going through the motions kinda thing.”

“You work in that ER shit?” he asks, perking up.

Rusty and I didn’t rehearse this…wing it.

“Yeah, sometimes. Trying to get out of night shifts and get full time in day surgery….”
I’m freestyling,
“…but I do, yes, work most of my shifts in the ER.”

“Where?”

Didn’t I tell him this before?
“Wagoneer.”
The local hospital. It’s the first thing that pops into my mind.

“Wagoneer? No shit?”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“So I guess you saw that underage beat up whore who checked into emergency the other night?” Spider Monkey asks, coldly.

“Uh, when was this…what night? I deal with so many crises. The place is fucked up.”

“I thought you said it was going great.” He places his elbows on the garbage littered table, which doubles as his desk. He slides open his box of cigarettes and stuffs the butt in his mouth, signaling me with a nod that I’m welcome to one as well.

“That’s just a figure of speech.”

“A figure of speech?”

“A figure of speech.”

He lights his smoke, then says, “Sounds like a fucked up job to me.” His exhale throws a veil over the room.

“I must have been off that night, because I don’t remember an underage, beat up whore,” I finally reply, with authority.

“I wish you’d had,” he says. He’s rubbing the stubble on his face like he’s worried.

“Why?”

Spider Monkey studies me as he takes a long, deliberate drag.

“I’ll tell you why. You could give me a report on how the cops were treatin’ her; what kind of questions they were asking. I haven’t seen the police report, so I don’t know who was on duty; can’t always set things up for damage control.”

Damage control? What’s he talking about?
I want to play along, keep him from becoming suspicious.
What was it Rusty said? He sees me as an asset.

“I’ll keep an eye out for anything I think might be of interest.”

“Man, I would appreciate it, Mason.”

“So it’s my understanding that the five I gave you last time was just a first-time customer fee?”

“Right. All you purchased was a quarter: two hundred. The other three was just what you said, a kind of DBA payment. But, you’re in now, bro!”

“So three will work, then?”

“Sure, I’ve even padded the baggie a little.” His head bobs around like he’s grooving to a song that only he can hear. “Here ya go!” He tosses the bag in my lap from across the littered table. “Take a sniff. Stiff ganja, dude—for real. Take a smell.”

I comply. “Whoa,” I let out in reflex, upon inspection.

“Great shit, I mean the best. One fuckin’ toke and it’s like you’re not just listening to the
White Album,
but you’re an instrument in it.”

“Interesting analogy,” I remark.

“Lots more from where that came from.” He’s still bobbing his head like he’s grooving to something.

Maybe he’s high on this stuff?

“So that concludes our business, Mason…unless there’s something else?”

“Actually, there is something else I’d like to discuss.”

“Oh?” He pulls out another cigarette. “What’s that?”

“Last time I was here you asked me if I was interested in some other things. In this instance, what I’m referring to is gambling.”

“Sure you don’t wanna get laid? Got some young beauties smuggled up from Central America. That soft brown skin…nice dark muff…pretty as hell.”

Creepy.
“Uh, sounds nice, really…but…I’m really only interested in gambling.”

“We got young guys too, Mason—if that’s your thing—we don’t discriminate.”

“Only gambling.”

“Okay, suit yourself. You’re missing out though, I’m telling ya.”

“I’m sure I am, but I’m a one-woman man.”

“What’s your poison, dude?” He blurts out. He spins around in his chair a couple of cycles.

“Sorry?”

“Gambling. What type of gambling you interested in?” He stops, abruptly.

“Dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“Yes, dogs.”

“Kinda got the wrong skin color for something like that don’t ’cha?”

Rusty told me he’d ask this…I’m ready…

Yeah, you could say that. But my uncle used to work with these black guys who were into it…and, all I can say is, it kinda took.”

Spider Monkey’s head is no longer bobbing, but is instead, cocked downward; his mouth pursed in a frown. I don’t think he’s convinced. No problem, I’ve got a backup line:

“Those call signals—those clicks. The way each dog’s master has a kind of password that turns them on or off—that’s what I really dig, man. My Uncle Howard got me into it.”
I pull that last comment out of my ass.

“I dig it too, Mason. Buy-in’s one grand. That will give you, say…five to one odds—depends on how many pits we got in the circle.”

“One grand?” Rusty told me to act bewildered no matter the sum.

“You got that kinda bread, dude? Not sure what they payin’ nurses these days.”

“I can get it. How do I get it to you?”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Sick motherfucker. I like it. No sex, but violence. I’ll vouch for you. I’ll give you the address where the fightin’ takes place—not far from here, actually. On the next available date just show up and give them your last name, it’ll be on a list. They’ll ask for a password, that’ll be next to your name. Any ideas?”

“For a password?”

“Yeah, a password.”

“Rover.”

“I can dig it. Sick motherfucker. I like it.”

“Thanks, it’s the first thing that popped into my mind. Oh, can I bring a guest?”

“Uncle Howard?”

“Yes.”

“We can do that. Last name?”

“Bryant.”

“Done.”

“Excellent.”

“Oh,” Spider Monkey shouts out like a spark of flame. “Parking is in the back of the place. Even though it’s out of sight for the most part. The fucking place is in the middle of a bog.”

The Old Adobe. I knew it!

Spider Monkey drops a folded piece of paper into an envelope and hands it to me, “The details, Mason. Oh, and no cell phones. You drop them at the front.”

I leave through the convenience store and head to the Expedition.

Although Rusty hates texting I text anyway:
All systems go.

I pull out of the convenience store and slip in Tom Petty’s
Southern Accents.
Something inside me instinctively fast forwards to the title track. I’m overcome with emotion, choking on it like I swallowed a large bone.

I take a detour—to something close. Something that cuts…to the bone.

The tires of the old gal grind out a curl of dust as I zoom down a certain gravel road. This road I have not traveled in a year.