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  Jerry’s brother nodded his agreement; as he dipped his head down to the coffee table, Butchie said, “It’s what he doesn’t do that we’re paying him for. What he doesn’t do is rat us out to the state police or the feds. We see him as the dumbass we grew up around, Donnie Traber’s idiot son. We’re lucky his daddy dropped dead—that son of a bitch would’ve squeezed a hell of a lot more out of us than Traber does. Hey, what we give him, the cash and a bit of pot now and then ain’t shit. We’ve got free reign around here, and we will as long as we pony up Traber’s little drop from the bucket.”

  Butchie took another drink of moonshine, tapped four more lines out of a small, black plastic container and pushed the mirror over to the Markhams. Then he snapped the container shut and put it in his shirt pocket. “Like I said: the cost of doing business.”

  And he was right. They were free to come and go as they pleased; never having to worry about Traber or his sidekick rousting their still or raiding the mountainside they grew their pot on. Butchie inherited his job from his bootlegging father the same way Traber inherited his. They were joined at the hip the same way their fathers had been, partners in crime, so to speak. Even though Traber had very little involvement with the operation, the enterprise would be hard-pressed to exist without him. He served as a buffer to anyone who might inquire into Butchie’s affairs, always there to add the assurance that, yes, he had checked Butchie Walker out and he was as legitimate as anyone else in the community. And why shouldn’t he be? Butchie had his Christmas trees as a nice cover, and a crew to work them. Like his father before him, his green thumb produced the finest firs in the county—and some outrageously good herb as well. He paid Bobby and the Markhams a good share of what the trees produced, and a hell of a lot of money to keep the pot moving.

  A perfect cover, as long as they kept Traber happy.

  Joey Markham huffed up the last two lines of coke, and Bobby sealed another Ziploc bag and stacked it inside the half-full cardboard box, opened another bag and stuffed a handful of pot inside it.

  “Damn,” Joey said. “I feel too good to be stuck here doing this.”

  “Really,” his brother chimed in. “We oughta be down at Farley’s checkin’ out the trim, or over in Charlotte runnin’ with the big dogs.”

  “Got work to do, boys,” Butchie said. “Those bags ain’t gonna fill themselves.” He picked up one of the joints from the pile Joey had made, lit it and passed it to Bobby. “This shit’s got to move out Monday morning, and we’re not gonna have time to fuck with it tomorrow. Not if we’re out running the woods with Traber. Those boxes have to be loaded up and ready to roll, so all you boys have to do is jump in your rides and haul ass over the mountain. I don’t want any last minute bullshit—it’s sloppy.”

  “But look at that shit,” Joey said, nodding at the pile of bulging black plastic bags and the flat cardboard cartons. “We’ll be here all night, fucking with that stuff.”

  Butchie chuckled as Bobby laid a bag on the scale, pulled it off and stuffed another handful of pot inside, checked it on the scale, and then sealed it and tossed it into the carton.

  Jerry took a couple of hits off the joint and passed it to his brother. Then he grabbed the tape and crossed the barn, and started putting cartons together.

  “Just think about what you’re gonna make when that’s cleared out,” Butchie said. “We get the rest cured and bagged, harvest that last patch out in the woods and get it gone, then we’ve got the whole winter to kick back and count our money. As for being here all night.” Butchie smiled and tapped his shirt pocket. “That’s what the coke’s for.”

  Joey sighed, blew a long stream of smoke into the air and shook his head.

  “It’s hard being a working man,” he said, and they all burst out laughing.

  Chapter Ten

  Farley’s parking lot was loaded with vehicles: motorcycles, vans, cars and trucks both old and new. A series of painted stars decorated the body of a rusted-out white van sitting at the rear of the joint, across whose side somebody had spray painted Rock Bottom in big black letters. Eddie figured it belonged to whoever was inside the place blasting out Gimme Three Steps. The van and the loud, thumping bass brought a smile to his face. They reminded him of all the dives he’d traipsed through on his own quest for rock and roll stardom. Fame and fortune had eluded him, but he’d had a hell of a time chasing it. Lately he wondered if his dream lay dead on the altar of the birthplace of southern rock, ground to dust beneath the feet of crooked managers, bickering band-mates and failed relationships. Eddie was twenty-six-years-old, and someone had once told him the older you get the harder it is to make it. He wasn’t over the hill yet, but from his vantage point, he could definitely see it rising in the distance.

  “Check it out,” Mark said as they got out of the car.

  “What?” Eddie said. Then he noticed a familiar light blue Mustang parked in the front row of vehicles and smiled.

  “Cool, huh?”

  “Damn straight,” Eddie said, and then slammed the door shut and followed his friend across the dirt lot, past a young couple making out in the front seat of an old beat-up Cadillac and two guys standing by a pick-up, passing a joint back and forth. Others milled about the wooden porch, guys in denim and flannel, women in tight-fitting blouses and even tighter jeans. The door opened and loud, raucous music followed a guy outside. Older—fifty, at least, he wore jeans and a brightly-colored western style shirt. The brim of a straw cowboy hat hung low over his brow as he walked arm-in-arm with a girl who looked young enough to be his granddaughter, both carrying a bottle of beer in their free hands—both looking like they were having the time of their lives.

  Eddie caught the door before it swung shut, and Mark followed him into the barroom. The place was packed, most of the tables taken. Men and women of all shapes and sizes crowded the dance floor. The pinball machines and pool tables were all in use, and several people were watching the players. Eddie and Mark stopped for a moment as a redhead in skintight jeans leaned over a pool table. She fondled her cue stick, playfully stroking some chalk across its tip; kissed the air in the direction of the guy opposite her and a lopsided grin spread across his face. Emerald eyes sparkling beneath the table-light, she looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Playboy centerfold.

  “Look at those tits!” Mark said, as she swung the stick forward and her breasts bounced up and down in her tight-fitting halter-top, the pool balls ricocheted around the green felt railings and twin guitars pounded their way through the old Skynnrd standard.

  Something bumping the back of Eddie’s knee caused his leg to jerk forward. He turned to see Brenda standing behind him, and forgot all about the redheaded billiard queen. Brenda wore a red-and-white-checkered blouse, the top three buttons unfastened, giving Eddie a birds-eye-view of the creamy tops of her breasts. Jeans and a pair of white Reeboks rounded out her outfit. A silver heart-shaped locket lay nestled in the small of her throat. Her full lips were heavily glossed and her hair looked like layers of fine brown silk. The scent of wildflowers on a bright spring morning surrounded her. She smiled and his breath caught in his throat. He was aware of Thel standing next to her, but only vaguely.

  “Hey, Eddie,” she said, and the simple act of her saying his name thrilled him. All he could think of was how beautiful she looked. He was afraid he might stutter if he tried saying anything more than “Hey, Brenda”, so that was all he said. She took him by the hand and his pulse was off and running.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Mark said.

  “Hey, yourself, Goober,” Thel told him. She had the same outfit as her friend, except her blouse was dark green, and a single gold chain looped her neck.

  Mark laughed.

  Brenda, still smiling up at Eddie, said, “You look nice.”

  Thel, leaning close to Mark, said, “I think she likes him.”

  “Yeah, cleans up pretty good, doesn’t he?”

  The Skynnrd tune came to an abrupt stop and the band went straight in
to an old Hank Junior song. A chorus of whoops and hollers erupted behind them. Eddie turned to see a handful of guys clapping, the redhead jumping for joy as the eight ball rolled slowly toward a corner pocket. It dropped and she stepped up to the guy she’d been playing against, put her body against his and gave him a playful peck on the lips.

  “We’ve got a table over there,” Thel said.

  “Cool,” Mark said. “I’ll get us a couple of beers and head on over. How about you, Thel? Brenda?”

  “Just get a couple of glasses,” Thel told him. “We’ve got pitchers.”

  While Mark headed for the bar, Eddie followed Brenda and Thel across the room to their table. There was a half-full pitcher sitting in the middle of the table, along with two empty glasses and a couple of half-full ones. A smiling couple sat with their chairs pulled close together. The guy, much younger than Eddie, had blonde hair that barely touched the collar of his shirt. He was tall and slim with thick, muscular forearms. He whispered something into his partner’s ear and she smiled, said something else and she laughed and shook her head. Long brown hair cascaded over her narrow shoulders, across a tight silk blouse that showed off the curve of her breasts. Eddie thought she was cute, but nowhere near the league of the gorgeous creature standing beside him.

  Eddie and Brenda took a seat. The guy nodded at Eddie as Thel sat down beside them. Then Mark appeared with a pitcher and two glasses. He placed the beer and the glasses on the center of the table and sat down beside Thel.

  “Welcome back, Goober,” Eddie said, and Mark said, “I got your goober—swingin’.” Eddie laughed while Mark filled the empty glasses, and topped off the other two. Then he took a seat between Eddie and Thel, across the table from Thel’s friends, who had their backs to the dance floor.

  “Hey, guys,” Thel said. “This is Charlie and Tina, and this, is Mark and Eddie. They’re from out of town.”

  “Hey,” Mark said, and Tina said, “Hi.”

  Charlie said, “I guess that would explain why I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Screw you, Rodgers,” Thel said, and the two of them laughed.

  “Charlie was driving that Camaro this afternoon,” Brenda said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Eddie said. “The doughnut cutter.”

  Grinning, Charlie said, “I was so fucking excited. I’d just bought it for five-thousand-dollars.”

  “No shit?” Mark said, and then took a drink of beer, set the glass on the table and looked out across the dance floor.

  “Yeah, I kicked the ol’ horse trader’s ass this afternoon.”

  “You what?” Eddie again.

  Charlie picked up his beer and took a drink.

  “This guy up the road has the only car lot around here,” Thel said. “Horse-trader-Harry, we call him. He’s a wheelin’ dealin’ son of a gun, that’s for sure.”

  “Wheelin’ dealin’ son of a bitch, more like it,” Charlie said, as he sat his glass back down.

  “Charlie!” Tina scolded him.

  “Well, he is.”

  “He’s my uncle, Charlie.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “Oh, you…”

  Mark looked at Eddie, grinning as Charlie said, “Son of bitch tried using a two-headed coin on me this afternoon.”

  “No way!” Brenda said.

  “Way,” said Charlie.

  “The hell is he talking about?” Mark said.

  “Well,” Brenda said. “It’s like this: Horse-trader’ll set a price and haggle around a bit. You might take him down a couple of hundred, but once his price is set, that’s about it. But after all the hemming and hawing is over with, especially if he knows you want that car bad enough, he’ll offer to flip a coin.”

  “Flip a coin,” Mark said.

  “Yep. Heads, you pay his jacked-up price. Tails he gives it to you for next to nothing.”

  “Like this afternoon,” Charlie said. “I got him down to ninety-five hundred, but he wouldn’t go any lower. I wanted that car so bad, I could taste it. And he knew it. Said he’d flip a coin. Heads, I get it for five grand.”

  “Wow,” Mark said, and Eddie gave out a low whistle.

  “Tails, I pay him thirteen-thousand dollars.”

  “Holy shit!” Mark said. “That’s a pile of money.”

  “And my pick-up truck,” said Charlie.

  Mark hoisted his beer, took a good long drink and returned it to the table.

  “Yeah, well, I got his ass this afternoon. Five-thousand dollars, signed, sealed and delivered. I got payments I can afford and that wheelin’ dealin’ son of a bitch can take my piece of shit truck and stick it up his ass.”

  Tina sighed and shook her head, and put a hand on Charlie’s thigh.

  “That’s wild,” Eddie said, and Thel said, “Isn’t it?”

  “What’s to stop somebody from backing out?” Mark said. “If they lose, that is. He can’t force you to sign anything, can he?”

  “No, he can’t make you,” Charlie said. “But he won’t sell you another car, either. And buying from him is a lot cheaper than going to Asheville or Charlotte. All in all, nine-five was a pretty fair price for that ride. You seen it, didn’t you?”

  “Schweeet!” Mark said, and Eddie nodded his agreement.

  “My uncle backed outa one his coin flips,” Brenda said. “Lost it and told the horse trader to go screw himself. He ended up buying a truck off one of those big outfits over in Asheville. He won’t admit it, but Aunt Ida says he regrets what he did. Says he should’ve taken his lumps because he ended up paying a lot more than that coin flip would’ve cost him. And he’s had nothing but trouble with that truck.” Brenda laughed. “Won’t admit that, either.”

  “One thing about the ol’ horse trader,” Thel said. “He always honors that coin flip, good or bad.”

  Charlie, smiling and nodding his head, said, “That, he does.” He picked up his glass and drained it, filled the glass and took another drink.

  Tina said, “Y’all heard anything from Cindy?”

  “Nothing,” Brenda told her.

  “Aw,” Charlie said. “She’s run off, got tired of her daddy’s shit and hauled ass.”

  “No she didn’t,” Thel said. “She wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Charlie said. “People do it all the time. Hell, grandma got grandpa some Viagra the other day; crazy son of a bitch cleaned out his bank account and we ain’t seen him since.”

  Mark huffed out a laugh, and Thel said, “He did not!”, Brenda smiling and shaking her head as Tina raised her eyebrows, nodding and saying, “Yep, he sure done it.”

  The band started a slow country ballad, and Brenda turned to Eddie. “Want to dance?” she asked him.

  It was about the last thing Eddie wanted to do, but he wasn’t going to say no—not to her. “Sure,” he said, smiling and looking away from the shit-eating grin Mark was sending his way.

  “C’mon,” Thel said, grabbing Mark’s hand and pulling him up and away from the table, Eddie turning and giving his friend a grin of his own as they moved along to the crowded dance floor.

  The four-piece band consisted of a bass, a drum and two guitars. The drummer wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and red suspenders, an Atlanta Braves baseball cap backwards on his head. There was a bored look of disinterest on his face as he tapped out a rhythm to Alabama’s Love In The First Degree. Eddie didn’t blame him—what self-respecting rock and roller wanted to play that stuff? But he was glad they were playing a slow song. It gave him a chance to feel Brenda’s head resting on his shoulder, her body snuggled tight against his. He looked past her at Mark, who was grinning and giving him a thumbs-up while holding Thel in his arms. Mark whispered into Thel’s ear and she pulled back, smiling for a moment while he said something else. Then she put her head on his shoulder and Mark was shooting Eddie the ‘okay’ sign by making a circle with his thumb and index finger.

  Eddie smiled. Brenda was the first woman he’d had in his arms since Vicki had tossed him out. It felt
great, and for the first time since leaving home, he felt like he was on the verge of something, that maybe, just maybe, Mark was right, and Eddie hadn’t left town dragging his tail behind him, but had joined his childhood friend for a grand adventure, something that could lead the both of them to bigger and better things. Who could know what the future might hold for him? It sure looked bright at the moment.

  The song ended and the couples parted, Brenda applauding a moment before leading Eddie away from the dance floor. Eddie looked over his shoulder at Mark and Thel, who were standing in front of the stage, talking to the band. The bass player, a short, stocky guy with a shaved head and a myriad of tattoos running up his arms was leaning forward, nodding his head and laughing. The two guitarists on either side of him looked enough alike to have been brothers—one had taken a knee in front of Mark. Eddie turned and followed Brenda. When he looked again, Mark and Thel were coming across the floor toward him.

  When Brenda and Eddie got back to the table, the only thing left of Charlie and Tina were two empty glasses and an empty pitcher sitting in front of their chairs. They sat down and the band began to play. Eddie finished off his beer and Brenda took a drink of hers. While Eddie poured himself another, Mark and Thel arrived. Thel sat down and Mark picked up his glass—he stood for a moment, bouncing in time with the music, and then drained it. Then he picked up the half-full pitcher that remained and filled his glass.

  “Where’d they go?” he said, nodding as he took his place between Thel and Eddie.

  “Who knows?” said Brenda.

  Thel opened her mouth to say something, but it was Eddie who spoke up: “So what were you doing back there, requesting another slow song?”

  “I wouldn’t mind another,” Brenda said. She put a hand on Eddie’s thigh, and a smile on his face.

  “They’re gonna play Free Bird in a minute,” Mark said, turning toward a loud commotion erupting at the pool tables, which turned out to be the redhead’s mate shouting at a guy wearing a cowboy hat. Half the people in the place watched the guy draw his cue stick back in anger and the redhead scream and bounce a beer bottle off the side of his face. Then her mate was kicking the shit out of the guy as he dropped to the floor, clutching his face while Farley scampered around the bar with his sawed-off Louisville Slugger, and the band cranked out Molly Hatchet’s Bounty Hunter.