Gareth pulled the business card from the center pocket of his overalls and tossed it on the table. “Tell them what you told me,” he said.
Jimbo Cartwright picked up the card and sat back in his chair. He looked around the table at Ernest Pruitt, Albert Valentine Jr.—Big Val to his friends—and the old man. Cooper didn’t add much to these meetings anymore, but Gareth insisted that he be present, out of respect. “We got us a problem, fellas,” Jimbo said. “And this guy?” He held up the card between two fingers. “This guy is the solution. A situation like yesterday can’t be allowed to happen again. We got lucky and y’all know it. It won’t happen like that again. We can’t afford to lose any footing here. If Milkbone Arnie or the Hall boys figure out we don’t have the firepower to protect these crops, they’re going to push harder than they did yesterday and we’re gonna lose.”
“So what do we do?” Ernest said.
“We acquire sufficient firepower from this guy.” Jimbo tossed the card back on the table. Ernest reached for it, but Val picked it up first.
“Wilcombe Exports?” he said, reading aloud.
“We need guns,” Jimbo said. “This guy Wilcombe has guns.”
“How do you know him?” Ernest asked. Val handed him the card.
“Last year when me and Jenny were having our troubles, I spent some time riding in Florida. Before I came home and threw in with Gareth.”
“Riding?” Ernest asked.
“Yeah, riding.”
“Riding what?”
“Harleys. What the fuck else would I be riding?”
“Take it easy,” Ernest said. “I didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff.”
“I am. I mean, I was. I had me a brand-spanking-new Electra Glide Classic. Traditional colors. Jenny made me sell it.”
Val smirked. “Did you ask Jenny for permission to be here?”
“Kiss my white ass, Val.”
“Get to the point, Jimbo,” Gareth said.
“Right. Anyway, I fell in with an outfit out of Jacksonville making a little side money working for a fella named Bracken Leek. The guy’s solid. Good people. He’s a big boy, too, Val. About your size.”
Val shrugged.
“Anyway. We made some money, a lot of money, and I trust him. Him and this guy Wilcombe are joined at 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 and flicked 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?” the old 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 tell you, 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?”
Gareth and 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.”