High White Sun Page 23

  “With a van of shitty DVDs and homemade magazines? That ain’t much of a start.”

  Flowers started talking with his hands. “No, you’re right, it’s not. We’re going to need a lot more than that. We have to buy up the land, make improvements. Protect this home we’re making. We’re going to set up my radio show here, and we need a meeting hall. We need to be fully funded and self-sufficient and we’re going to . . . well, I have a lot of plans. Everyone is going to pitch in and do what they can . . . give what they can.” Flowers hesitated, fumbling with his glasses again. “And Jesse said you might be in a position to help us with that . . . that you—”

  “Jesse said? You’re barely here a sunrise and you already got your goddamn hand out?”

  Flowers went slow, testing each word. “I understand you were very important in prison. You had a lot of friends and made a lot of friends, and always took care of your family while you were inside. You’re a good businessman, influential, profitable. We need that knowledge and expertise, and if I were to assume that your business didn’t come to an end when you got out . . .”

  “You don’t know shit about me or what I was doin’, in or out.”

  “I see, and it’s possible that I have misread you. I understood from Jesse that you were with us on this, John. That you believe in what we’re doing and want to be a part of it.” He folded his hands in front of him, like little birds coming to rest. “If you don’t, then why are you here?”

  Earl wanted to yell at him, So I’m not rotting away in a five-by-nine cell while mousy little fuckers like you strut around, but instead he flicked ash. “For my boy, for my family you was goin’ on and on about. But like I already done told Jesse, there ain’t no money. And even if there was, fuck that if you think I’d give you a thin nickel so you can sit down here and blow up courthouses or kill cops or lawyers or whatever the hell other ideas you’ve been putting in my boy’s head.”

  “Jesse’s a man, John. He grew up while you were away. He has his own ideas, and plenty of them.”

  “You are about to walk onto dangerous fuckin’ ground, Preacher.”

  Flowers stood and took a step back closer to Clutts, as if he were already standing on that bad ground . . . within striking distance of Earl. He held up his hands, offering peace. “I was wrong to approach you like this, so soon. It was inappropriate and rude. I’m just anxious to start this project that Jesse and I have talked about so long. In so many ways, I’ve been in exile and now I’m home.” He frowned, as if thinking hard about something unpleasant, before turning a smile at Little B but still talking to Earl. “It’s a hard thing to face, that moment when our kids are up and grown. We see the final sum of our choices and mistakes, the good and the bad. We have to face our mortality.”

  Earl worked his cigarette, wondering if he’d underestimated Flowers. Not about him being a mostly worthless piece of shit, because he was every bit of that, but he couldn’t help appreciating the man’s one talent: his way with words, that hellfire preacher in him. In the right time and place, Flowers could pull those to him who didn’t even know what they were looking for until Flowers told them what it was. It was no different from when he’d first been approached by George Chives in the yard at Coffield, a meeting that had turned him into a prospect for the ABT. And it was no different from how he himself had approached others, turning their path in his direction. In another time, another place, he might have made use of a man like Flowers, or killed him first.

  “Mortality? That’s a damn big word just to say I’m a short way from dyin’. We all are. But I’ve been so bad, hell might even send me right back.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Flowers said, his eyes invisible behind glasses that were still dusty, no matter how many times he cleaned them. He wiped his hands with his handkerchief before putting it back into his pocket.

  “Men like us, John, making the world the way we want it, there’s always bound to be some blood on our hands.”

  * * *

  • • •

  FLOWERS AND CLUTTS WERE GONE and he’d sent Sunny and Little B back inside, so that left Earl alone, walking back up to the high hill behind the house. His hill, he still thought of it, even though he’d found Jesse and Danny snapping at each other up here like pissed-off dogs. It was bound to come to a head between those two, but that was a problem he didn’t have the time or energy to solve. Besides, that meant coming down on one side or the other, and he didn’t like where that had to go . . .

  Flowers had said: It’s a hard thing to face, that moment when our kids are up and grown. We see the final sum of our choices and mistakes, the good and the bad . . .

  Yep, that sounded about right.

  Earl lit a cigarette, held the smoke in his mouth till it hurt, and then blew it away on the still wind. He’d spoken again to his ole business compadre Manny yesterday, just before Flowers arrived, and the only thing that had changed was Manny’s people had finally decided to take care of his son, so Manny had told him (again) everything he needed to know about his Christmas present and how to get it unwrapped, and all the problems he was gonna face doing just that. Manny had promised his people still weren’t gonna go anywhere near it, and they sure in the hell didn’t care how Earl got his hands on it, but Earl wasn’t sure he actually believed him. Manny might not out-and-out lie to him, but Manny didn’t call all the shots, either. Compadre or not, it was too fine a prize for them to completely walk away from.

  It was just business, after all.

  So if Earl didn’t do something soon, Manny’s people certainly would later.

  Flowers had talked about how important Earl had been in prison; how he’d had friends and influence. That was true, no doubt about that, but that was also the past. He’d been cuttin’ loose those so-called friends for months, burnin’ all his bridges. Jesse had told him, Out here, you don’t mean shit, not anymore, and that was even truer than the boy could ever know. Earl couldn’t complain too much now that he was gettin’ his wish.

  He’d been ordered to let Nichols know the minute Flowers appeared, but he still hadn’t made that call, not yet. Flowers’s presence meant that Nichols would be all over his ass to bring this thing to a quick close, now more than ever, since that tall prick was spun up over Sheriff Cherry and his bumbling deputies. That business with the warrants had been a damn surprise to everyone, but Nichols hadn’t tried all that hard to shut it down, leaving Earl to figure the nigger probably wanted to hold that murder beef over Earl, find some way to pin it on him, so when all this was over he’d be able to keep his hands on him. The agent tried to hide it, but he was all raw nerves, losing his patience and wearing out Earl’s as well. Maybe the ass-chewing Nichols had said he was gonna give those dipshit locals would be enough to keep their heads low for a while, but Earl thought they might just decide to keep on pushin’. They seemed to have a mind of their own on the matter, and the pressure from Nichols might not be enough to get ’em to change it.

  What would Nichols do if Jesse’s blood was all over that dead fucker in Terlingua? What would someone like Sheriff Cherry have to do?

  It was like playing Texas hold ’em where you not only couldn’t see the other players’ cards, you couldn’t see the other fuckin’ players at all.

  Earl guessed he could measure out the time he had in hours, a day or so. No more than that.

  But he’d had an idea forming from that first moment yesterday when Flowers and Clutts had arrived. It was like the idea itself had rolled up on wheels with them, and in some ways, it had. He’d since discarded everything else and hadn’t come up with anything half as good; nothing, at least, that didn’t risk showing his hand before he had a chance to play it out, and after his last talk with Manny yesterday, there just wasn’t enough time to come up with much else. His hole cards sucked and he was bluffing with practically nothing, bettin’ all in on the turn before the river, but he’d won plenty of pots on blu
ffs like that before.

  Never one this big, though, or this important. There were a whole lot of goddamn chips on the table.

  Everything.

  He swallowed more smoke. He’d been lining Danny up from the get-go, but now it looked like he was gonna need a little more help.

  Now it was time to talk to the little faggot.

  * * *

  • • •

  HE WAS ABLE TO GET HIM AWAY from the others and take him out front by the RV and the cars, where Flowers’s van and Clutts’s sedan were also parked. In two days they were both already covered in pale dust; it took almost no time for everything in this place to disappear beneath the fine grains of it.

  Like a shroud, hiding the dead.

  He brought them each a beer, opened them, and handed one to Kasper. Earl figured he got his nickname because he was electric pale, just like the dust, his bone-white skin prone to burn and peel. While the others’ tattoos were open and in your face like Earl’s own—swastikas and skulls and white power slogans—Kasper’s were subtle, more acceptable. He had a few Celtic crosses and runes and the Valknot here and there, and a spiderweb spread across one elbow, but his face and neck were clear. It was like he was saving himself for a day when he could walk away from all of this and go back to whatever life he had before. Kasper had a shitty guitar he tried to play that sounded like a cat dying, and he’d bonded with Little B over bands like Hatebreed, Blue Eyed Devils, and Warfare 88. He was also close to Danny—a fact Earl was now countin’ on—who’d been the one to mention the faggot had gone down for a few months for auto theft. Earl didn’t care that the boy had cow eyes for Little B, practically walkin’ around half the time with his dick hard. He personally had no more interest in fuckin’ a man than he had in fuckin’ a dog, but he didn’t hold that against Kasper. After all, Earl had to admit that pussy had caused him no end of troubles throughout his life; if he’d just stayed away from it, he wouldn’t have most of the damn problems he had now.

  But this was gonna be the first time he and Kasper had actually talked, and for Earl it was just like approaching a new prospect on the yard.

  “Thank you, Mr. Earl,” Kasper said, sipping at the beer like he was afraid to drink too much at once.

  “Don’t mind all that, call me JW,” Earl said, taking a long gulp of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you think about all this? You glad to be out here?”

  Kasper nodded along with another sip. “Yes, sir, I am.” Then added, “I got no place else to be.”

  Earl laughed and raised his beer. “Hell, I’ll drink to that.” He finished it off and threw the empty out into the dirt. “Now that Pastor Flowers is here, I guess things are really gonna start movin’. This place will start to liven up . . . more people comin’ . . . maybe even some goddamn women. God knows we need more than two sets of tits around this place.”

  Kasper hid a smile, embarrassed, even though they both knew he didn’t care about women or their tits. “I’m glad the pastor is here. I’m glad Little B and Jesse let me come with them.” He looked at Killing, convincing himself. “It’s going to be okay here.”

  “Yes, it will be. It’ll be fine.” He paused, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. “Say, I see you hack around on that guitar all the time. Pastor Flowers says you want to start a band, so maybe you’ll get to do that soon. You gotta real knack for it. Me, I can’t do shit with my hands, no talent.”

  Kasper stared down at his long slim fingers holding the beer can. “I’m just all right, but I’m getting better. It’s these hands that got me in trouble to begin with.”

  “How’s that? Fightin’?”

  “No, sir, stealing. I started when I was little. First it was just gum and magazines from stores, then later beer and smokes for my friends. After that, car stereos and stuff . . . that sort of thing.”

  “The whole car, too, the way I hear it,” Earl said, tone casual.

  “Yeah, I got pretty good at that. My mom and I lived up in the Third Ward, and I used to boost cars from student parking at the U of H. I looked like just another guy on campus.”

  “Fast, huh?”

  Kasper flashed that embarrassed smile again. “I guess, better with a car lock and an ignition than a guitar. My mom used to always say that thing about hands and the Devil’s playground. Finally figured she was right.”

  Earl pointed over to Flowers’s van, and then to Clutts’s car. “What about those? I bet you could get into those and be up and moving pretty damn fast.”

  Kasper took them both in with a long, curious glance. “Yeah, nothin’ to it.” He fumbled with his beer, wouldn’t look Earl in the eye. “Sir, you don’t want me to steal those, do you?”

  Earl laughed, took the can from Kasper and finished it off for him and walked over and sat it on the hood of Clutts’s car.

  “Hell no, kid. Not these pieces of shit. Not these at all . . .”

  * * *

  Sunny watched them through the dirty window, Earl and the boy Kasper, sharing a beer and laughing it up without a care in the world. Earl didn’t seem to sleep much, but somehow she was the one bone-tired; all the time now, with each passing day in this godforsaken place.

  Shit rolls downhill. That was something her mama used to say, and it was something she thought about each and every time Earl went out back and walked up the long slope to make his calls, to that one spot higher than everything else around it, where the reception was good. She had no idea who he was calling all the time, and asking would get her a smack across the mouth so that she’d be tasting blood for a day or more. It could be another woman, a hundred of them, but even that wouldn’t get her half as pissed as watching him play daddy to Kasper now, right after dismissing their son, Little B. The problem was goddamn time. Earl kept going on about it, worrying about it, acting always like he was too damn hard-pressed to share it, but somehow still found enough of it to ride that big Harley of his all mornings, or spend afternoons on the hill on his phone and smoking. He had all the time in the world for everything else when it suited him, but couldn’t spend more than ten minutes all added up with Little B.

  He didn’t treat Jesse much better, and that ate at Jesse bad, too. He had to watch his daddy make nice with Danny, treat him like he was an equal . . . like real family. She and T-Bob had raised Jess up as much as anyone, and she hurt for him almost as much as she hurt for her own boy. She couldn’t understand why Earl was pushing all of his own away now, not when they needed him the most. Especially with that shifty son of a bitch Flowers here, talking around all in circles but still not saying a goddamn thing.

  She had herself partly to blame. Earl had told her to abort Little B, and he’d nearly beat that baby out of her when she wouldn’t, but she’d held on for dear life all the same. It was the only time she’d ever stood up to him, and if it had surprised him, it had surprised her, too. And he’d made her pay for it every day since.

  She wondered if that’s how he’d run off Jesse’s real mother, by telling her to kill the best thing they could ever have between them, and then punishing her when she wouldn’t.

  Still, Earl hadn’t completely abandoned her and Little B. In the past, men had come, most often Nazi Low Riders or Aryan Circle or ABT on their big Harleys, once even a goddamn wetback, to drop off a Target bag or a 7-Eleven Big Gulp or a bent-up Nike shoe box still smelling like high-tops, all hiding a tight roll of bills, some thicker than others. She’d never talked to these men and they’d never talked to her, she’d let T-Bob handle that, but the money had come from Earl—from his businesses inside the prison and his private little bank outside of it. She’d never questioned him about it, because that would’ve definitely earned her a hand across the face. But Jesse knew all about that money, though, even if Sunny didn’t give a damn about it. To Jesse, his daddy owed him a piece of it for all those years he was away, and unlike Little B, that�
�s all he wanted now; he’d all but given up on Earl being an actual daddy to him. But her boy still wanted Earl’s attention. Although he looked up to his older half brother, he even more desperately needed Earl’s approval. He wanted to earn it, if Earl would only give him half a chance—if Earl would just give him the damn time of day.

  She’d been with John Wesley Earl for more than twenty years. She’d had one son by him and helped raise another, and she still wasn’t sure she knew him at all. There were whole parts of his life she’d never been a part of and couldn’t understand. He’d always been with other women when he wasn’t behind bars—Earl was a grade-A pussy hound and she’d had to accept that—but she sometimes wondered if he had another family tucked away somewhere; a real wife that he treated nice and respectful, and another set of sons that he was actually proud of. She imagined tall boys going off to college, ready to be accountants or doctors. She imagined a house, too, painted green and white, with palm trees out front near a beach. That’s where all the money Jesse expected and wanted had gone—to that family, to that house, that life. And she wondered if it was that other family he was talking to all the time on his phone up on the hill, telling them he was finally coming home.

  Sunny’s own daddy had died on a sweltering June night in 1979 in Sparks, Nevada, right outside their apartment, within sight of the big lights of John Ascuaga’s Nugget Casino Resort. Sunny was eleven years old at the time, when one of the big attractions at the Nugget’s Circus Room was the elephant Bertha and her baby Tina. Her daddy had worked nights at the Nugget until two men put bullets in him in the parking lot beneath Sunny’s bedroom window. She saw it, heard it—those shots, steady; one right after another—while across the hall in her mama’s room the Bee Gees were singing “Love You Inside Out” really loud, so loud she couldn’t make out if her daddy had yelled or begged when they put the guns right up to his face . . .