He shook his head, letting go of his fantasy of shooting the bodyguard. He knew it was better not to get their blood up looking for him. Besides, bodyguards were like dogs, they did what they were told, and the man’s boss would tell him to stand aside. Junior was pretty sure of that.
He glanced at the GPS unit again. He had the coordinates for the farmhouse programmed into it. All he had to do was follow the map. It shouldn’t be much farther.
Ten minutes later, Junior came to the property’s gate, a large steel-frame swinger, complete with cattle guard. It wasn’t even locked. He slipped the cable off the gate post, opened it, got back into the truck, drove in, and then got out and shut the gate. No point in drawing any attention to himself. People who left gates open on property where there might be livestock stuck in your memory.
The house was an old two-story place, recently painted and kept up real well. A half a mile from the gate, it sat at the end of a curvy road that wound through a section of cornfield. The corn stood about six feet high and looked as if it would be ready for harvest soon. Junior knew a little about crops. Though they’d grown mostly sugarcane and soybeans on his uncle’s farm in Louisiana, everybody had a truck garden — corn, tomatoes, carrots, pole beans, like that.
By the time he’d parked the truck under the welcome shade of a cottonwood tree, next to a GMC pickup newer than his, the bodyguard/chauffeur was already on his way across the yard.
He was a big man, six-three, maybe six-four. In shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, Junior could see that he was also very muscular. A weight lifter, for sure, and probably a boxer or martial artist to go with the muscles.
He was wearing his gun hidden in a belly pouch under the T-shirt. Some of those were rigged with Velcro so all you had to do to access the piece was to grab it with one hand and peel it apart, going for the gun with the other hand. They weren’t as fast as a belt holster, but in the middle of the hot summer, it was hard to justify wearing a jacket or even a sleeveless vest.
Junior smiled. He liked his method better. He wore an unbuttoned denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps and tails out, over a white T-shirt. It was a little warm, but you could get away with it. The little revolvers rode close to his body, and the shirt was enough to hide them as long as he didn’t move too fast and flare the tails.
Before Junior could open the door, the bodyguard was there. Up close, Junior saw a small tattoo on the man’s forearm. Junior nodded. It was a prison tattoo, blue ink, probably ballpoint, a little spider web, not bad.
“Hey,” Junior said.
“You don’t have an appointment,” the bodyguard said. It was not a question.
“No. But the man will want to talk to me.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Give him this.”
Slowly and carefully, Junior reached down to the seat and picked up a sealed 9 × 12 manila envelope.
The bodyguard took the envelope without looking at it. His eyes were still locked on Junior’s.
Junior glanced at the tattoo. “Where’d you do your time?”
The bodyguard frowned. “I printed validation stickers at Wabash Valley. Six years, man-two.” He looked at the envelope, just a glance, then back at Junior, his eyes hard. “You’re not going to cause my boss any trouble, are you? The man has been very good to me.”
Junior grinned and shook his head. “Not a bit. I’m just here to talk business.”
“Wait here. Don’t get out of the truck.”
The bodyguard backed away, keeping Junior in sight, then turned and went back into the house.
I can take you, Junior thought. You’re not fast enough coming out of that belly pouch.
Of course, he’d have to make the head shot. A.22 to the body wouldn’t even slow that bodyguard down. He played it out in his mind, smiling. Yeah. He could take him.
It didn’t take long. Five minutes and the bodyguard was back. “Leave any hardware you’re carrying in the truck,” he said.
Junior nodded. There was no point trying to pretend he didn’t have any, though he had already pulled the two Rugers out and stuck them under the seat.
He got out, stood there while the bodyguard patted him down, then followed the man into the house.
They went in through the back door and straight to a big paneled office — Junior thought it looked like pecan wood — with lots of bookshelves. There was music coming from hidden speakers, an old show tune. He grinned.
The senator sat behind a big desk made of the same kind of wood as the paneling. It had a burl to it. Pecan, he was sure of it, or maybe some kind of maple.
“Have a seat, Mr… ?”
“Just call me ‘Junior,’ Senator.”
Hawkins was sixty-something, leathery, tanned, and fit. He had salt-and-pepper hair cut in a flattop. He wore a plaid cotton shirt, jeans, and work boots.
Senator good ole boy, Junior thought, but this time he hid his grin.
“Wait outside, Hal,” the senator said to the bodyguard. “And close the door, would you?”
Hal nodded, stepped out, and shut the door softly behind him.
As soon as the door closed, Senator Hawkins turned back to Junior, his expression growing ugly. “Now you want to give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have Hal take you outside and stomp you into a pile of greasy hamburger?”
“Your call, Senator,” Junior said. “But you know I’m not so stupid as to come here with the only copy of that picture. You can also be sure that I have people who know where I am, and who have more pictures like it — and some a lot worse. Something happens to me, you know what comes next.”
“You son of a bitch.”
Junior frowned. “You’re a smart man, Senator, and you’ve been in politics half your life. How long did you figure to keep something like this a secret?”
“It’s been forty years so far,” he said.
Junior nodded. “The wife, the kids, the grandkids, they’re all good cover, but that doesn’t matter now, does it? What’s done is done.”
The senator sighed, and Junior could see him give up. “What do you want?” he asked. “Money?”
“No, sir.”
Hawkins stared at him.
“I need one thing, one time only. I need a vote. In return you get all the copies of all the pictures, and we never say another word to each other as long as we live.”
Senator Hawkins glared at him. “And I’m supposed to trust a blackmailer.”
“It’s not like you have a whole lot of choice here, Senator.”
Hawkins thought about it. “What if I say no?”
“Then the pictures — all of them — show up on the web and tomorrow’s front page. You want your grandchildren knowing you’ve been sharing long weekends up in Pennsylvania with another man? The brother of an appeals court judge? That you’ve been swinging the other way since before you met Grandma?”
Hawkins shook his head. “No, I don’t want that.”
“Fine,” Junior said. “Then we can do business.”
There was a long pause, and Junior felt just a twinge of nervousness. You could never be sure in a situation like this. The guy might just lose it and go off, and with his guns in the truck, he didn’t feel real comfortable. Hal would stomp him like a roach. Sure, the senator would pay for it, but that wouldn’t help Junior any.
Finally, Hawkins said, “I don’t know who you work for, Junior, but let me tell you this. If this gets out, I’m ruined. If that happens, I won’t have anything left to lose. Hal out there has friends. They’ll find you, and you will tell them who sent you, before they put you out of your misery, and whoever your people are will suffer the same fate as you. You understand me here?”