to keep it close.
He pulled into a salvage yard on the outskirts of town and tried to avoid the larger potholes as he drove past a few grungy outbuildings and a handful of wrecked semitrailers. He came to a cinder-block wall strung with barbed wire and deer skulls at the very back of the compound, followed it to a metal gate topped with broken glass, and stopped. Jesse honked twice and waved at the security camera mounted above the gate.
A moment later he heard a click and the gate rattled open along its rusty track, revealing a short alley of garage bays. The door of the tall middle bay hung halfway up and Jesse could see five figures leaning over a diesel engine. He pulled up to the bay, cut the ignition, and listened to his engine rattle to a halt. He got out and retrieved one of the garbage bags, then walked under the eave and waited.
The bay was part auto shop and part everything else. Greasy power tools, air tools, and various hand tools lay scattered across every available surface. A dismantled riding lawnmower was shoved into one corner next to an avocado-green refrigerator, the door stained almost black with grimy handprints. Aerosol cans and taxidermy supplies lined several of the back shelves, while above them hung well over a dozen mounts, including a twelve-point buck and a one-eyed black bear rumored to have killed three of the General’s hunting dogs.
None of the men bothered to look up, so Jesse ended up just standing there holding the bag, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Jesse could see the General fiddling with the camshaft. Finally, one of them—a tall, blond, solid-built man in a pair of faded, grease-stained coveralls—looked up, made a sour face, then put down his wrench. He wiped his hands on an oil rag and headed over to Jesse.
Chet was the General’s nephew, had gone to school with Jesse and the two had hung out on occasion. These days Chet was Jesse’s contact man—Jesse never actually having talked directly to the General before. That’s the way the General handled matters, at least small matters, and it had been made clear that Jesse was a small matter.
Chet scratched at his thick handlebar mustache. “Why, we was just talking about you, Jesse.”
Jesse squinted, wondered what that was supposed to mean.
“Nice of you to show up.” Chet wore a big smile, what Jesse’s grandmother used to call a crocodile smile. “Save me the bother of tracking you down.”
“Yeah, well, here I am.”
“Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight. ’Cause if you did, they just got changed.”
Jesse’s jaw tightened.
“Got a run for you. Short trip . . . just up to Charleston.”
“Can’t do it.”
Chet raised an eyebrow. “Can’t do it?”
“Nope. I’m done with that.”
Chet pushed back his cap. “I’m not liking the sound of this, Jesse. Why, you got folks counting on you.”
“I’m in a new line of business now.”
“Is that so? Just what sort of business would that be?”
Jesse sat the garbage bag down.
“What’s that?”
“Something Santa left me.”
Chet eyed him. “Ain’t got time for your nonsense.”
“Got a business proposal for the General.”
“Shoot.”
“You ain’t the General.”
Chet squinted at him. “You got something to say, then you best say it to me.”
“I’m here to see the General.”
Chet grabbed Jesse by his jacket collar, yanked him up onto his toes.
“Chet,” a deep voice called out. “Hold on.”
“Watch yourself, boy,” Chet growled, and gave Jesse a shove.
The General walked over, followed by the other three men, all of them Boggses—nephews and cousins of one sort or another. They gave Jesse the once-over.
The General wore the same getup he had on every time Jesse had ever seen him: a suede cowboy hat over his baldness, a matching fringed jacket like Daniel Boone might wear, and alligator boots. A bristling salt-and-pepper beard sprouted out from his rough, windburned face. Jesse guessed the man must
He pulled into a salvage yard on the outskirts of town and tried to avoid the larger potholes as he drove past a few grungy outbuildings and a handful of wrecked semitrailers. He came to a cinder-block wall strung with barbed wire and deer skulls at the very back of the compound, followed it to a metal gate topped with broken glass, and stopped. Jesse honked twice and waved at the security camera mounted above the gate.
A moment later he heard a click and the gate rattled open along its rusty track, revealing a short alley of garage bays. The door of the tall middle bay hung halfway up and Jesse could see five figures leaning over a diesel engine. He pulled up to the bay, cut the ignition, and listened to his engine rattle to a halt. He got out and retrieved one of the garbage bags, then walked under the eave and waited.
The bay was part auto shop and part everything else. Greasy power tools, air tools, and various hand tools lay scattered across every available surface. A dismantled riding lawnmower was shoved into one corner next to an avocado-green refrigerator, the door stained almost black with grimy handprints. Aerosol cans and taxidermy supplies lined several of the back shelves, while above them hung well over a dozen mounts, including a twelve-point buck and a one-eyed black bear rumored to have killed three of the General’s hunting dogs.
None of the men bothered to look up, so Jesse ended up just standing there holding the bag, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Jesse could see the General fiddling with the camshaft. Finally, one of them—a tall, blond, solid-built man in a pair of faded, grease-stained coveralls—looked up, made a sour face, then put down his wrench. He wiped his hands on an oil rag and headed over to Jesse.
Chet was the General’s nephew, had gone to school with Jesse and the two had hung out on occasion. These days Chet was Jesse’s contact man—Jesse never actually having talked directly to the General before. That’s the way the General handled matters, at least small matters, and it had been made clear that Jesse was a small matter.
Chet scratched at his thick handlebar mustache. “Why, we was just talking about you, Jesse.”
Jesse squinted, wondered what that was supposed to mean.
“Nice of you to show up.” Chet wore a big smile, what Jesse’s grandmother used to call a crocodile smile. “Save me the bother of tracking you down.”
“Yeah, well, here I am.”
“Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight. ’Cause if you did, they just got changed.”
Jesse’s jaw tightened.
“Got a run for you. Short trip . . . just up to Charleston.”
“Can’t do it.”
Chet raised an eyebrow. “Can’t do it?”
“Nope. I’m done with that.”
Chet pushed back his cap. “I’m not liking the sound of this, Jesse. Why, you got folks counting on you.”
“I’m in a new line of business now.”
“Is that so? Just what sort of business would that be?”
Jesse sat the garbage bag down.
“What’s that?”
“Something Santa left me.”
Chet eyed him. “Ain’t got time for your nonsense.”
“Got a business proposal for the General.”
“Shoot.”
“You ain’t the General.”
Chet squinted at him. “You got something to say, then you best say it to me.”
“I’m here to see the General.”
Chet grabbed Jesse by his jacket collar, yanked him up onto his toes.
“Chet,” a deep voice called out. “Hold on.”
“Watch yourself, boy,” Chet growled, and gave Jesse a shove.
The General walked over, followed by the other three men, all of them Boggses—nephews and cousins of one sort or another. They gave Jesse the once-over.
The General wore the same getup he had on every time Jesse had ever seen him: a suede cowboy hat over his baldness, a matching fringed jacket like Daniel Boone might wear, and alligator boots. A bristling salt-and-pepper beard sprouted out from his rough, windburned face. Jesse guessed the man must
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