Page 5 of Thug

Price

The smell of death hung in the air like a plume of heavy smoke. I took a step to the side, allowing the overhead lights to illuminate the vehicle’s trunk. Surprised at the sheer size of the Oldsmobile’s oversized cargo area, I gave a nod of approval. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

“Cars.” I waved toward the three blood-soaked bodies that were intertwined with one another, using caution not to touch my bare hand against the car. “These mid-Eighties GM products are something else. You could still fit another body in there if you needed to.”

“It’d take some situating, but I think I could get two more,” he deadpanned.

I glanced at each of the men. After mentally identifying them, I let out a sigh of frustration. “God forgives. ‘Eights don’t,” I said in a voice loud enough that I was the only one likely to hear it.

I hurled my half-eaten jelly donut toward the trash can in the distance. It plastered against the side of the 55-gallon drum with a thud.

Carp watched the pastry slowly creep its way down the outer edge of the trash can. When it came to rest on the shop’s concrete floor, he looked in my direction. “Should I have waited ‘till you were done eatin’ that before I popped the trunk?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I replied. “I eat too many of those damned things, anyway.”

He glanced at the flashing “OPEN” sign across the street. “It’d help if we weren’t next door to the fucking place.”

Sweets calmed me. Being next door to the donut shop kept me on an even keel. Without the sugary pastries as part of my daily routine, I’d likely be difficult to get along with.

I wiped my hand against the thigh of my jeans. “Where’s Brisco?”

“Gettin’ a little sleep before we get rid of these pricks. Supposed to bring his Jeep when he gets up.” He reached for the trunk lid and then paused. He gestured toward the deceased. “You good?”

I gave a nod. “Seen more than I needed to.”

He slammed the trunk closed. “This state sucks.” He wiped his brow against his forearm. “It’s four in the fucking morning and it’s still 98 fucking degrees.”

Lance “Carp” Carpenter had two loves in his life; his wife, and his motorcycle. After catching the neighbor balls-deep in his wife, an assault charge and a short stint in prison followed. Upon being released, he moved from Baldwin, Wisconsin to Tucson. The move freed him of Wisconsin’s frigid winters, the memory of his unfaithful wife, and the watchful eye of the local police. Although he’d been in Marana for ten years, he complained about the heat every summer like it was a complete surprise.

“Arizona’s all I’ve ever known,” I said. “There’s worse places, believe me.”

“Where?” He looked at me like I was nuts. “Hell?”

“Same as,” I replied. “Florida. It’s 95 degrees and 90 percent humidity.”

He shook his head. “Not interested.”

I glanced across the street. A rust-covered powder blue Ford truck chugged to a stop in front of the donut shop. An elderly man got out of the jalopy and shut the door with a swing of his hip. Dressed in faded overalls and a long-sleeved western shirt, he turned toward the establishment’s door.

He stepped in front of the brightly lit storefront and peered inside. Despite his age, his gait expressed the attitude of his youthful years. In his day, I was sure he’d been in more than a few scrapes.

“Who eats donuts at four-thirty in the morning?” Carp asked, nodding toward the old man as he spoke. He looked at me. “Other’n you?”

“Looks like he does.”

“Ever make you nervous that our clubhouse is across the street from a bunch of commercial businesses?” he asked. “Instead of out in the middle of nowhere?”

I shifted my attention from the old man to Carp. “If it was in the middle of nowhere, everyone would wonder what the fuck we were doing going in and out of there all hours of the night. Here, it looks like we’ve got nothing to hide. People think we’re a bunch of nocturnal beer-drinking law-abiding bikers.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “The beer drinking part’s right.”

I glanced at my watch. It wouldn’t be light for an hour and a half. “You going to wait here until the sun comes up?”

“No. I thought maybe I’d get a breakfast at McDonalds and then go to the 7-Eleven and buy a couple of scratchers and a Slurpee,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “Then, I could take these dumb dead pricks on their last ride around town while I sucked down that cool drink.”

Burying bodies beneath the desert’s moonlight only happened in the movies. Driving toward the base of the Tortolita Mountains the middle of the night raised the brows of everyone within miles. Making the same trek during the daylight—especially in a 4-wheel-drive SUV—didn’t get a second look from anyone, police included.

“Thought I’d ask.” I gestured toward the office. “I just brewed a pot of coffee.”