Edward Lee - Header

He checked the windows. Nothing. Then he looked back at the cocaine. Ten keys would have an astronomical street value, but there was no way he could handle that. He'd made the right move, he knew. This was his clean break. Besides, it wasn't the coke he was after.

Yeah, that fucker takes half on delivery. I know he does.

He searched the place. It didn't take much effort. It's the Queen Mary, all right. In the back room was a gym bag—full of banded hundred dollar bills.

He kept his cool, lit a Lucky, stood a moment to think. His future was set. Never again would he have to sweat Kath's pharmacy bills, and never again would they ever be in want. He'd have to be careful how he spent it, just a trickle at a time, and he knew he couldn't put it in the bank, for that would alert the IRS. Be smart, he told himself.

He couldn't leave the cocaine, either. He needed this to look like a dope hit, and hitters would never leave 10 keys of 80 percent blow on the table. So he threw the gym bag in the trunk, then loaded up the coke. He'd used his Webley to smoke Spaz and Dutch, a precaution that paid off—with the Webley there'd be no remaining ballistic evidence to tie Cummings to his service piece, his Smith 13. There'd be a few of his fingerprints in Dutch's crib, though, but the can of kerosene in the utility shed would take care of that. Way out here in the boondocks? It’d take an hour before anyone even noticed the smoke, and by the time they got a county firetruck out here, there'd be nothing left but a pile of cinders and two flame-broiled redneck pieces of shit.

So—

All bases were covered.

Cummings drenched the bodies and the front room with kerosene, lit the trailer line from the porch, then got into the unmarked. In the rearview, the shack burst into flames.

Cummings drove off and never looked back.

........

"All right, son, out with it," Grandpappy insisted that night. They was sitting out on the porch, sippin'corn and gazin' out upon the beautiful world Gawd had given 'em ta gaze upon. The sun was sinkin' low, throwin’ dapplin' light through the trees, evenin' embracin' 'em. Birds raised Cain up in the high branches, and owls were beginnin' ta hoot. It were a beautiful comin' night, it was...

But Travis sat dejected.

"Come on, boy." Grandpap reasserted. "Somethin' buggin’ ya. has been fer weeks. So's why don't'cha tell yer ol' grandpappy?"

"Aw, shucks, Grandpap." Travis' eyes remained glued ta the porchslats. He'd sound like some prissy puss, he would, whinin' ta Grandpap 'bout his misgivin's, conjectures, an' mental wanderin’s’a late. Earlier, he'd dumped Sarah Dawn's deader'n'a fencepost body offa one 'a the old county roads, left the low-down dirty whore there ta git et by possums, which were what she deserved fer what her pappy did ta his own. And Travis'd hoped that the extra-rowdy head-humpin' they'd pulled on her would set his moods back on track, get him outa this subjecterive slump he'd been lingerin' in, it didn't though. Two nuts an' a good, hard pee inner noggin‘, an' he were still feelin' in the dumps.

"I'se just," he began. Then: "Shee-it, Grandpap. I dunno. You'd think I were a big blubberin' pussy if I tolds ya what's botherin’ me."

"Lemme tells ya somethin'. son. There come a time when alls men feels like pussies when they's gets ta thinkin’ 'bout sentimental-type shit. Ya know, stuff like where we fits inta God's plan, an' what's we mean in the large scheme'a things, what's we'se mean ta the unerverse an' all. And, a'corse, when we gets ta thinkin' 'bout our loved ones who's passed on. Bet that's it, ain't it, boy. Yer troubled 'bout yer maw an' daddy, ain't that right?"

It were amazin', the level of Grandpap's perceptiveratee. 'Cos that were it right on the head! "Just feel bad, all them years I'm in the clink. Never got ta help 'em, never got to share proper in the joys'a life. I'm sittin' in the poky fer stealin' a car an' my fine folks get kilt inna wreck."

"Don't'cha worry none, son. Yous turnt out just fine, yer a fine boy an' yer maw and daddy'd be proud'a ya."

"Aw.shee-it. Grandpap," Travis reiteratered. "It's just—I dunno, it 's just that the whole thing don't feel right, ya know? Like there were more ta my folks' dyin' than meets the eye. Cain't properly 'xplain it."

"Well, Travis," and Grandpap looked a might sullen all at once, his feisty face goin' dark behind them whiskers, an’ he cleart his throat an’ hocked a lunger in the bushes, an' began agin: "I gots ta admit, son, yer quite right about that."

Travis looked up. "What'cha mean. Grandpap?"

"I nevers told ya on account I figured ya didn't need ta know. Yer life been tough enough, bein' in the slam an' all, and I figured ya didn't need me makin' it no tougher by tellin' ya the truth about how yer folks died."

"Tell me. Grandpap!" Travis stood up and about begged. The porch shuddered at his mere standin'. "I got's ta know! Won't feel like a whole man if I'se never know the truth!"

"Simmer down, boy." Grandpap consoled. "An" I'll'se tell ya."

Travis swigged the last of his corn then sat back down. He were sweatin’ an' all prickly. He knowed somethin' were wrong ‘bout the story, an' he hadda know what went on fer real. "Please, Grandpap," he nearly whimpered. "So it ain't really true? Maw and Daddy didn't really get kilt in a car wreck?"

"Son...well... It's sorta true. Lets me start at the beginnin'. You knows at least 'bout how yer paw hadda feud runnin' with the Caudills, who owned mostly that shit land just north'a here, which yer daddy sold 'em fer a song years back. Namely a dag cracker bastard named Thibald Caudill. Had two boys, an' his wife died droppin' the second. The boys thereselfs both died too, when yous were in stir, ‘cos when οl’ man Caudill gots money, the first boy turnt queer an' died'a the AIDS, an' the second, he just up an' dropped'a hair-in addiction, 'er cocaine 'er some such, one'a them hippified drugs, an' as far as Caudill hisself goes, well, we triet not ta let you know a lot 'bout his feud with yer daddy, 'cos it weren't healthy fer a young boy bein' raised in a feudin' environment. But it's Thibald Caudill, boy, that's where the story begins. Short, fat little cracker, ory-eyed most nights drinkin' corn. Tried raisin’ sheep fer the longest time but never made much outa it. Made more, I 'spect, stealing yer daddy's sheep."

Travis listened right hard, on the edge'a his seat. "Thibald Caudill. I 'member Daddy cussin' up a storm many a time 'bout him, but don't recall the man."

"That's 'cos he moved ta Pulaski, oh, five years 'er so 'fore ya got sent up ta the stone motel. Ol’ Caudill, he's got hisself a fancy mansion now. He's a millionaire, on account'a that land he bought fer shit from yer daddy. Worthless junk land we all thought, an' then one day Caudill offers hunnert bucks an acre, so yer daddy took it. Next thing we knows, there's natural gas found on it. Caudill discovered it before he made the deal, ripped yer daddy off bad, but some of the land, see, the few acres Caudill didn't buy, had gas on it to, so we think we'se sittin’ purdy 'cos we still had the deed fer those acres."

“Then—" Travis' big curious eyes widened. "Then how comes we ain't millionaires too. Grandpap?"

Grandpap's face got all fulla mean lines then. "'Cos Caudill, what he did was he sent one'a his boys to bust inta the house one night when yer maw and daddy were at the fambly reunion up in Filbert, an' he plumb stoled the deed."

"No!" Travis wailed.

"'Fraid so, son, an' he got some fancified city printer ta doctor his own deed, sayin' he owned all the land."

"No!"

Grandpap were visibly disturbed recitin' this story, so's he look a breather then an' poured hisself some more corn. "That's the long an' short of it, son. Both Caudill and yer daddy could'a been fair millionaires, but Caudill wanted it all, he did. Anyways, yer daddy and I, we'se put all our scratch together ta hire ourselfs a big city lawyer from Roanoke, but 'fore we could, that's when yer maw an' yer paw got kill. An' whiles you were in the slam, boy, ya know what Caudill did, just fer shits an' giggles? "Member when I'se wrote ya at prison, tellin' ya how lightnin' struck yer house? Well, it weren't no lightnin', son. Caudill paid someone ta burn down yer old house too. Just fer the fun of it."