The Men From Macon

Strangers always seem to bring bad tidings or bad luck.

         

The Men From Macon

By Chris Doyle

         Cole filled the bucket to the brim before setting it aside and doing the same to the other. He lifted both containers, lugging them beneath the shelter situated to the left side of the service station's garage area. He dropped several capfuls of detergent into both as well as sponges before squatting to sit on the cast off chair he'd dug out of the trash and repurposed for his needs. He sat back, fired up a Camel, and waited. It was a little over four cigarettes and just shy of an hour later when his first customer pulled under the shelter in a blue Chevy sedan, logo pulling to within a foot or two of where he sat.
         He stood, feeling what seemed like a click in every part of his sixty-one-year-old body, watching the driver slide from beneath the wheel, exiting the vehicle and heading his way.
         Cole stepped forward to meet him. "Mornin' suh."
         The man nodded to him, taking a quick look at their surroundings. "Morning." He gave Cole a curt nod, "How much for a wash?"
         "Dollar-fifty'll get'er done." Cole gestured to the shelter. "Just pull in there and let ya' windows up for me if you would."
         The man rapped the hood of the car, gesturing to the shelter and making a twirling motion with his hand. Cole saw the back window on the driver's side inch up and the person in the passenger's seat slid over, his hand making the Macon Peaches air fresher swing back and forth as he settled behind the wheel and pulled under the structure. It was only then he noticed the other passengers, the doors opening as three men got out. Hard men from the looks of them.
         Cole knew all about hard men. Before he'd turned nineteen he'd spent four years on a prison farm outside of Waycross, having been there less than a week before a fellow inmate slid a sharpened nail between his ribs for not giving him his cornbread at supper. The attack had almost cost him his spleen and taught him a valuable lesson - know how to read the men around you. The lesson served him well as he bounced in and out of jail. One look at these men was all he needed to recognize them for what they were - killers all.
         "Anywhere around here to eat?"
         It took Cole a second to locate which of them had asked the question. It was the one by the passenger door. He was a big one. Son of a bitch's shoulders stretching out the suit coat to its limits, sleeves riding up on the man's forearms well above the wrists. The other two were regular sized fellows, they all had on suits, but only the driver wore his like he was accustomed to it. Cole nodded, pointing to the road running in front of the pumps. "Yes suh, just down the road, there. Darcy's Diner."
         The driver nodded, still smiling. "Food any good?"
         Cole smiled apologetically. "Can't say from first-hand 'sperience, suh. They don't serve colored but, er'body we send down there come back satisfied. Leastways, that's what they say." He walked over to the spigot, unlooping the hose and holding a kink in it as he turned on the water. It was a few seconds before he noticed the men hadn't moved.
         Cole directed his remarks to the driver. "Anything else I can do for y'all?"
         The man approached him, smiling. "Tell me," he looked around casually, "you know a family around these parts name of Harris? Runs a bar?"
         Cole shook his head. "No suh, but I ain't from 'round here."
         "Whaddaya mean, you're not from around here?" one of the others asked, a smaller hawk faced man, eyes boring into the old negro. "You're here now."
         Cole looked at him, arms spreading. "My sistah and her husband got a farm 'bout five miles from here. I work there durin' the week and come here on the weekend." He shrugged. "Other'n them, I'on't really see too many other colored folk 'cept at church. Likely as not, they's some 'round here by that name, I just don't know'em."
         The hawk faced man took half a step toward him. "Who said I was talking about colored?"
         Cole shrugged again. "Just figured is all. I mean, if you was lookin' for somebody white you could just ask some white folk or look in the phone book." He could feel the other men looking at him, considering.
         After a few moments the driver gestured down the road in the direction he'd pointed out earlier. "You said, just around the corner there?"
         Cole nodded, "Yes suh. Just 'round the corner there, not even a hunnert yards from here."
         With the driver leading the way, the party headed off. As soon as they were clear, Cole unkinked the hosepipe, slipping his thumb in the metal opening and making the stream spread out as he waved the water back and forth, wetting the vehicle down. With some effort, he forced himself not to look after the party, focusing on his work. He figured at least one of them was watching, waiting for him to steal a look after them. He went about his work, right hand straying to his right front pocket every so often, giving it a pat. His right front pocket, the one where he'd kept a shiv on him every day since the nail had scratched his innards. He'd spent too much time inside than out. Too much time afraid of what he thought could happen. Knew would happen...eventually.
         Over thirty years of his life as a guest of the state of Georgia. Thirty years and multiple attacks all repulsed, except that first one. Thirty years and he couldn't go, wouldn't go, anywhere without one. Even when he slept, it had to be in his hand or within arm's reach. Still, in the years since his last release, he'd never felt the need to use it. Not really. But now, after his interaction with these men, his right hand itched to feel the hard metal in his palm. He hoped he'd be busy when they returned. Hoped they'd forget about him and pay the gas attendant. Hoped none of them would speak to or look his way again. In his lifetime, he'd killed three times. One on the outside and two on the inside. Still, these men scared the shit out of him.

***

         Talley's eyes skimmed the menu, pausing on the chicken fried steak. "Think he was lying?"
         The driver, Walton, shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. "Maybe. To tell the truth, I'd've been surprised with any answer other than the one he gave."
         Goggins, the gorilla in the ill-fitting suit, grunted from across the table. "I could go back and put it to him again. See if it comes out different the second time around."
         Talley shook his head. "No need for that. We know where to find them. Besides, we don't even know if they had anything to do with it."
         "Why'd you ask then?" Goggins wiped his brow, the heat of the morning and the walk having made him break out into a good sweat and leaving him somewhat winded. 'Jus' 'down the road, there,'' he mimicked, shaking his head. "My ass."
         "No harm in asking." Talley shrugged. "Besides, it helps us get a feel on how they stand with the locals."
         Walton frowned. "How you figure?"
         Talley flipped the page of his menu. "Well, if he'd flat-out said there weren't any families with that name, we could figure folks like these boys. At least enough to try and protect them. But, he didn't say that. He said 'he' didn't know any." He opened and closed his hands. "Long as it doesn't concern him, he doesn't care why we're asking about these boys or what that might mean."
         Goggins shrugged. "Seems like more trouble than it's worth to me. I say, we find'em, kill'em and get on back down the road."
         Talley set the menu down. "You forgetting about the money we're supposed to find?"
         Goggins nodded. "Been thinking about that." He laced his fingers together, elbows on the table making it creak as he leaned forward. "Who's to say we can't keep that money for ourselves and tell them they didn't have it or we couldn't find it?"
         Walton looked at the man, sitting back in his chair. "That's not what we were hired to do."
         Goggins shrugged. "And?"
         Talley smiled. "We start doing half a job, we start getting half the pay. Or, just stop getting hired all together since we can't finish a job."
         Goggins looked at him for a few seconds, not saying anything. He sat back, shrugging. "Was just a thought."
         Walton took a sip of water, looking at Goggins. "Thoughts like that can get you killed."
         Talley nodded. "Sure do. Besides, we don't even know if they got the money." Was this it? Would this be the job where he'd need to clip one of his group to keep the rest in line? He'd assumed that if it were anyone it would be Walton, but it was Goggins who was doing all the talking. They'd all thought it at one time or another. But thoughts didn't get you killed. Words, however - particularly words spoken aloud - could. Especially, if those words involved stealing from employers who could kill with a phone call similar to the one made to you. He made eye contact with the other two men. "We don't do anything to anyone unless we're sure."
         Goggins sat back, crossing his arms. "Best way to get to the bottom of things is letting folks know you mean business."
         "And the fastest way to make people run is by scaring them." Talley shook his head. "This can be a quick job or a long job. People get to running, we got to track them down. That takes time and money."
         Walton nodded. "Remember what happened down in Savannah with that banker? Bastard made us chase him clear down to Miami all on account of you slapping him around before we even knew for sure if he was the one stealing."
         Goggins grinned. "We found him, didn't we?"
         Talley sighed. "If you'd done like you were told, it wouldn't have come to that."
         Goggins shrugged. "Maybe."
         The men turned as the final member of their party, Martin approached, sliding out a chair and joining them. He loosened his tie, sitting back in his chair, right hand resting on the table, left arm hanging at his side.
         Talley looked at him, waiting. "Well?"
         The man gestured back over his shoulder. "Cook says he knows them. Says their bar's on the outskirts on the colored side of town. Says there's another place called Dukes where the colored high rollers and sporting men go. He says the Harrises are small timers."
         Goggins snorted, "Colored high rollers?' He shook head, "That'll be the day."
         Martin shrugged. "That's what he said."
         Talley sat back. "Well, maybe we'll call on this Duke too."
         Goggins frowned. "Why?"
         Talley shrugged. "Somebody may have gotten it wrong and it's this Duke fella and not the Harris boys that was doing business with the man."
         Goggins crossed his arms. "I still say if we kill a couple of'em it'll get things going faster."
         "Killing folk makes things more messy than they have to be." Walton pulled a paper towel from the table dispenser, placing a sheet under his glass. "Best we get a lay of the land before we start doing that. But," he pointed to Goggins, "he isn't wrong. We lay the right people down, folk more likely to start talking."
         Talley sighed. It always boiled down to this. Deciding who was going to live and who was going to die. Some parts of this job never changed. "Alright." He pointed to Goggins and then Martin. "Once we get settled, you go give them Harris boys a visit. Just feel'um out is all. You got me? Scared people more likely to tell you what they think you want to hear and not the truth."
         Goggins looked at Martin, the man's mouth jerking up into a smile. He winked, turning back to Talley. "Sure thing."
         "And no guns," Talley added. "Last thing we need is to get jammed up by one of these locals on a gun charge." He could tell Goggins didn't like that, the man's mouth becoming a tight line.
         Goggins raised both hands in surrender. "You're the boss." He picked up a menu, giving it a cursory glance before flipping it closed, tapping the sides of his fists against the table and looking at the others. "I'm getting that chicken fried steak, how about y'all?"
         

***

          Cole was just about ready to start drying the car when he heard the pulpwood truck rumbling down the road. Stepping from beneath the shelter and raising his right hand to shield his eyes while peering at the approaching vehicle. After a few seconds a smile split his face and he started for the road, flagging the driver with his towel the squeal of the brakes matching the roar of the engine as the vehicle slowed to a stop, the driver's side and a familiar face filled the window with a wide gap toothed smile.
          "Cole! What's goin' on with you boy?"
          Cole waved, stepping to the door of the vehicle and looking up at the driver. "I can't call it. You comin' or goin'?"
          The driver patted the steering wheel. "Last run of the day. I unload these and I'm done."
          Cole nodded. "You goin' by Jesse's later?"
          The driver nodded. "Sure am. Gotta take some mo' of Curtis's money from him. You know that."
          Cole smiled. "Bid whist or dominoes this time?"
          The driver grinned, cheeks bulging. "Whichever one he want. Don't make no difference to me."
          Cole glanced around, casually before looking back up again. "You get the chance, be sure to pull Jesse and his nephew to the side and let'em know folk been 'round here askin' 'bout'em."
          The smile on the driver's face faded and his face came a ways outside of the window. "Who askin'? The law?"
          Cole shook his head. "I'on't think so. Some crackas from Macon, I think. Leastways, that's what they air fresh'ner say."
          The driver nodded. "How many of'em?"
          "Fo'." He gestured back over his shoulder. "Gettin' ready to dry they car now." He pointed to the man. "One of them fellas damn near big as you."
          The driver nodded, grinning again. "Prolly ain't as pretty though, huh?"
          Cole stepped back shaking his head. "C'mon now Emerson, you know they's Sugar Ray and they's you."
          Emerson laughed, getting back behind the wheel. "Alright then, I'll be sure to pass it on."
          "Hey Em!" Cole called, before the truck shifted into gear and pulled away.
          Emerson's face returned to the window, catching the old man's eye. "Yeah?"
          "Be sho' to let Lil' Charles know it was me told ya."
          Emerson nodded. "I will. What, you owe the house money?"
          Cole shook his head. "Nawl. This here for his daddy. Man kept me alive for two years in Reidsville. Figure I owed it to'im to let his family know trouble might be comin' they way. You just pull'um aside when you tell'um. Okay?"
          Emerson patted the side of the door loudly. "Will do. You have a good one there, Cole."
          Cole waved in response watching the truck pass by, five cords of pulpwood in tow. He wet the car down again before drying to make sure there were no streaks. After he was done he found the manager, excused himself and went out back to the woods. He'd said it was to relieve himself, but it was really for a smoke and to avoid having to speak with the men if they returned before he was done. The gas station not having colored facilities an odd bonus on this day.