Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1) (2 page)

Jake wove his black F150 to the River Market north of downtown Kansas City, through streets bordered with squat red brick buildings hosting bars, shops and offices. He turned down an asphalt drive and parked in front of the warehouse, its parking lot cracked like a broken mirror, determined weeds rising through the slits. He grabbed the envelope containing the two grand Carlos owed. Taking the cash from his diminishing personal stash was easier than going to his boss empty handed.

The stairs to Keats’ office creaked under Jake’s reluctant footsteps. He hated meeting with his boss. During his last visit, he tried not to squirm as Keats turned a guy’s knuckles to powder with a nutcracker. Jake could still hear the man screaming, like his cries were embedded in the wood-paneled walls.

“Jake,” Jason Keats said as if greeting an old friend. The room reeked of earthy-toned cigar smoke. Keats pulled his black-suited frame from a leather recliner. His skin was cold and clammy as they shook hands. His peppered hair slicked back with too much gel. “How’s things?”

“Been better. I need to bail for a few days. My old man’s dying and my sister needs me back home.”

“Sorry to hear it. You close with your dad?”

“No.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He’s an asshole.” He handed Keats the envelope. “Two grand from Carlos.”

“He had it, eh?”

“Yeah, shocked me, too.”

Keats thumbed through the money in the envelope and raised it to his scarred nose, sniffing.

“Doesn’t smell like Carlos. Smells like you.”

Jake shrugged. “Smells like two Gs.”

Keats smacked Jake on the chest with the envelope. His inviting mood dissolved. “What am I gonna do with you, Caldwell?”

“In terms of what?”

“In terms of you not doing what I fucking tell you to do.”

“I got your money, Jason. Count it.”

“I know it’s there.” Keats tossed the envelope on the mahogany desktop. “I told you to break this guy’s kneecaps. You going to float every piece of shit I send you to collect on?”

“Isn’t breaking kneecaps kind of a stereotype?”

“It’s effective.”

“Guy can’t work if he can’t walk.”

Keats sighed. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Look, his daughter’s in the hospital and he’s got a pile of bills that would choke a horse.”

“I’m not running a goddamn charity. Carlos didn’t use the money he borrowed for medical bills. He bet on a dog-shit horse and lost. Again. What’s really going on?”

“Nothing,” Jake said, slumping in the chair in front of Keats’ desk.

“Bullshit. How long you worked for me?”

“I don’t know. Five years?”

“Six if you count Oklahoma,” Keats said. “You were a dark soul who didn’t mind dishing it out.”

“I still dish it out.”

“Carlos is the third fuckin’ guy you’ve spotted this month. I got no use for someone who can’t follow simple orders.”

There was no reason for Jake to lie. “It’s getting hard to sleep at night,” he said, focusing on his bad knee, avoiding Keats’ stare.

“You want out?”

There it was, laid out for him. Leaving the life had dominated his thoughts for the last few months. But it would be a tricky extraction, maybe fatal. “No. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know.”

Keats eyeballed him. “See, you know a lot about what I do. Guys with less knowledge than you have disappeared.”

“I’m no rat. You know that.”

“An enforcer with a conscious isn’t worth shit to me. You want out?” Keats asked again.

Jake twirled the ring on his finger. Echoes of screams. Bones snapping. “Yeah, I want out. This is turning me into someone I swore I’d never become.”

Keats hoisted himself from the desk and walked to a wet bar. He poured two fingers of Scotch from a crystal decanter into two glasses, adding a single ice cube to each. He handed one to Jake. Keats took a slug and leaned his steely frame against his desk. Jake stared at his drink. He hated Scotch.

“Your old man’s down in Warsaw, right?” Keats said. “Dying from what?”

“Probably cancer. He smoked like a chimney.”

Keats watched him, calculating. Jake figured he had a fifty-fifty shot at staying alive to the end of the day.

After a minute, Keats spoke. “Tell you what. You handle a problem for me, and I’ll let you go free and clear.”

“What’s the problem?”

“You heard about Big Teddy?”

“Who hasn’t?” Jake said. Teddy Garrett, Keats’ rival in Kansas City. The Feds swept up Teddy and his crew last week in a drug raid in nearby Independence.

“With Teddy out of the picture, the roaches are coming out of the woodwork. There’s one roach keeping me up at night.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“This roach operates in your old neck of the woods,” Keats said. “Has all of Benton County under his thumb, but he’s eyeballing expansion into KC. He’s an ambitious little turd who I want permanently squashed. You’re the boot that’s gonna do the squashing. Plus, there’s a nice going away present for your years of service.”

“I take care of the guy and you just let me go?”

Keats nodded. “You bury this guy and your old man. Two birds with one trip. Then you can ride off into the sunset and do whatever the fuck you want.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. Here was his lifeline and he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. Keats wrote on a slip of paper and slid it across the table.

Jake lifted it and read the name. “If I don’t want the job?”

Keats swallowed the rest of the Scotch and chuckled. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

Willie Banks angle parked at the entrance to Casey’s convenience store west of Warsaw’s downtown. He ran his hand along the rusted side of his truck—its primary color best described as primer—tracking the lunchtime crowd. He waited for three things: the phone call; his partner Bub to finish taking a crap; and for sweet Halle.

A red flash of guilt rolled through Willie as Halle strolled out the front door, but it didn’t stop him watching her across the parking lot. He may not have finished high school, but even his limited twenty-three-year-old intellect was well aware that sixteen-year-old Halle represented statutory rape. But he could look and fantasize. Perfectly round, little ass in tight jean shorts, bronze quads popping with each stride. Long, blonde hair flowing down the middle of her tanned back. A brilliant smile that stopped his heart every time he saw it. She was the full package and he loved her, not that he’d ever let anyone know. He licked his chapped lips as his partner Bub lumbered out the door behind her, a missile-lock stare on her swinging back end. A stare so hard he stumbled off the curb and dropped his pizza box; but only giving up when Halle climbed into her mom’s car.

“Goddamn,” Bub said as he hefted himself into the truck with an acrid wave of body odor, like he had dozens of rotting rodents stuffed in his pockets. He scratched the sparse stubble on his cheeks, the fat folds on his neck bunching up as he craned to watch the car drive away. “That Halle gets any hotter and I’ll just have to take my chances with the Old Bear.”

“He’d skin your fat ass alive, Bub.” The car headed east up the hill toward downtown and out of sight.

“I ain’t scared of big bad Sheriff Bear.”

“Then you’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Wish he’d back off us,” Bub said, balancing the greasy pizza box on his lap as he got situated. “We gotta make a living, right?”

They waited in silence while the Lake of the Ozark weekend tourists mixed with the locals around them. Bub finished off the pizza slices, downed the forty-ounce can of Budweiser and scrubbed his mouth with the back of his meaty forearm. He belched loud enough to shake the flakes of rust from the side of the truck.

“So what the hell are we sitting here for?” he asked, tossing the empty box to the floor and wiping his greasy fingers on his overalls.

“We’re waiting,” Willie said.

“Duh. For what?”

“For Shane to call.”

Bub huffed and lit a cigarette from a white generic pack.

A rail-thin woman with stringy, black hair that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a month walked out of Casey’s, a bottle of soda in her hand and two dirty, snot-nosed kids at her feet. Delilah Warner. She stopped when she spotted Willie’s truck. She jerked her head around checking out the area for cops, trying to appear casual—and doing a piss poor job of it.

“Get a load of Delilah,” Bub said.

“She looks like she got hit by a truck. You got anything on you?”

“Yeah, a little bit.”

“Good, ‘cause she’s heading our way.”

Delilah slid over to Bub’s side of the truck, dropping a twenty in his hand. He handed over a plastic bag and she disappeared around the corner of the store.

“Right in front of her fucking kids, man,” Willie said.

“So?”

“So? That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it? Cash is cash. When we getting another shipment?” Bub asked, stuffing the twenty in his pocket. “We’re runnin’ low. Down to pebbles.”

“Supposed to be next week.”

“Mexicans hauling it again?”

Willie nodded. “Monday, I think.”

Bub belched again. “I hate dealin’ with those greaseballs. Puffin’ their chests and flashin’ their guns. Assholes.”

“Got no choice, Bub. Bear has a vapor lock on supplies. We can’t make any quantity worth a damn on our own.”

“Well, Shane’s still making a fat ass roll off it. What about us?”

Willie didn’t answer. The economy sucked and people were strapped, which cut into Willie’s margins. Of course, Shane got his cut. Shane Langston always got his cut.

“Shane oughtta say something to those guys,” Bub continued. “That last package sucked. Might as well been selling rocks of baby powder. You try it?”

Willie shook his head. He didn’t touch the product. Never do what you deal. Especially when what you’re dealing ain’t yours in the first place. He’d seen firsthand what meth did to people—his mom, the poster child. Lank hair, black gums, cadaver face; like someone sucked the life essence from her and left nothing but a shell. Too consumed with the poison to even think about actually being a mother. He also saw what Shane did to dealers who dipped into their supply and got sloppy. Willie liked having all his fingers attached.

“I still think we should take the Mexicans out,” Bub said. Willie rolled his eyes. “A truckload of drugs and wads of cash. One score, that’s all we need. Hightail it out of Benton County and disappear.”

“You got a death wish, my friend,” Willie said.

“Not if we do it right.” Bub took a deep drag and flicked the cigarette butt out the open window.

“There ain’t no doing it right. They got Uzis in those trucks and those crazy wetbacks would carve the Mexican flag on your fat, dead belly. Even if you got away with it at the time, they’d find you. Where you gonna go? Mexico?”

“Maybe Canada,” Bub offered. “My momma says I got some Frenchy in my blood.”

“You’re as French as a Mickey D’s fry,” Willie said. “If the Mexicans didn’t get you, Shane sure as hell would. Dude’s got mad reach.”

“Still worth thinking about, man. Better than this nickel and dime shit we’re making now.”

Willie couldn’t argue with his logic. They used to make a decent living passing meth to the County’s downtrodden. Until Sheriff Bear squeezed the trade, shut down the labs, and the mass distribution of meth in Benton County came to a screeching halt. Now that the Mexicans were moving product north, a chance of getting back in the game reared up. There certainly wasn’t much else to do for a living for the likes of him in Warsaw.

“We need some bank,” Bub said. “Get us on the good side of Poor Boy.”

Willie nodded, thinking about his trailer back in the deep woods off Poor Boy Road. Out of sight, out of mind. A stranger venturing off Highway 7 or Old Highway 65 heading toward Fristoe on double-lettered roads like MM or NN might find some seriously nice lakefront homes owned by people in real estate or banking. The stranger had an equally good chance of wishing he never made the turn off the highway, and would be happy to get out of there unscathed. Crumbling wood-framed homes and shacks, some so run down that hanging laundry provided the only clue someone actually lived there. Every town, every city had their economic dividing line between the haves and the have-nots. Poor Boy Road was their line.

Willie fantasized about moving far away plenty over the last year. Fly away with the little bankroll he stashed away in his momma’s old music box behind a loose brick at his trailer. Drop the meth dealing and live cheap as he made his way somewhere warmer. Maybe go to Colorado and hook up with his little brother. Avery said it was good money. Anywhere else would be fine as long as it was far from the rotting meth mouths pleading for more and the vice grip of Shane Langston.

Just as Willie was a hair’s width from kicking Bub’s ass out of the truck and peeling away in a cloud of dust with a hearty Hi-Yo Silver
,
his burner cell phone rang. Willie answered, listened, and the thoughts blazing down the road disappeared. Sixty seconds later, he grunted and hung up.

“So what’s the plan?” Bub asked.

“Shane wants to meet.”

“Here?”

“My place. We gotta get Howie and Bennett.”

“What the hell is it about?” Bub asked.

“Didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

“He sound okay?”

“He sounded pissed. Someone’s ass is in a sling.”

“Hope it ain’t mine.”

“You and me both, man.”

Willie started the truck, backed up and sputtered out of the parking lot to Main Street. He hung a left and paused at the intersection at Highway 7. The empty stretch of road invited him to head west out of town. Willie’s instincts screamed at him to turn that way. Instead, he turned east toward home. A knot balled in his gut. When Shane was pissed, things tended to get bloody.