John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Mark paused for a long moment before entering, once again checking over his shoulders for hidden snipers. It still wasn’t too late for him to leave, he told himself, knowing even as the words formed in his brain that they were a lie. It had become too late for him the instant he’d turned to Pointer for help. But what the hell, he had taken a shot at the big leagues and he lost. In any other business, he could have taken pride in having the guts to try. On the other hand, in any other business, the financing arrangements would not have involved so much blood.

Taking a deep breath, Mark turned the knob on the door and entered the Hillbilly Tavern. The transition from searing sunshine to near darkness left him momentarily blind. He stood still in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

“Who the fuck are you?” a gravelly voice barked from behind the shadows.

“My name’s Bailey,” Mark replied, invoking a tone of voice he hadn’t used since prison. “Who the fuck is asking?”

“I think you’re in the wrong place,” another voice said, this one from his right.

“I’m here to meet a man named Pointer. You heard of him?” The silence told him that they had.

“Goddammit,” the first voice growled again, “either come in or get the fuck out. I don’t like people standing in my doorway.”

Mark shut the door behind him and edged his way toward a table in the corner. He ordered a beer, hoping that the hair of the dog would take the edge off his hangover. The tavern stank of cigarettes, sweat and countless spilled drinks. That rodents and insects roamed wild inside went without question.

Seated now, with his back against the corner, Mark allowed his vision to adjust to the darkness, and he scanned the room. Gravel Voice lumbered awkwardly behind the bar fulfilling his beer order, having difficulty maneuvering his three-hundred-plus pounds in the confined galley lined with off-brand liquor bottles. A huge, tangled beard sprouted from his cheeks and neck, resting like a furry bib on his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His hair had last been trimmed during the same decade that the beard was last checked for mice and squirrels. He at least showed the courtesy to wear his mane in a tight ponytail that swung just below his shoulder blades. That way, it didn’t dangle into the drinks as he prepared them. Mark assumed Gravel Voice was the owner, though for all he knew, that poor soul was just as likely dead in some meat freezer in the back.

Mark’s beer was served in the bottle. By his count, in addition to himself and the bartender, there were three other people in the tavern, all of whom looked as though they had been there for a very long time. Conversations among the men varied from quiet to loud, sad to animated, but always punctuated with the slurred drawl of hill folk. Mark’s mission now was simply to wait, and to avoid being caught in the act of staring at this collection of people fresh from Darwin’s waiting room.

When Lyle Pointer finally entered the Hillbilly Tavern, the eyes of the regulars looked up just long enough to look away. No one said anything. The seam of sunlight created by Pointer’s entrance disappeared quickly as he closed the door behind him. In the quick wash of light, Mark clearly saw the leather jacket, the open collar, and the gold baubles draped around his neck and his wrist. I’m in bed with a fucking gangster, Mark thought.

Either Pointer knew in advance where Mark was sitting, or his eyes adjusted awfully quickly to the change in lighting. Either way, he walked without hesitating directly over to Mark’s table in the corner and took the seat immediately next to his host, not across from him as Mark had expected. It was the seating arrangement typical of a date, not of a business meeting. But then, Mark had no way of knowing just how intimate an act of true intimidation could be. In Pointer’s presence, the fat bartender moved almost gracefully, bringing his new guest a drink—could it be water?—without even being asked.

For a long moment, Pointer stared at Mark, twice making him break eye contact. At length, he said, “You broke your promise to me.” His voice had an odd quality to it, simultaneously quiet and angry. The effect was thoroughly frightening. “You promised me that you could handle this thing, and then you flicked it up.”

Sweat beaded on Mark’s forehead. He could feel perspiration soak his armpits and his back. He’d come to the meeting armed with excuses and explanations for Ricky’s failure to perform, but he had suddenly lost the nerve to say anything. Instead, he just stared at his second empty beer bottle, spinning it slowly with his fingers in its own puddle of sweat.

“Look at me, Bailey,” Pointer commanded softly.

Mark raised his eyes.

“I talked to Mr. Slater this morning, and he wasn’t pleased. And do you know who he wasn’t pleased with?”

Mark shook his head silently.

Pointer slammed the table with his fist, making the empty beer bottle jump almost as high as Mark. “Goddammit, you fucking answer me!”

For an instant, Mark forgot the question, then his mind cleared and he stammered, “N-no, I d-don’t. Me, I suppose. I guess he’s not pleased with me.”

Pointer leaned forward, close enough for Mark to smell his chewing gum. Juicy Fruit. “No, Bailey, you’re wrong again,” he said measuredly, his voice once again menacingly smooth. “He wasn’t mad at you. He was mad at me. Because I was stupid enough to believe that you could pull off a fool-proof plan to kill a kid inside a concrete fucking room.” His voice boomed at the end, prompting Mark to glance nervously at the others seated in the tavern. None of them moved, though certainly all of them were listening. Clearly, that didn’t matter to Pointer.

“Look, Pointer, I can explain,” Mark attempted to say.

Pointer cut him off. “I don’t want an explanation from you. Obviously, you weren’t there. Let me guess. You poured yourself inside a bottle last night, didn’t you?”

Mark looked away again.

“Didn’t you!”

He nodded.

Pointer took a deep breath and let it out noisily. “So that’s the thanks I get, huh? I go to bat for you, keep you from getting your throat cut, and the best you can do is subcontract your work to some incompetent prison guard so you can drown yourself in booze. Does that seem fair to you, Mark?”

Mark said, “No.” What he didn’t say, they both knew already. The only reason that Pointer had gone to bat for him was to protect the two hundred thousand dollars he stood to make in the deal, unbeknownst to the angry Mr. Slater.

“Well, Mark, we finally agree on something. It doesn’t seem fair to me, either. But you know what? I did it for you again. Mr. Slater’s first solution to this little problem was for me to cut out your liver and stuff it down your throat.”

Mark felt his heart rate double, knowing without question that Pointer was reporting fact. He sweated like a marathon runner now. His hands trembled.

“But I talked him out of that for the time being. I told him that there was too much money in play just to kill you without at least another try. And you know what he said to me?”

Mark was looking away again. Pointer grabbed his face in the vise of his left hand and pulled him around so they were face-to-face, only inches separating them.

“He told me that he didn’t care about the money. Imagine that. Imagine getting to that point in life where five hundred thousand dollars just doesn’t mean anything any more. He told me that the honor and dignity of his name were at stake now, and that the only thing that mattered was killing you.”

Mark’s hangover flooded back into his brain. His stomach churned. It was entirely possible that he would barf on Pointer’s shiny leather jacket.