“Meet Mr. Leek there tomorrow morning with the money, and your problems at home are as good as solved.”
Bracken stood up and Wilcombe slid from the booth. He nodded to Gareth and then to Val, straightened out the creases in his suit, and left, leaving the briefcase on the table.
“Eight-thirty sharp,” Bracken said.
“We’ll be there.”
Gareth motioned to Val and they followed Wilcombe out the door.
CHAPTER
11
GARETH BURROUGHS
1973
1.
The motel room was a cold, filthy box. Gareth had stayed in one like this before to handle some business up in Huntsville and it looked exactly the same. He imagined that, aside from bars on the door, there was no difference between a room like this and a prison cell. He stood naked in front of the full-length mirror running up the wall next to the vanity, holding a bottle of whiskey, looking at his reflection in the glass—really looking—taking himself in. He rarely stopped to see the toll his life was taking on him. His body was taut and cut, like a boxer’s, cords of sun-reddened farm muscle toned by years of hard work. Work he was proud of. Not the kind of work that resulted in cardboard boxes like this room, it was the kind that resulted in empires. The kind of work his father had taught him how to do. He took a drink from a bottle that was practically empty and stared at the collection of scars from various scraps and foolish ideas. Fights born of both anger and good times. The most foolish idea being the tattoo on his chest that spelled Annette in cursive letters above his left nipple—where his heart was supposed to be. He snorted to himself. It was her idea to get it done. Jimbo knew a fella who did it right out of the back of his trailer with a homemade rig made from a car battery and a spool of copper wire. He got it done on their first wedding anniversary. They were supposed to get it done together, hers and his brands meant to prove their love to each other, but Annette chickened out in the chair. Follow-through was never her strong suit. It wasn’t the first promise she’d broken—or the last. Probably best she didn’t get it anyway. Less explaining she’d have to do to the next poor soul she latched herself on to. He rubbed his thumb over the raised ink in the tattoo and used the rest of his hand to knead the thick muscle in his neck.
He carried his share of scars, but for the most part managed to keep his body whole and in pretty good shape. His face, on the other hand, looked like it belonged to someone else entirely, and maybe it did. It was haggard and weathered like saddle leather. His eyes were disappearing more and more every year behind the crow’s-feet branching out from the corners of his narrow sockets, and the skin under his eyes was loose and dry. It was an old man’s face.
His old man’s face.
He wasn’t completely sure why, but he was beginning to hate it. His father used to be the cornerstone of everything. Now he was just a crazy, feeble old coot, more embarrassing than anything else. Gareth wondered how long he had before he would follow the same path.
The young girl sprawled out behind him on the queen-size bed rolled over onto her belly. She was a gift from his new partner. She just showed up at the door with the bottle of whiskey—the same brand he’d drunk at Wilcombe’s bar. He wasn’t a cheater, but Annette was gone, so it didn’t matter. He was drunk and angry, and a go at this one was just what he needed. Now, though, he was ready for her to leave. He hadn’t bothered to clean the slick of her off himself. He just crawled off her, laid a couple of twenties on the table, and went back to drinking. He hoped she would take his money and silence as a hint to collect her things and shove off. She didn’t. That made Gareth angry, but then again, everything made him angry. Anger was the only constant he had these days. He should be thrilled to have a huge problem taken care of after this deal with Wilcombe and his guns. He should be relaxed after bedding this sweet, young piece of tail, but he wasn’t. He was angry, and he felt the slow burn of it right underneath his skin. Every sip of whiskey brought it closer to the surface.
“Oh, Papa, come back to bed,” the girl said. “Let me rub some of that tension out of your shoulders. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it. Back in Mobile, I took some classes. I thought about doing it full-time, but you know, life and all.”
Gareth took another pull from the bottle and rubbed the tattoo. “You mean whorin’ and all?”
“Well, you ain’t gotta be all mean about it, Papa.” She pulled the motel’s scratchy wool blanket over her bare ass and patted the bed next to her. “Come sit yourself down right here.”