Leon walked toward the pickup truck full of lawn equipment to grab a drink of hot coffee from his thermos. Mary made sure, no matter what, when he went out the door he had a full thermos to take with him in the winter.
He saw Harry sitting in the cab of the truck. No surprise there. Harry would sit there and look at porn all day long, then shake hands with homeowners. I’ll never shake your hand, you nasty bastard. Behind him, up the long stately driveway, Leon heard a woman sobbing and a man shouting. He looked over his shoulder. The guy, wearing a suit and tie, was shouting at his wife. There was luggage piled up next to their car. Leon couldn’t hear what they were saying and he didn’t care. A couple of assholes getting a divorce, maybe. The chain saw was heavy and he put it down. Police sirens were wailing somewhere close, an unusual occurrence in Belle Meade. He was aware of the sirens in the way of a black man in Belle Meade. Potential danger. He wasn’t driving, though, so he figured the sirens weren’t for him.
Harry stepped out of his truck. He looked jumpy. More squirrely than usual, his eyes darting around like he couldn’t make up his mind what to focus on. Leon prepared to bite his tongue.
“Ah, Leo. Glad you came down.”
“What’s up?”
“Looks like we’re going to call it an early day.” Those words had never dripped from Harry’s mouth before. Not once.
“Do what? We’re not even close to being done.”
“Well, yeah,” Harry said, wringing his hands, “but the, uh, the homeowners have decided we’ve taken enough off. They don’t want any more limbs cut.”
“Uh-huh,” Leon said. “What’s with the piece?” Harry had an enormous holster strapped to his hip. Leon stood a few paces away from him. Harry looked at the ground, then the trees, then somewhere beyond Leon’s shoulder. His right hand was hovering close to the brown leather holster at his hip.
“Well, you know, I just heard there was a bank robbery over on West End. Cops are looking for suspects around here. Some armed bank robbers. Can’t be too careful.”
“So you’re packing?”
“Well, yeah. Look, can you get a lift home? I need to go. I can’t drop you off back at the shop.”
“Come on, Harry. That’s bullshit.” Leon was aware that his fellow workers had come up behind him. Harry looked like he wanted to bolt. He looked terrified. What the hell?
“I just gotta go,” Harry said, backing away. Twitchy.
The silver Mercedes blew past them, tires squealing, as it turned onto Belle Meade Boulevard. Leon had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.
“What the hell, ming? Jesus said. “You can’t leave us stranded here.”
“Just stay back,” Harry said, edging back around his truck.
“Hell no!” Dominic shouted, stepping forward to get in Harry’s face. “You not leaving—”
Harry pulled the revolver from the holster, his face red and mean.
Leon took one step forward, reacting, not thinking. Training coming back to him, at least some of it. He should have gone for the throat, groin, the soft parts, but he didn’t. His fist smashed into Harry’s nose, a year’s worth of fury and muscle and endurance behind it, the momentum of poverty, retribution, and justice in an angry fist. Harry flew backwards, feet off the ground, and his head smacked the front bumper of his truck.
Leon stepped up to Harry and took the nickel-plated .357 from his hand, then held the weapon at his side, looking down at his former boss. Harry wasn’t moving and his eyes were open, surprised and vacant.
“Aw, shit, he dead. You killed him,” said Dominic.
Leon looked down at Harry Wilson; Dominic was right. Maybe it was the chrome bumper that did it. Maybe it was a heart attack. Maybe he’d hit him so hard and just right that he snapped the man’s neck. Leon was panting and he wanted to throw up. He felt hot even though he could see his breath. The sirens kept on going and going.
“That’s one dead redneck,” Jesus said. “You showed him.” Jesus then said some things in Spanish Leon did not understand, yet still managed to comprehend.
Leon wanted to double over and puke. He hated Harry Wilson, but he hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d never taken a life.
“He was about to shoot you,” Leon said. “He was reaching. Why was he strapped? What the hell?”
“I donno, ming, but we gotta go,” Jesus said. “Cops everywhere. They not liking you killing some white boy on Belle Meade Boulevard. String your black ass up.”
“Yeah,” Leon said, staring down at Harry Wilson’s dead eyes. Leon was shaking. Anger, remorse, fear, and uncertainty kept him rooted on the lawn in front of the red pickup truck with the chrome and the dead Harry Wilson lying in front of it. He had to do something, but he didn’t know what it was. Not just stand there looking dumb and waiting for the police to put him in prison for the rest of his life.
“I mean now, man!” Dominic said, rounding the truck. “If you wanna stick around and go to prison, go for it. I ain’t waiting.”
Jesus and Dominic stepped around Leon, opening the doors on the quad cab truck. Leon stood over the man he’d killed. No white witnesses, nothing he could say that would sway authorities. He’d be in jail for a long time before a trial ever happened. Meanwhile his wife and kids would be starving. Even once he got his day in court, he was far from confident that he’d be set free. He’d be convicted of manslaughter. Ten years in prison, at least.
“We leaving, man!”
“Okay,” Leon said. The sirens kept wailing. He stooped down to Harry Wilson’s dead body and undid the man’s belt. He removed the belt and holster, put them on his own hip, and placed the nickel-plated .357 snugly in its place. He pulled his coat over the weapon, and it felt heavy. He was not entirely sure why he felt the need to take the gun. He wouldn’t shoot a cop. No way.
He got into the truck, walking like a wooden soldier, stiff and strange even to himself, and he climbed into the driver’s seat and put the truck into gear. Y’all were about to leave, huh? But you damn sure wanted me to drive. Okay, then. I’m driving home to my wife and my boys, and nobody better try to stop me.
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
Marshall, whose real name was Jessie although he insisted people call him Marshall, was excited. The war was finally happening, the war between the invaders and the real Americans. A fight between the givers and the takers, producers and freeloaders. Words like that. Jessie was ready for the war because he’d been preparing and wishing for it his entire life. They were taking over the country, and he felt like he was under attack from the day he was born. They’d taken over the schools, the government, and even his neighborhood.
His home was skirted by tin, the blocks and wheels beneath it not showing. His yard didn’t have broken-down cars and weeds and toys from 1999 and toilets and couches on his porch. He was raised better than that. There was none of that yammering they did when they decided to argue. He had himself a respectable home, a double-wide that he’d paid off on land he rented only because his granddaddy hadn’t had the sense to hang on to it. He’d been watching the news and waiting, knowing what would happen. He’d told everybody within bar-shot how it would play out. Watching it stream live, he let out a rebel yell for himself.
“HEEEEEL YAUGHA,” he howled at the screen. The announcers were grave, but Marshall, whose real name was Jessie, was not grave.