to launder the gains from their true professions of stealing, smuggling and shakedowns. They never wore suits or ties but were the consummate white collar felons. A criminal conspiracy that has learned to operate in a police state like the Soviet Union easily maintains a low profile in the naïve world of the Americans. The Vor were thieves and extortionists. They never used violence as a tool of their trade. Violence drew attention from the law. The Vor was more comfortable moving unknown and unsuspected through a world of sheep.
Though they could be wolves when needed.
“I want this over quickly. I do not like this risk of exposure. So far, this stranger has wished to keep his actions hidden from the eyes of the law. He is sending a message meant only for us,” Symon said to his sons.
“We’ll take care of it,
tato
,” Danko said.
“I need your help?” Symon shifted his eyes to his youngest by twenty seconds.
“
Tato
?” Danko said with the voice of a small child.
“I will take care of this. You will drive and you will hold my coat. It is I who will see to the pig who did this to Wolo,” Symon said and pointed to the popcorn bowl filled with the detritus from Wolo’s pockets.
“Half of what is in the wallet is mine,” Symon said and followed the pallbearers to the garage.
22
----
Levon drove south on 75 toward Sarasota. He made the exit for Cotton Lake and drove inland on a flat county road. Upscale strip malls and gated communities gave way to dense marsh woods and trailer parks. More and more of the crossroads were unpaved out here. They were just raised sand causeways leading back into wetlands to end at subdivisions or eventually join another county road somewhere.
Cotton Lake turned out to be a crossing of two county roads. There was a gas station attached to a tire store, a no-name convenience store, a combined coin-op laundry and car wash, and a boarded up two-window soft ice cream place with a roof that was meant to look like a swirl of vanilla but, after years without maintenance more resembled a giant dog turd.
Set back on a gravel drive off the crossroad was a long block building with a steel roof. There were satellite dishes atop the roof and a tall radio mast. Looked like some kind of cracker NASA operated out of here. The metal sign out front, punctuated with bullet and shot holes, said HATTIE’S . There was a steel-roofed portico with rows of picnic benches to one side of the lot. An outdoor barrel-type grill was going hot there and the smell of barbeque was strong. The smoke of it drifted into the slash pines like a fog.
Levon had had his Avalanche lifted and fitted with fat tires after he’d bought it used. But he felt like he was pulling onto the lot in a two-seater MG as every pickup here was raised to the max on tires half as tall as he was. These were swamp runners made to keep moving in mud up to the door panels. Some were beat to hell and splashed with primer or spray painted in camo. Others looked showroom new with chrome everything and dressed up with name brand accessories.
In addition to the too-tall trucks were a half dozen motorcycles. All Harleys and all custom. One of them had a sidecar with a pit bull sound asleep in the bucket. Levon gave that ride a wide berth. He stepped under the big Confederate battle flag hanging like an awning before the entrance and stepped inside.
The sound system was playing something country from the ’70s. Merle Haggard maybe. The interior was dim and cool. There were a few men at the bar at one end of the long hall. The biggest wild hog head Levon had ever seen hung mounted on the wall above the bar. Long ochre tusks and yellow glass eyes that reflected the neon trim lights around the bottle racks.
More men sat at tables spread in no certain order across the open floor. Levon heard a woman laughing but couldn’t see her. No one paid any attention to him as he stepped to the bar. The song ended and a new one began. Still country
Though they could be wolves when needed.
“I want this over quickly. I do not like this risk of exposure. So far, this stranger has wished to keep his actions hidden from the eyes of the law. He is sending a message meant only for us,” Symon said to his sons.
“We’ll take care of it,
tato
,” Danko said.
“I need your help?” Symon shifted his eyes to his youngest by twenty seconds.
“
Tato
?” Danko said with the voice of a small child.
“I will take care of this. You will drive and you will hold my coat. It is I who will see to the pig who did this to Wolo,” Symon said and pointed to the popcorn bowl filled with the detritus from Wolo’s pockets.
“Half of what is in the wallet is mine,” Symon said and followed the pallbearers to the garage.
22
----
Levon drove south on 75 toward Sarasota. He made the exit for Cotton Lake and drove inland on a flat county road. Upscale strip malls and gated communities gave way to dense marsh woods and trailer parks. More and more of the crossroads were unpaved out here. They were just raised sand causeways leading back into wetlands to end at subdivisions or eventually join another county road somewhere.
Cotton Lake turned out to be a crossing of two county roads. There was a gas station attached to a tire store, a no-name convenience store, a combined coin-op laundry and car wash, and a boarded up two-window soft ice cream place with a roof that was meant to look like a swirl of vanilla but, after years without maintenance more resembled a giant dog turd.
Set back on a gravel drive off the crossroad was a long block building with a steel roof. There were satellite dishes atop the roof and a tall radio mast. Looked like some kind of cracker NASA operated out of here. The metal sign out front, punctuated with bullet and shot holes, said HATTIE’S . There was a steel-roofed portico with rows of picnic benches to one side of the lot. An outdoor barrel-type grill was going hot there and the smell of barbeque was strong. The smoke of it drifted into the slash pines like a fog.
Levon had had his Avalanche lifted and fitted with fat tires after he’d bought it used. But he felt like he was pulling onto the lot in a two-seater MG as every pickup here was raised to the max on tires half as tall as he was. These were swamp runners made to keep moving in mud up to the door panels. Some were beat to hell and splashed with primer or spray painted in camo. Others looked showroom new with chrome everything and dressed up with name brand accessories.
In addition to the too-tall trucks were a half dozen motorcycles. All Harleys and all custom. One of them had a sidecar with a pit bull sound asleep in the bucket. Levon gave that ride a wide berth. He stepped under the big Confederate battle flag hanging like an awning before the entrance and stepped inside.
The sound system was playing something country from the ’70s. Merle Haggard maybe. The interior was dim and cool. There were a few men at the bar at one end of the long hall. The biggest wild hog head Levon had ever seen hung mounted on the wall above the bar. Long ochre tusks and yellow glass eyes that reflected the neon trim lights around the bottle racks.
More men sat at tables spread in no certain order across the open floor. Levon heard a woman laughing but couldn’t see her. No one paid any attention to him as he stepped to the bar. The song ended and a new one began. Still country
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