“That wasn’t why she called. I think we got trouble, pard. Sandy says Henry Sexton is down at Wilma’s talking to Glenn, and Wilma’s not there.”
“Shit. Right now?”
“Yep. What you got on tap?”
“I’m supposed to fly down to Baton Rouge and make a pickup.”
Snake was referring to a bulk load of ether in transit from Mexico, something Sonny didn’t like moving in his cars. “I’m in the middle of work myself. Just had two cars delivered from auction.”
Snake grunted to acknowledge that he understood Sonny’s actual meaning.
“But I think we’d better go see Billy Knox,” Sonny added. “Don’t you?”
Snake didn’t answer. Sonny knew his old comrade hated taking problems to his son, but that was the procedure, and Sonny hoped Snake wouldn’t buck it. Glenn Morehouse knew enough to blow a lot more than Double Eagles out of the water. “Snake?” he said hesitantly.
“I’m thinking.”
Sonny looked over at the Camaro. When Sandra called, he’d been trying to open a hidden compartment that concealed two pounds of ephedrine. He’d already retrieved two pounds from behind the coolant reservoir, but the jerry-rigged compartment welded above the exhaust pipe was proving troublesome. He’d ripped his right thumbnail down to the quick, and it hurt like hell. He put it in his mouth and sucked it. “Come on, Snake. We gotta do it.”
“Is Sexton still at Wilma’s house?”
“Sandra says yeah. She’s going to call me when he leaves.”
“Goddamn it. I’d like to go take care of that fucker now, before anybody else gets into it. We should’ve silenced him a month after they diagnosed him. Would have been a mercy.”
Sonny gritted his teeth and tried to sound diplomatic. “You know that’s not gonna fly. It’s been a big enough day already.”
“I know … I know. All right, Billy’s down at Fort Knox. I’ll pick you up in my truck and we’ll head to Mississippi.”
“Fort Knox” was Snake’s nickname for Valhalla, the hunting camp that had been in his family for decades. Brody Royal preferred the formal name, but Snake liked reminding people that his family held the deed on all that acreage, regardless of who had paid for it.
“Give me thirty minutes,” Sonny said. “I need to secure these cars.”
“Works for me. Out.”
Sonny pocketed his cell phone, then looked down at his mechanic’s creeper with almost spousal resentment. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his belly. He’d had it for some time now. It had started just before Viola came back from Chicago. And look what came of that, he thought. Now Glenn’s talking? Jesus. Trying to keep the past buried was like trying to stop kudzu from growing. Short of pouring gasoline on the ground and killing the earth itself, you couldn’t do it. Which is exactly what Snake would argue in half an hour.
“Screw this load,” Sonny cursed, kicking the creeper across the floor.
Picking up the tightly packed Ziplocs of ephedrine, he walked into the front office to get some coffee. Bucky Jarrett, an old Double Eagle who worked as his sales manager, looked up from his ten-year-old computer when Sonny dropped the bags on his desk.
“Everything copacetic, boss?” Jarrett slid the Ziplocs into his bottom drawer with a practiced motion.
Sonny shook his head, looking through the broad display window at his little empire of secondhand cars. Just beyond his lot lay Highway 84, thick with midday traffic. A few miles down the road, on the other side of the asphalt, Glenn Morehouse was probably spilling his guts to a reporter. And not just any reporter, either—
“A little short on weight this trip?” Bucky asked.
“I’m having trouble opening the chassis safe.”
“Those tamale-heads prob’ly used an air driver to seal it.”
“Yep,” Sonny agreed. “You been to see Morehouse in a while, Buck?”
“Uh … about two Sundays back, I think. Something wrong?”
“How did he seem? Solid?”
Jarrett took a few moments to answer. “Well … he cried a bit.”
Sonny looked back at his manager. “Cried?”
“When he talked about when we was kids and stuff, you know. Shit, he’s dying, man.”
“Do you trust him, Bucky?”
Jarrett looked perplexed. “With what?”
“To go quietly, like a man.”
Jarrett’s eyes bugged. “Shit, Sonny. Don’t say that. We got problems with Glenn?”
Sonny clicked his tongue. “We might.”
Bucky looked like a tax cheater who’d just opened an audit notice from the IRS. He got up and started rubbing the back of his neck. Getting out from under the Camaro had calmed Sonny a little, and he realized he ought to go back and get the rest of the ephedrine. He didn’t need that sitting around the shop while things were popping like this. Bucky could lock up for half an hour and run the stuff out to the warehouse.