“Rape? Is that what she said? How can you rape one that’s been sprawled out under every man in the whole damn county?” Buck said, bringing the pipe down on the man’s left knee with a sickening crack of bone and tissue.
“She said she wanted me to pour it to her. We all know that’s on account you can’t keep her itches scratched. I didn’t hurt her. She likes it rough-and-tumble. She squealed with pleasure the whole time I was putting it to her.”
“Please. .” Grissom held up both of his hands to prevent a blow to his head. “I won’t say anything. I was mad is all. I’ll forget all about it. Ever bit of it was my fault.”
“I’ll give you something to be mad at, Grissom.” Buck duplicated his blow to the first knee on the other one. Aiming his next few blows, he shattered both of Grissom’s outstretched hands, then broke both of his arms below the shoulders for good measure. “Who you gone run tell now?” he said. “Go call the sheriff now if you think you can dial a telephone.”
Buck thought about crushing the man’s skull, but he held back. He didn’t want to kill him quickly.
“Please, Buck. . don’t hit me no more. I won’t tell nobody.”
“I ain’t gonna hit you no more, Grissom. I’m gone help you feel better.”
Buck set down the pipe and jerked the man up, tossed him over his massive shoulders, and carried him over to the old well, where he tore the old boards off the circular stone structure.
“Please, Buck. .”
“I do what I want around here, Grissom,” Buck said as he dropped the skinny man into the hole.
There was a muted splash twenty feet below followed by thrashing, which made Buck laugh.
“You tell lies on a Smoot just one time!” he hollered down the well, warmed by the booming echo of his own voice. He couldn’t see as far down as the water, but it sounded like it was plenty deep. After a few seconds, Buck turned and went toward the house, slowing long enough to pick up the pipe as he passed by the broken-down lawn mower.
He opened the kitchen door to the loud sounds of country music coming from a radio. A pot of greens simmering on the stove caught his attention. Changing the pipe to his left hand, Buck picked up a spoon and scooped out a bunch of steaming greens. After blowing on them, he ate them.
“Damn, that gal can cook. Ass-kicking sure gives a fellow an appetite,” he mused.
As he chewed, he heard water running into the bathtub. He figured he had plenty of time, so he stood over the stove to get his fill of the greens, wishing Molly had already baked corn bread.
Buck didn’t see any point in interrupting a lady who was taking her last bath.
13
Rudy Spence showed the two men into Mr. Laughlin’s sleekly modern office, where Peanut had just finished going over the financial sheets Mr. Laughlin had given him to look at. After reading them over, Peanut had shredded them as he always did in order to keep them from falling into the wrong hands. According to the figures, Peanut Smoot was a legitimate, taxpaying multimillionaire because he was a full partner in several of Ross Laughlin’s business corporations.
Mr. Laughlin invested money in art, which Peanut didn’t take part in. The lawyer had explained the art to Peanut, but Peanut liked art that you could see a picture in. Aside from the big Mark Rothko painting behind the desk that looked to Peanut like finger painting, a small Klee that also looked like a little kid did it about spacemen, a Matisse that was just shapes of people cut out of colored paper, and a Calder miniature mobile that was painted steel wafers on wire rods that moved around when you touched it, there were thirty identically framed pictures of Ross Laughlin standing beside presidents, a dozen congressmen and senators, and some celebrities, including Frank Sinatra, Burt Reynolds, Liz Taylor, and John Wayne. Those impressed Peanut a lot more than slopped paint.
“Sarnov. Maxwell. Nice to see you fellows,” Peanut said, standing.
“How you been, Peanut?” Max Randall asked him. “You know Serge Sarnov.”
Peanut had met Sarnov once before and he knew that the Russian didn’t say anything unless he had some wise-ass remark to make. Sarnov shook hands like a woman and acted like he was too good to be in the same room as you.
Max Randall was a different story. He’d been an Army Ranger parachuting into Afghanistan weeks before that invasion, along with Colonel Bryce and a few others. In Peanut’s book Bryce and Randall were real men. Both men were nice enough guys, but if push came to shove, both could cut out your heart and eat it like an apple. Bryce hadn’t thought twice about personally cutting the undercover agent’s throat for betraying him-exactly what Peanut would have done in his shoes. Randall had white-blond hair that was short and he had a face like an action-movie star. A strong and fast fellow, Randall didn’t say anything unless he had something that needed saying, and it was always something you’d want to hear.
“I can’t think of anything to complain about,” Peanut replied. “Wait, that sounded like a complaint!” He laughed at his joke.
Peanut would have liked to slap the smirk off Sarnov’s face. First off, Peanut didn’t like foreigners. He especially didn’t like people from any place that had chickened their way out on Iraq, leaving George W. to do it all with just the help of the Brits and a few wormy-looking little whatnots from countries you wouldn’t go to unless your plane was hijacked there.
“Gentlemen,” Laughlin said as he entered the office dressed like he was going out to play golf. The lawyer shook his guests’ hands with the enthusiasm of a politician greeting his prime benefactors.
“May I offer you something to drink? Serge, may I offer you a glass of twenty-seven-year-old Macallan? It was a Christmas gift from the ambassador to Scotland.”
The Russian frowned. “I never drink when I am talking business.”
“He might rather have vodka,” Peanut said. “That’s potato juice and pure grain alcohol.”
“Too early for me, sir,” Max Randall said, declining.
Mr. Laughlin sat down in a sleek black leather chair across from Sarnov and Max. Peanut sat heavily on the leather ottoman with the elbows of his long arms on his knees.
“So,” Sarnov said, placing a gold lighter and a package of fancy cigarettes carefully on the glass coffee table. “Let’s get to it, Ross.”
Mr. Laughlin folded his hands on his leg. “I met with Hunter Bryce this morning. Monday evening we will conclude our outstanding business,” he said. “And Colonel Bryce is ready to go on to the next load as soon as the financials are ironed out. He assures me that he can provide whatever amount of merchandise you require on a reasonable schedule and at bargain-basement prices.”
Sarnov looked at Max, who nodded once and said, “Colonel Bryce can certainly do that.”
Sarnov said, “Nothing I know about this judge gives me the degree of confidence you have that he will give in to pressure.”
“Max’s plan was a stroke of genius,” Laughlin said. “It will work.”
“We have his little girl and her kid,” Peanut said. “And my daughter Dixie spoke to the judge personally about how to get them back safe and sound. He doesn’t know he’s going to be as dead as they are.”
Ross Laughlin plucked a speck of lint off his pant leg. “Judge Fondren is a man who has lost his wife and son- in-law in a tragic accident. His grief is deep and he will not risk the sole remaining members of his immediate family over Bryce-someone whom he has no emotional investment in. The agent Bryce killed knew his risks, was killed in a war of sorts. Plus, I have introduced more than ample reasonable doubt to allow the judge to rule in Hunter Bryce’s favor without drawing too much criticism. The judge will go for it.”
“You guarantee that?” Sarnov asked.
“I guarantee it.”
“My employers take guarantees as blood oaths. I sincerely hope you are correct,” Sarnov said. “By refusing to divulge the location of the shipment, for which my firm paid you three million up front upon my assurances, Colonel
