the street punks to stop laughing. Laughter meant disrespect, and disrespect meant challenges to Slater’s turf. Challenges, in turn, meant violence, and violence was bad for business.
Since when, Pointer had wondered as he endured Slater’s wrath, did the old man hate violence? Then he realized that Slater had been listening to the cluckings of that old hen Sammy Bell, who no doubt talked the old man into turning pussy. Not that you could tell from the way he disciplined his employees.
It was only because of Pointer’s loyalty and history of good work that Mr. Slater had granted him his second chance.
“By the time this is over,” Mr. Slater had said with grave seriousness, “one of you will be dead, Lyle.” Mr. Slater was not a man given to hyperbole.
So Pointer took control of this thing personally, effective this morning. His meeting with Mark Bailey was to extract his pound of flesh and gallon of blood. The son of a bitch needed to learn not to make promises he couldn’t keep. The good news for Bailey was that he would live to see morning. The way the whole plan was put together required that much. Maybe he wasn’t such an idiot after all.
Thirty minutes earlier, Mark Bailey had carefully eased his Bronco into a remote parking space at the Hillbilly Tavern. His was the only car in the lot, though three hard-ridden Harleys were parked along the front of the place, like so many horses at the hitching post. At just after noon, he was still too hung over to be moving, let alone driving. What Mark really needed was a wheelbarrow for his head. One day he was going to go on the wagon and stay there.
He paused for a long time after slipping the truck into Park, certain that at any second his window and his head would be shattered by a rifle bullet. He carefully scanned the area with his eyes. If there was a sniper, he was well hidden.
Come on, Mark, he told himself, they can’t kill you. At least not yet. Without you, they’ve got nothing.
Ever since Pointer’s call this morning, he’d been repeating this sentence over and over again, sometimes aloud, sometimes in his head. On the trip out to this Godforsaken hole in the wall, he’d even come to believe it. Now, though, at the end of the road, the logic seemed tragically flawed.
For an instant, he considered throwing the Bronco into reverse and just getting the hell out of Virginia—out of the country if he had to. But he knew that wasn’t a solution. Pointer was not the kind of guy you said no to. With his connections, escape in the longer view was simply not possible. In his heart, Mark knew that he’d likely not survive this chapter in his life, but he took comfort in the hope that once the money was delivered and he’d kept his end of the bargain, Slater and his goons would make the end quick. He’d heard stories through the grapevine of horrendous tortures at the hands of Slater’s men. He’d even heard of them burning off a guy’s balls. Mark himself had never had the stones to ask who in the organization would do such a thing. He was pretty sure he knew, but there was solace to be found in shadows of doubt.
The Hillbilly Tavern was the kind of place that could only exist in the rural Virginia countryside. Home to thousands of unspeakable secrets and schemes, it was the kind of place where a person with the guts to enter could discuss anything with anyone, with the full knowledge that nothing said would ever be repeated. Unlike some of the more fashionable rat traps in the suburbs, this one was never frequented by passing sheriff’s deputies, or by lost motorists in search of a bathroom. Sane tourists would piss all over their leather interiors before they would willingly cross the threshold of the Hillbilly Tavern.
The place didn’t even have a telephone anymore. After it was busted up once in a brawl, the phone company sent a repair team out to fix the damage, but after they were relieved of their wallets and phone company equipment, no one ever tried to repair it again. One of the repairmen actually tried to put up a struggle, thus creating one of the longest and strangest workers’ compensation claims in the company’s history.
As he approached the door to the bar, Mark noticed the absence of windows. The panes had been boarded over and overlaid with a collage of neon signs, still burning in the bright sunshine. The wood siding bore countless coats of dark brown paint, which seemed to serve as the only support for the ancient structure. He was intrigued by a colorful bit of artwork painted on the stoop, but looked away when he saw it was a vomit splash, left uncleaned since God knew when.
Mark paused for a long moment before entering, once again checking over his shoulders for hidden snipers. It still wasn’t too late for him to leave, he told himself, knowing even as the words formed in his brain that they were a lie. It had become too late for him the instant he’d turned to Pointer for help. But what the hell, he had taken a shot at the big leagues and he lost. In any other business, he could have taken pride in having the guts to try. On the other hand, in any other business, the financing arrangements would not have involved so much blood.
Taking a deep breath, Mark turned the knob on the door and entered the Hillbilly Tavern. The transition from searing sunshine to near darkness left him momentarily blind. He stood still in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
“Who the fuck are you?” a gravelly voice barked from behind the shadows.
“My name’s Bailey,” Mark replied, invoking a tone of voice he hadn’t used since prison. “Who the fuck is asking?”
“I think you’re in the wrong place,” another voice said, this one from his right.
“I’m here to meet a man named Pointer. You heard of him?” The silence told him that they had.
“Goddammit,” the first voice growled again, “either come in or get the fuck out. I don’t like people standing in my doorway.”
Mark shut the door behind him and edged his way toward a table in the corner. He ordered a beer, hoping that the hair of the dog would take the edge off his hangover. The tavern stank of cigarettes, sweat and countless spilled drinks. That rodents and insects roamed wild inside went without question.
Seated now, with his back against the corner, Mark allowed his vision to adjust to the darkness, and he scanned the room. Gravel Voice lumbered awkwardly behind the bar fulfilling his beer order, having difficulty maneuvering his three-hundred-plus pounds in the confined galley lined with off-brand liquor bottles. A huge, tangled beard sprouted from his cheeks and neck, resting like a furry bib on his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His hair had last been trimmed during the same decade that the beard was last checked for mice and squirrels. He at least showed the courtesy to wear his mane in a tight ponytail that swung just below his shoulder blades. That way, it didn’t dangle into the drinks as he prepared them. Mark assumed Gravel Voice was the owner, though for all he knew, that poor soul was just as likely dead in some meat freezer in the back.
Mark’s beer was served in the bottle. By his count, in addition to himself and the bartender, there were three other people in the tavern, all of whom looked as though they had been there for a very long time. Conversations among the men varied from quiet to loud, sad to animated, but always punctuated with the slurred drawl of hill folk. Mark’s mission now was simply to wait, and to avoid being caught in the act of staring at this collection of people fresh from Darwin’s waiting room.
When Lyle Pointer finally entered the Hillbilly Tavern, the eyes of the regulars looked up just long enough to look away. No one said anything. The seam of sunlight created by Pointer’s entrance disappeared quickly as he closed the door behind him. In the quick wash of light, Mark clearly saw the leather jacket, the open collar, and the gold baubles draped around his neck and his wrist. I’m in bed with a fucking gangster, Mark thought.
Either Pointer knew in advance where Mark was sitting, or his eyes adjusted awfully quickly to the change in lighting. Either way, he walked without hesitating directly over to Mark’s table in the corner and took the seat immediately next to his host, not across from him as Mark had expected. It was the seating arrangement typical of a date, not of a business meeting. But then, Mark had no way of knowing just how intimate an act of true intimidation could be. In Pointer’s presence, the fat bartender moved almost gracefully, bringing his new guest a drink—could it be water?—without even being asked.
For a long moment, Pointer stared at Mark, twice making him break eye contact. At length, he said, “You broke your promise to me.” His voice had an odd quality to it, simultaneously quiet and angry. The effect was thoroughly frightening. “You promised me that you could handle this thing, and then you flicked it up.”
Sweat beaded on Mark’s forehead. He could feel perspiration soak his armpits and his back. He’d come to the meeting armed with excuses and explanations for Ricky’s failure to perform, but he had suddenly lost the nerve to say anything. Instead, he just stared at his second empty beer bottle, spinning it slowly with his fingers in its own puddle of sweat.
“Look at me, Bailey,” Pointer commanded softly.
Mark raised his eyes.
