Dark End of the Street

A long rat-a-tat erupted down in the bowl and U quickly grabbed the night vision back for another scan of the ground. “All right, we’re out of here. Man, that’s a damned M-60.”

“That’s bad?”

“You see Rambo?”

“Yeah.”

“You know that big mother gun he carries?”

I nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Bubba was behind us now, peering over my shoulder. He had on black sweats and high-top Chuck Taylor’s, looking like a wayward ninja. I smiled at him as we fast-walked back to the car. He wouldn’t look at me, he was transfixed by the sounds of the miniwar being played down the hill. I know he was wondering how he could have ever gotten this close.

“Those are fifty-caliber machine guns strapped on top of those Hummers,” U said. “They’d make hamburger out of a deer before it hits the ground.”

We’d almost made it back to the truck when three men walked from the brush, almost like they’d evolved from the night and trees, dressed in all black with blacked-out faces. They came to us with AK-47s pointed at our chests.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “A tribute to Al Jolson.”

“Nick,” U said under his breath. “Shut the fuck up.”

Bubba Cotton froze. If I hadn’t been so scared, I’d have laughed. His big ass looked like one of those men in Jackson Square who asked for tips for standing still.

U spoke a little louder when the muzzle of their guns came inches from our chests. “Hey man, saw your fire. Y’all wouldn’t know where a brother could find some decent barbecue?”

Much better, I thought, blood now swimming through my ears. Heart lodged behind my larynx. At least Al Jolson confused them.

Chapter 48

“THRILL KILL,” Ransom said to Jon Burrows as they continued to hunt the wildcat in back of the casino. “Is that what it’s all about for you?”

“No, sir,” Jon said, takin’ good aim into the edge of cotton fields, where they’d seen the skinny ole cat disappear. He sighted down his arm and along the straight edge of the Beretta. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he turned the gun around to Ransom and shot that grizzled fucker right in the throat. He rested the gun at his side, the grip loose in his fingers. Might as well hear what he got to say.

“Seems to me you know the difference,” Ransom said, smashing cotton plants under his muddy boots and tracking the wildcat into the woods. “You know when I was your age, I ran most of south Memphis. Took me about six months to figure out the players and then how to play them. Make them turn against each other. Make ’em afraid of me. Sometimes you got to crawl up high in a tree and watch the animals below you. It’s not hard.”

Ransom pulled out a cigar from a deep pocket in his heavy hunting coat. He snipped the end, offered another to Jon, snipped that one, and lit both. Jon took a good draw, trying to make sure he didn’t cough none and show he didn’t know nothin’ about cigars. He did. He’d been through his share of Tampa Nuggets and Swisher Sweets.

It was night and kind of cold. His face felt all funny every time the wind blew out of the trees and cut across his face. He’d shaved off his beard a few hours ago, leavin’ a pair of perfect sideburns just like E in sixty-eight, and splashed all his pores with Hai Karate. That wind ’bout tore his face up when they’d walked out back of the hotel and tromped about a half mile to that new site, lookin’ for some wildcat a guard had seen.

“How far you want to take this?”

“What you mean?” Jon said, spittin’ out the smoke from his mouth. Much more blue and heavy than them Nuggets. Felt rich.

“You travel a lot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You taken lots of jobs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’d you like to get out of that mess?” Ransom said. “I liked the way you took care of that body in New Orleans. You took care of any evidence real quick. If you’d moved that woman, we might have some folks breathin’ from behind… Did Perfect really go crazy?”

“Yes, sir,” Jon said. He thought he saw some movement along the edge of the high grass, right near that clearing of maples. “You see it?”

Ransom aimed his Browning and fired off three quick hits into the grass. They ran over to the clearing to find an opossum, about the size of a fat squirrel, bleedin’ from the mouth. Ransom kicked it over and Jon saw a dozen little tiny babies, like pink worms, wigglin’ all about.

Ransom didn’t notice and kept walking along the edge of the woods, turning inside on a narrow path, all the way clearing away the branches for Jon. Ransom was showin’ him respect. Showed respect for his talents. Jon’s hands quivered along the handle of the gun.

Felt like he could run around the woods about a million times and not get tired. Ride into daylight without a lick of sleep. He was E.

“I could use you permanent,” Ransom said.

“Yes, sir.”

“So…”