Before Junior could react, a large, ham-sized hand had grabbed him by the arm. Joe was now forcefully, but as inconspicuously as possible, escorting the young man toward the more private office area. The hall was full of members today, signing the travel books for the New Nawlins project. And anyone of them could’ve recognized Junior.
Joe pushed Junior through a set of double doors, then pointed to an unused office. “In there!” he growled. Following Junior in, he took one last glance back out into the hall, then turn back to the young man he wanted no one to see. “You got some damned nerve showing your inbred, hillbilly face ‘round here!”
“I need your help, Joe!” Junior held out his hands. “I just need one favor. God knows you owe me a lot more than that!”
“Boy! You realize if Cutter Hawkins ever found out you were even in this building, he’d cut me up and feed me to the catfish in the Tennessee? After that shit y’all pulled, the Tuttle family’s port privileges have been canceled indefinitely.
“Hey man!” Junior again threw up his hands. “I swear to Waylon and Willie ... we thought we were just burning some bounty hunters from outta town. We had no idea Cutter was working with those assholes. Besides, I’m done with my crazy ass old man!”
Joe rolled his eyes. “It took you long enough!”
“Well, it wasn’t an easy decision,” Junior admitted, hanging his head. “The ol’ bastard was blood.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure he’d just as soon shoot you as look at you for running out on him.”
“That’s all the more reason you gotta get me off this rock, Joe,” Junior implored. “Seems everywhere I turn … I see the walls a closin’ in. If Cutter or my Pa don’t get me, the ZiPs or the mancatchers will. Just a matter of time.”
Joe put his hands on the back of his head, interlocked his fingers, and squeezed his skull between his forearms. Damn! It was always something!
But he knew Junior was right. He did owe him, and he owed him big time. The kid had helped him move several lucrative shipments of various contraband out of VBS and into the city. Moonbeam. Martian cigarettes. Counterfeit liquor from the Belt. Illegal Androids. Unlike his asshole father, the younger Tuttle had always been a stand-up guy. Maybe not the brightest bulb in the box, but hell, in this line of work keeping your word and doing what you’re told went a lot further than IQ points.
That had always been the problem with the Tuttles, at least with Gideon and Rayford. They had been judged as unreliable among the ranks of the Huntsville underworld. Sure, all organizations put their interests above anybody else’s, but there were times when it was mutually beneficial, or just necessary, to work with other elements. When that happened, there was usually an unwritten code that was followed. And the crux of that code was simple; when a real deal went down, both sides were expected to keep their word and see it through.
But Gideon and Rayford … they’d developed a reputation as sidewinders, crawfishers, and backstabbers. They were violent, unpredictable, and worst of all, untrustworthy, even by criminal standards. As a result, most around town avoided doing nothing but the absolute minimum dealings with them, leaving them to their own little fiefdom of drug-dealing and prostitution in certain lower-income, white trash areas around town.
But Junior had developed a reputation for being a straight-shooter. He’d worked hard to cultivate connections on the side. He’d developed a thriving little business, independent of his father and brother. They’d thought him stupid and useless, a family joke and embarrassment, but just because he moved slow and thought deliberately didn’t mean he was an imbecile.
Joe liked the kid. Hell, he couldn’t help but like him. He’d been dealt a lousy booster all his life, saddled with an abusive father who favored one brother over another and made no bones about it. And hell, the kid had more ambition than the other two put together. He was a hustler. Gideon and Rayford were lazy, only wanting to make enough to get by. Once the points ran out, they’d go out and deal, rob or pimp enough to get ahead for a few weeks … ‘til those points ran out. It was a vicious cycle, but one Joe had seen played out by more than just a few.
He sighed. He knew this world was fucked … pollution, exhaustion of resources, climate change and population problems had doomed this rock. Even if it could recover and heal itself, it would take centuries, maybe millenniums, and it would probably need the human race out of the way long enough to do it. And that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
Humanity wasn’t going anywhere, even though it might be in its best interest. Huge generation ships were being built in orbit to take thousands of brave souls to the stars, but it was like taking a bucket of water from the ocean. Even after these ships were launched and construction was started on the next wave of ships, it would still take three years, give or take, to finish and staff them with a few more thousand. And all this time, millions would be born down below. The math didn’t add up.
The world sure didn’t need Junior Tuttle, but humanity did. Joe couldn’t believe how crazy that sounded, humankind lacking a two-bit, redneck thug? Yeah, that was fucked up.
But a malaise was slowly settling over society as a whole. Even in a boomtown like Huntsville, it was becoming a constant battle to keep jobs and hope. Nobody knew that better than someone like Joe. Each year, hundreds of jobs were being lost to technology, and they could only keep the robots and androids out for so long. It was a battle the
