made some money, a lot of money, and I trust him. Him and this guy Wilcombe are joinedat the hip, and guns are his thing—big guns.”
“Where does he get them?” Val asked. “Gareth has gone to great lengths to keep us off any federal radars. We can’t put that in jeopardy.”
“We won’t,” Jimbo said.
“It might,” Val said. “If, say, a massive shipment of traceable weapons stolen from the military led the United States government straight up our ass.”
“They’re not stolen.”
“So where do they come from?” Ernest said.
“That was my first concern, too,” Gareth said. “Tell them, Jimbo.”
“They build them,” Jimbo said. “Wilcombe Exports has factories throughout the Panhandle, Central Florida, and Alabama. Mostly, they build custom motorcycle parts for shops and motorheads all over the world, but some of their larger facilities are capable of building
other
things.”
“Other things,” Val repeated.
“Yes, other things.”
“And how do you know all this?” Ernest asked.
“Because I’ve seen it. Bracken showed me. I’m telling you. These guys are stand-up. This solves our problem. I’m not talking about buying some secondhand guns with the serial numbers filed off from some colored street hustlers in Atlanta—no offense, Val.”
Val blew Jimbo a kiss andflicked him a bird.
“I’m talking about fifty to a hundred untraceable semiautomatic assault rifles to arm every man we’ve got working the crops, with access to another hundred more anytime we want. Ammo, too.”
“Is this what you want, Gareth?” Ernest asked.
Gareth rubbed at his whiskers and looked at his father. “What do you think, Pop?”
Everyone turned to Cooper.
“Heh?” theold man said, shuffling his weight in the seat.
“What do you think about the guns?”
“You already know what I think, boy.”
“Well, why don’t you tell us anyway?”
The old man pulled the thin, clear tubing that supplied his supplemental oxygen off his nose and let it hang around his neck. He tapped a thin finger on the table, clicking his fingernail against the hard wood. “I’ll tellyou, but I already know it ain’t gonna matter nohow. You’re just going to do what you want.”
“Pop, I’m trying to—”
“This family doesn’t need anything from anybody.”
“Cooper,” Ernest said. “This time it’s different.”
Cooper stared at Ernest hard and long. His look was cold with genuine confusion. “Who the hell are you?” he finally said. “And why are you in my house?”
Garethand Val both narrowed their eyes at the old man, then at each other. “That’s Ernest,” Gareth said. “And this is
my
house, Pop. Not yours.”
Cooper glared at his son. “You got all the answers, don’t you, Rye? No tellin’ you nothing. I don’t know why you even ask.” He tried to replace the tubing in his nose but couldn’t. His hands had taken to shaking too bad. They did that when he got upset.Which meant they did that all the time.
“Jimbo, help him with that and do me a favor. Bring him home.”
“Sure, Gareth,” Jimbo said, and got up to reattach Cooper’s oxygen. “Where are we with all this?”
Gareth looked at Val first, and the big man nodded. Ernest did, too.
Gareth slid back in his chair and seated a fresh plug of chew in his cheek. “Everybody give me a minute.”
2.
After the room cleared, Gareth picked up the card and turned it over and over in his fingers, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. His father was sick—and dangerous—but he was right about keeping the family safe from outsiders. It felt wrong, but something had to be done. He sat folding, unfolding, and refolding the small cream-colored card between his calloused fingers. Plain blockletters printed across it read WILCOMBE EXPORTS, with a phone number underneath with a 904 area code. He noticed the thing barely held a crease.
Some kind of goddamn crazy space paper,
he thought. He wondered how much something like
“Where does he get them?” Val asked. “Gareth has gone to great lengths to keep us off any federal radars. We can’t put that in jeopardy.”
“We won’t,” Jimbo said.
“It might,” Val said. “If, say, a massive shipment of traceable weapons stolen from the military led the United States government straight up our ass.”
“They’re not stolen.”
“So where do they come from?” Ernest said.
“That was my first concern, too,” Gareth said. “Tell them, Jimbo.”
“They build them,” Jimbo said. “Wilcombe Exports has factories throughout the Panhandle, Central Florida, and Alabama. Mostly, they build custom motorcycle parts for shops and motorheads all over the world, but some of their larger facilities are capable of building
other
things.”
“Other things,” Val repeated.
“Yes, other things.”
“And how do you know all this?” Ernest asked.
“Because I’ve seen it. Bracken showed me. I’m telling you. These guys are stand-up. This solves our problem. I’m not talking about buying some secondhand guns with the serial numbers filed off from some colored street hustlers in Atlanta—no offense, Val.”
Val blew Jimbo a kiss andflicked him a bird.
“I’m talking about fifty to a hundred untraceable semiautomatic assault rifles to arm every man we’ve got working the crops, with access to another hundred more anytime we want. Ammo, too.”
“Is this what you want, Gareth?” Ernest asked.
Gareth rubbed at his whiskers and looked at his father. “What do you think, Pop?”
Everyone turned to Cooper.
“Heh?” theold man said, shuffling his weight in the seat.
“What do you think about the guns?”
“You already know what I think, boy.”
“Well, why don’t you tell us anyway?”
The old man pulled the thin, clear tubing that supplied his supplemental oxygen off his nose and let it hang around his neck. He tapped a thin finger on the table, clicking his fingernail against the hard wood. “I’ll tellyou, but I already know it ain’t gonna matter nohow. You’re just going to do what you want.”
“Pop, I’m trying to—”
“This family doesn’t need anything from anybody.”
“Cooper,” Ernest said. “This time it’s different.”
Cooper stared at Ernest hard and long. His look was cold with genuine confusion. “Who the hell are you?” he finally said. “And why are you in my house?”
Garethand Val both narrowed their eyes at the old man, then at each other. “That’s Ernest,” Gareth said. “And this is
my
house, Pop. Not yours.”
Cooper glared at his son. “You got all the answers, don’t you, Rye? No tellin’ you nothing. I don’t know why you even ask.” He tried to replace the tubing in his nose but couldn’t. His hands had taken to shaking too bad. They did that when he got upset.Which meant they did that all the time.
“Jimbo, help him with that and do me a favor. Bring him home.”
“Sure, Gareth,” Jimbo said, and got up to reattach Cooper’s oxygen. “Where are we with all this?”
Gareth looked at Val first, and the big man nodded. Ernest did, too.
Gareth slid back in his chair and seated a fresh plug of chew in his cheek. “Everybody give me a minute.”
2.
After the room cleared, Gareth picked up the card and turned it over and over in his fingers, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. His father was sick—and dangerous—but he was right about keeping the family safe from outsiders. It felt wrong, but something had to be done. He sat folding, unfolding, and refolding the small cream-colored card between his calloused fingers. Plain blockletters printed across it read WILCOMBE EXPORTS, with a phone number underneath with a 904 area code. He noticed the thing barely held a crease.
Some kind of goddamn crazy space paper,
he thought. He wondered how much something like
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