Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1) (7 page)

Dexter may have been short on personality, but he made up for it in precision. Willie gazed around the living room and kitchen area at their setup. It was going to be a long cook, but in the end they’d rake in enough cash for Willie to get away from the life. He and Dexter prepped until noon, then stepped out the front door to have a smoke in the clearing by the van.

“You worked for Shane long?” Dexter asked.

“Few years,” Willie said.

“He speaks highly of you. Well, as highly as Shane speaks of anybody.”

“That’s good to know.” Yeah, that was definitely good info to have.

“He trusts you, but not your fat buddy.” Dexter took a last drag and crushed the butt on the heel of his boot as he exhaled, then put what was left in his shirt pocket.

“Bub’s a necessary evil. Can do stuff to people I can’t do.”

“Like what?”

“Like break their face,” Willie said. “We went to high school together. He dropped out to work for one of Shane’s dealers. I came on board after I dropped out the next year.”

“How’d you get above him in the food chain?”

“I have a brain. Bub ain’t the sharpest crayon in the box, but he’ll do what you tell him to do and that’s all I need.”

They went back inside and worked in silence, moving chemicals here and there, adjusting valves and beakers. If only Willie paid better attention during his high school chemistry class, maybe he’d know how this exactly worked. He may be a redneck hillbilly, but he’d done some research on meth.

Methamphetamine had been around for a long time. Speed, crystal, glass, crank, tweak, rock, tina, ice, shards. The main ingredient ephedrine or pseudoephedrine was found in many legal drugs like decongestants, Nyquil Nighttime Cold Medications, Sudafed and diet pills. The national crackdown on scoring ephedrine had led people like Willie to find some creative sources of the drug.

The familiar tense knot formed in his belly. Guilt because of what they were making and who they’d be selling it to. Picturing his mother hunched over in the shack she called a house, smoking what he cooked from a dirty glass pipe made his skin crawl. But it wasn’t like he invented the shit. He forced his thoughts to turn to dollar signs.

“You know they used meth during World War II?” Willie asked. “My great grandfather flew bombers over Germany and told me they used to call meth ‘Pilot’s Chocolate.’ You know, to help fight fatigue.” Dexter said nothing, just kept setting up tubes and beakers. Willie gave up trying to make conversation.

Since they were in the Midwest around farming country, Dexter’s basic cook method used the readily available anhydrous ammonia. Mix it with the right quantities of pseudoephedrine, and sodium or lithium, and boom, you get meth. The hard part was getting enough pseudoephedrine, but this guy seemed to have ample supply. Willie didn’t ask where Shane scored it and Dexter didn’t offer.

Willie never touched the product because it scared the shit out of him. His customers snorted or smoked it, flooding their pea brains with dopamine, wide eyed and tweaking for days at a time, continuing to chase the first high until they ran out of product, or crashed and burned. The tragic downside wasn’t worth feeling like Superman for a short time. He had dreams of breaking free from this life, maybe having a family with kids. Getting strung out on this poison wasn’t going to help make that dream a reality.

“You ready?’ Dexter asked.

Willie zipped up his protective yellow suit and stretched the straps of the full-face respirator wide, slipping it over his head. He drew in a deep breath, soaking in the musty air of the old house, and pulled the respirator over his face. Pressing his hands against the filters, he inhaled deeply, the rubber sucking against his face ensuring he had a good seal. Dexter waited, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Let’s do it,” Willie said. Hopefully, for the last time.

It took the thirty minute drive from Sedalia to Warsaw for the smile to dissipate from Jake’s face. But not even the joy of seeing the only woman he ever loved again could stop the prospect of dealing with Stony and Keats’ looming deadline from pulling down the corners of his mouth. Stony was straight forward, but how to track down Langston? A trip to the car dealership, some worthless phone calls and a locked up warehouse wasn’t going to get him very far.

He might not survive the next forty-eight hours, but if he did last that long, supplies were needed. He took the exit ramp for Walmart, weaving through abandoned carts in the parking lot to an open space on west side. He walked toward the store, giving a wide berth to a sloppy woman with a booger-picking kid lazily clad in pajamas at two in the afternoon, and then helped an old woman finish loading her car, offering to take her cart back to the store. She looked like Hap Anderson’s mother. Hell, it could’ve been. He hadn’t seen either of them in sixteen years.

Pushing the cart toward the Walmart entrance, a flash of denim caught his eye between two cars. A tall, heavy set man in overalls stood next to a rust bitten El Camino, Iron Maiden cranking from backseat speakers that probably cost more than the entire car. The fat man retrieved something from his pockets and palmed it to the driver. An obvious exchange of money for drugs. If Langston ran the drug trade in Warsaw, one of his dealers could lead Jake in the right direction. But which one was the dealer and which the customer?

The choice was made for him when the El Camino’s glass packs rumbled and faded away. Jake parked the cart with a pile near the entrance, swinging the cart around so he could check out the fat man without being too obvious. He headed his way, so Jake went inside. No better place to track someone than inside a busy Walmart.

An ancient greeter offered a pleasant hello. Jake nodded to him then approached the discount shelves near the entrance. He grabbed the closest item, an "As Seen on TV" miracle garden hose, and pretended to read the back of the box. The fat man moved past in a wave of body odor. Jake waited a moment and followed. If he lost sight of the guy, all he would have to do was follow his nose.

The fat man picked up some high calorie snacks and a case of cheap beer, and made his way back to the front. Along the way, one of the boxes slipped off the pile toward the floor. With surprisingly fast reflexes, the fat man snagged it before the box hit the floor. Big and quick. Good to know. The lines at the registers were six deep so Jake headed to his truck.

Ten minutes later, the man hefted himself into a beat up truck and rumbled out of the parking lot. Jake followed, keeping some distance between them. Did this guy work for Langston? Maybe Langston’s local supplier?

The truck rolled toward downtown, bouncing up and down with each curve of the road. Apparently new shocks were not high on the owner’s list of priorities. A Benton County Sheriff’s car passed and the fat man’s head turned toward the side mirror to ensure it kept going. Jake followed the right guy.

A few minutes later, they cruised down Main Street and the truck turned toward the Community Center. Jake passed and angle parked in front of an antique store. With the courthouse and jail to his back, he walked down an inclined sidewalk, pausing at the corner of the building, the Community Center in front of him. He snuck a peek around the brick. The fat man stood twenty feet away in an empty back alley talking to two other guys with matching hair styles—too long and too dirty. Jake overheard something about some guy named Willie, a shipment and a warehouse.

Jake considered tailing the guy in the hopes that he could lead him to Langston, but that could take time he didn’t have. Besides, being stealthy was not in his wheelhouse of skills. The fat man could tell him what he needed to know or Jake could beat it out of him. Jake stepped around the corner and the trio in front of him stopped talking and watched his approach.

“Afternoon, fellas,” Jake said. The three of them stepped back into a neat line covering the breadth of the alley. The fat man in the middle, the other two on either side like matching white-trash bookends.

“Help you?” the fat man asked.

“Maybe. For your sake, I hope so.” Jake stopped within arm’s reach, his hands relaxed at his sides.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I need some information and you’re going to give it to me.”

“Or what?”

“Let’s not let it get to that,” Jake said. “I saw you dealing at the Walmart.”

The fat man moved with surprising quickness and grabbed Jake by the shirt
,
slamming Jake against the brick wall of the building while the two long-haired guys pressed in on either side. They were identical twins. Not big, but ugly and wiry.

“Who the fuck are you?” the fat man asked.

Jake grinned. “You’re gonna find out in about two seconds if you don’t take your hands off me.”

“Kick his ass, Bub.” At least Jake had a name to work with.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, dickhead,” Bub said.

“I’m not here to start any shit. I just need some information.”

“You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“You look like an asshole,” Bub said.

“I’m gonna be if you don’t take your hands off me and take two steps back. Last warning.”

Bub’s face remained inches from Jake’s, his breath a horrible concoction of cigarettes, garlic and teeth that hadn’t been brushed in a week. He released Jake and stepped back. Not a big one. The twins remained on either side, clenching their fists. The one on his left held something behind his leg. Arm down at his side, angling his body away.

“Okay,” Bub said, “what do you want?”

“A guy who owes me some money. Shane Langston.”

The twins shot a look to Bub who, to his credit, remained stone-faced. But his eyes gave him away. The same look in the eyes of a guy at the poker table who didn’t like the last card the dealer laid down. The reason some guys wear sunglasses at the table—eyes never lie.

“Never heard of him,” Bub said.

“That so? Looks to me like you do.”

“What’s he owe you money for?”

“That’s between me and him. Look, I’ll make it worth your while if you point me in the right direction.”

Bub clearly considered the proposition for a moment, then glanced to one of the twins. “Hank, point this asshole in the right direction.”

Hank swung his arm high and wide, aiming at Jake’s head. Too slow and telegraphed. The two foot metal pipe whistled overhead as Jake ducked, twisted and unleashed a vicious jab into Hank’s solar plexus. His fist sunk in and the air whoofed out. Hank was done.

Jake kept low and shot his good leg out at the other twin, not catching him flush with the back kick, but a solid enough to provide some distance. Bub swung a haymaker at Jake’s head that he easily side-slipped. Bub’s over-swing carried him toward the brick wall of the building and Jake helped him along that path with a palm strike to the back of his head. His face cracked into the stone with a satisfying smack. He threw a jab and a left hook to the glass jaw of the advancing twin who was unconscious before he hit the ground. Jake turned back to Bub.

Bub breathed heavy, eyes dazed and blood running down his chin. Hank wheezed on his hands and knees, trying to suck in air. Bub raised his fists in a fighter’s stance and edged forward. Jake danced to the side, keeping Hank between them. Bub tried to move forward and circle around, but Jake mirrored him, waiting for him to do something stupid.

“Stand still, you chicken shit,” Bub grunted.

Jake grinned, continually circling. “Tell me where I can find Shane Langston and I’ll let you walk out of here with your ugly teeth intact.”

“You talk big for running away.”

“So catch me, fat boy.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Bub lunged. Jake shot out a straight jab and caught the taller man squarely in the eye. Bub stopped cold, and Jake followed with a jab to the gut and a swinging elbow to the chin. Bub dropped to the ground on top of Hank. That had to hurt worse than Jake’s punch.

Jake started forward when the wail of a siren closed in fast down the hill from Main Street. He had no desire to tell Bear his reason for rousting the local drug dealers and he’d never make it down the other side of the back street before the cops got there. A door marked “Deliveries” beckoned from the brickwork a few feet away. Jake darted to the door, which opened into a cluttered storeroom, dimly lit by interspaced overhead fluorescents casting shadows on dusty furniture and shelves lined with knick knacks. He made his way to a set of stairs and climbed to the main floor, to the front door and back out to Main Street.

A small crowd of onlookers stared down the hill toward the Community Center, the flashing lights of the police car bouncing off the adjacent buildings. He jumped in his truck and smacked the steering wheel. Though he had no doubts Bub worked for Langston, he was no closer to finding his target than when he started. Wait, Bub had said something about a warehouse. Maybe it was the Global Distribution Center.

Jake turned into a gas station and parked in the back corner. He grabbed his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts list. Dwight owed him a favor. He answered on the second ring.

“Dwight, Jake Caldwell,” Jake said.

Silence filled the line followed by a heavy sigh. “What do you need?”

“To collect on the favor you owe me.”

“What favor?”

“The favor where I spotted you the five hundred bucks you owed Keats and didn’t break your face. Or do I need to come over and remind you?”

“Oh, yeah. That favor. What is it?”

“You still a computer pirate?”

“Among other things.”

“Need you to see what you can find on a Global Distribution Center in Sedalia.” Jake read him the address. “Looking for ownership records, tax filings, anything interesting you can dig up.”

“What’s this for?”

“Don’t worry your shitty comb-over head about it. Just call me when you get something.” Jake’s brain flashed to the bundle of envelopes in the back of Langston’s drawer. “Oh, and find out what you can about Marion Holdings and its ties to a guy named Shane Langston.”

“Who’s that?”

“Just a guy I’m digging into. And keep it quiet. Call me as soon as you can later today?”

“Today?”

“Yeah, unless you want that visit. I’ll even forgive the last two hundred you still owe me.”

Dwight grunted. “I’ll call you in a couple hours.”

Jake hung up, pleased the wheels were turning. Slowly, but they were turning. Time to head home and deal with Stony.