Blake Donnelly leans toward Buckman. “Duncan was a good ol’ boy, Claude. I think the kid has a point.”
“Think of the body count if you go this route,” I point out. “You’re gonna kill Nadine. Then me. Then torture Paul’s son to be sure Jet’s not lying. Then you torture Jet and kill her? That’s insane. You’ll have to kill Paul to stop him from killing you all in revenge. You think you can just write all that off like a tax loss? After Buck’s death? And Sally’s? You may control the local cops, but you’re going to have the FBI setting up an office in Bienville after all that. That’s without the fail-safes we’ve set up. That’s crazy-level risk.”
“I don’t know,” says Russo. “If we leave all the bodies at Paul’s place, we can say he found you banging his wife and went crazy. White man on a rampage. Killed his whole family, then set the house on fire and shot himself.”
“There you go!” cries Holland. “I read stories like that once a month.”
Wyatt Cash is shaking his head. He steps closer to Buckman. “This is nuts. Paul and Max were as much a part of this club as any of us.”
“There’s a cleaner solution,” I press on. “Hang everything on Max and Holland. Beau killed Buck Ferris, then fled the country because the photo we printed placed him at the scene. Max killed Sally, then jumped bail and disappeared. End of body count. Nobody else dies. Any legal problems resulting from today’s story, you hang on Max and Holland. Wrap them up in a nice bow and kiss them goodbye. The paper mill still gets built; you guys stay free and rich. Richer every day.”
I hear grunts of approval from the semicircle.
Buckman purses his lips, then visually takes the pulse of the men filling the half-moon of chairs. “Paul? You’ve been surprisingly quiet. What do you have to say?”
Even in stillness, Paul radiates considerable tension. “I told you guys that whoever killed Ferris was going to destroy the club. Well, here we are. And that’s thanks to this asshole.” He jerks his thumb at Holland. “Tommy’s only standing with Beau because he’s got so much money invested with him. Marshall’s got the right idea. Hang it all on Max and Beau, then boogie on down the road. That’s the surgical solution.”
Buckman looks at Tommy. “Mr. Russo? What do you say?”
“He’s right. I’ve got a lot of money tied up with Beau.” Tommy looks at Paul. “Can you make me whole if I lean your way?”
Paul glances at Jet, then back at Tommy. “What kind of money we talking about?”
Russo thinks about it. “Ten million would get me most of the way there.”
“Ten million.”
“Right.”
“Can’t do it, Tommy. Not me alone.”
Russo doesn’t believe him. “You’re about to inherit Max’s fortune, right?”
“I didn’t tell you to invest with Beau.”
Feeling the mood shift against him, Beau Holland barks at the men in the semicircle. “What the hell are we talking about? They’ve got nothing! Tie this slut to a tree and go to work on her. Drag that kid out here. She’ll cough up the truth in thirty seconds.”
Paul looks calmly at Holland. “You’re starting to piss me off.”
Holland draws a derringer from his pocket and points it at Paul’s belly. “How about now?”
Paul looks down at the gun with contempt, then surveys the ring of faces. “You guys act like I just got off a bus. Whatever happened to loyalty? Claude, you’re a tough old bird, but you can’t live forever. Tommy? You’re a wop, and you’re from out of state. They’ll never let you run this club. If Max had lived, he’d have been next in line. Everybody knows it. But Max is dead. I killed him. What’s the saying? ‘The king is dead, long live the king’? Well, I’m not just taking Pop’s seat—I’m taking his place.”
Holland snorts at Paul’s presumption, but I see a couple of men nodding. They’re thinking that Max Matheson left big shoes to fill, but this kid might just be able to do it.
“Who else is going to run it?” Paul asks. He gestures at Beau with disdain. “You guys want to hitch your wagons to this soft-dick, spray-tan cocksucker with his pimp gun? Give me a break.”
Claude Buckman shifts in his teak chair. Even the banker is considering Paul’s argument.
“You got some balls on you, Paulie,” Russo says, looking over at Holland. “You want to make your case, Beau?”
“You’re not listening to this asshole, Tommy?”
“He makes sense.”
Holland’s face goes red beneath his tan. “He’s a bullshit artist, like his old man! Look at him. You think he can run this club? He’s got head wounds from two wars. He’s been a drugged-out wreck for twenty years. He can’t hold on to his own wife, because she’s fucking his best friend. You want to chain yourselves to that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Paul mutters. His hard eyes focus on Russo. “You talk a lot about family, Tommy. I want every man out here to think about his son. Because you’ve got my son locked in that camp house, scared to death. He’s worried about his mama. And for what? You sons of bitches ought to be ashamed. You know me. You knew my daddy. Some of you knew my granddaddy. You know the history. When it came to gunplay after the Civil War, which family did you count on to take care of business? The Mathesons, that’s who. Well, what’s changed? Nothing. And I hold every man here personally responsible for whatever happens next. I may not be a rocket scientist—that’s my wife’s department—but when the enemy’s at the gates, I’m the guy you call. You don’t believe me, ask Marshall here what he left out of that book about Iraq.”
Rapt faces stare at Paul with something close to worship in their eyes. There’s no respect among American men like that reserved for soldiers who have survived combat.
“One more thing,” Paul says in a softer voice. “Marshall here screwed me over pretty good. But that’s personal. I’m no angel myself. God knows I haven’t treated my wife right over the years. And the thing is, me and him go back to kindergarten. Dixie Youth baseball. Jerking off to our first Playboy. Building forts in the woods. We fought together in Ramadi, and I can tell you this: when the insurgents overran us, he returned fire till his gun ran dry. Today we both lost our fathers. The same day. Now you got us out here for this bullshit inquisition?”
Paul looks at the ground and shakes his head. “I’m not killing him for you. I won’t do it. He’s gonna hold up his end of the deal. And if you kill him—and that bookstore lady, who hasn’t done a damn thing to you, and whose coffee I like—then I put your names down in my book. And one night soon, you’re gonna wake up just long enough to see the blood spurting from your carotids before you bleed out.”
“I told you!” Holland cries with satisfaction, pushing his derringer closer to Paul. “We’ve got to kill him, too.”
Holland seems to believe that Paul has condemned himself.
“He’s right,” Paul concludes. “You boys got a choice to make. Kill half a dozen people for no good reason, then pray the FBI doesn’t kick down your door tomorrow morning. Or lay it all off on Max and this prick, and call it a day.”