“Your past business with them is nothing compared to the deals we will do in the future,” Colonel Bryce said smugly. His eyes radiated total confidence.
Laughlin had done ten million the past year with Intermat in hijacked cigarettes, more than that in pure grain alcohol furnished by a distillery, and they were expanding into new avenues of revenue. Eventually the Russians would take the whole operation, but by then Laughlin would be ready to retire.
“I’m just a middleman in your dealing with the Russians,” Laughlin reminded the colonel. “I am getting too small a cut for the degree of danger.”
“Being a middleman has its rewards. And its risks,” Bryce said, smiling. “They may not like being over this barrel, but they see into the future and the barrels of gold that await.”
“They are like Colombian drug lords without the reputation for the drug lords’ compassion.”
“So, what about the pair?” Bryce asked.
“Locked away,” the lawyer answered.
“You trust them to properly handle the disposal?” Bryce asked. “Them” referred to the Smoots. “Randall should be doing it.”
“They are highly proficient at making things disappear,” Laughlin said. “I suspect they enjoy it. And Randall can be connected to you. The Smoots, with one exception, are expendable and totally ignorant of my involvement.”
An image of Peanut Smoot’s children formed in Ross Laughlin’s mind. It was a chilling portrait. The attorney couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be at their mercy.
If it weren’t for the enormous stakes, Ross Laughlin would certainly have felt very sorry for Lucy Dockery and her child.
9
Winter Massey let the hot water drum on the top of his head. He heard the bathroom door opening and, seconds later, a naked Sean pulled the curtain back and stepped into the tub, closing the curtain behind her.
“You need your back scrubbed?” she asked, putting her hands on his shoulders and squeezing.
Winter wiped the water out of his eyes, and when he turned to her, she pressed herself against him and touched her lips gently to his.
“You know,” he said, smiling, “I don’t have time for this.”
She said, “It’s been my experience that you don’t take all that long.”
Winter hugged her to him and laughed.
Afterwards they dried off and dressed. Sean had already packed his clothes in an overnighter that waited by the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the knees, and he felt her golden-brown eyes on his back as he stood at the open gun safe peering into the drawers at his handguns.
Winter took out his SIG Sauer 226 and hefted it. The 9mm had been his first service piece, but he had set it aside for one in.40 caliber-a trade-off of fewer rounds per magazine and a bit less penetration, for the extra knockdown it offered. He had a third SIG chambered in.45 automatic, which he considered because of its superior stopping power. The forty was a compromise.
Sean seemed to be reading his mind. “Massey, just take the forty.”
He lifted the.40 caliber from the felt-lined drawer along with a pair of extra magazines and set them on the top of the safe. He took his shoulder holster from another drawer, and a couple of boxes of ammunition from another.
“All you can do is the best you can do, Massey.”
Winter opened another drawer in the safe and took out an envelope that contained two thousand dollars in hundreds, fifties, and a few twenties. Having cash on your person and using it for your expenses was important. Most people with information to sell didn’t take promises or plastic. And he wouldn’t be turning in an expense report.
Winter clipped his cell phone onto his belt, put an extra charged battery into his pocket, and ran through his mental checklist. He decided he had everything he needed, and picked up his lightweight leather jacket by the collar.
“Call me when you can,” Sean said, standing. They embraced and kissed tenderly. Reaching behind him, she gave his buttocks a squeeze.
“Call you what?” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Call me in love, Winter James Massey,” she whispered into his ear.
“Some guys have it all,” he said.
“So do some gals.”
She accompanied him to the front porch. Rush and Faith Ann were seated in the porch swing. Between them, Olivia slept in her car seat. Winter kissed each of them and promised he’d see them on Monday.
“Keep on the sunny side, Win,” Hank said, from the rocker.
“Always,” Winter said. “Keep everybody in line, Hank.” He patted his friend on his shoulder before taking Sean’s hand and walking with her to his truck.
Sean held the door open and, after Winter climbed in, she kissed him again and squeezed his forearm.
“Hey, Massey,” she said. “Promise me one thing?”
“Anything.”
“Just this once, try not to get all busted up.”
10
The warehouse was filled with the sounds of men at work. Stanley “Peanut” Smoot finished talking on the phone with his youngest son, Click, and slipped the disposable cell phone into his pocket. He focused his attention on the men who were loading boxes into a step van. Picking one of the cartons at random, he flicked open his knife, cut the paper tape, and opened the flaps. He pulled out a T-shirt, inspected the artwork, and admired the NASCAR authenticity tags complete with the holograms. Some people tried to sell counterfeit shirts and caps from China, but that was dumb. The company that screen-printed shirts and caps under official licenses ran off a few thousand extra pieces and claimed those were defective. The plant sent the actual rejects along with the good ones to a company that shredded and recycled the rejected piece goods to recycle. Peanut owned the shredding company, and the rejected NASCAR merchandise was recycled onto racks in stores all over the country to be sold to race fans. Initially the owners of the silkscreen printing company had not wanted to cooperate, but they’d come around. Most people did if you used the right persuasion.
The distinctive modified-hourglass shape of Stanley’s head had been passed down through the generations-in the way of long, narrow feet or crooked teeth. The fact was that the Sear County Smoots all had high foreheads and lantern jaws. It was not unusual in some communities-and not just the mountains-that one family might have a physical trait they shared down the line.
Peanut’s small ears lay flat like they’d been thumbtacked to his skull, which further accentuated the shape of his head. His hair, which he kept short and oiled, was the color of a molding strawberry and so thin you could see skin through it like bare ground beneath poorly scattered pine straw. His skin looked freshly sunburned, and flaked if he didn’t keep it moisturized.
Peanut dropped the shirt back into the box and went back into his office to get the valise that contained the week’s cash take from his various enterprises. He threw it onto the passenger’s-side floorboard of his shiny black, Hemi-powered Dodge Ram pickup and drove out of the warehouse. He drove downtown and pulled into the building owned by his partner. Every Saturday he parked in the same “client” spot and took the elevator up to drop off the week’s cash. As he waited for the cab to arrive, he shifted the heavy, short-barreled revolver from the side pocket of his limited-edition NASCAR jacket to the small of his back where it would be out of sight. The Smith amp; Wesson.44 special, five-shot revolver was Peanut’s favorite handgun. If anybody tried to rob him, they’d be very sorry.
Most people called Stanley Smoot “Peanut.” His father, a car salesman by title, had told him that going by a nickname made people feel like they’d known you a long time, and more likely to trust you right off the bat. Peanut had listened to his old man because anybody that put “Pooter” Smoot on his business cards, and sold used automobiles to coloreds and other credit-risky types and collected several times the blue-book retail, had a good handle on human nature. “Pay Pooter Pennies and Drive a Quality Car” was still talked about in regional business circles as being the model for the “buy here, pay here” scam, which was hardly more than legal loan-sharking. And those who didn’t pay Pooter always wished they had. Peanut had cut his business teeth on visiting deadbeats in the middle of the night and convincing them to get current on payments to Pooter’s.