chapter 43
MOON PIE OVERSLEPT and woke up pissed off at the world. He had a narrow thirty-acre property that he loved to hunt the first day of the season. It was basically a place to park his truck, but it bordered a nine-hundred-acre private farm in Noxubee County that was intensively managed for trophy whitetails. Every opening morning for the last three years he had killed a nice buck by being in the woods before the doctor who owned the fine place put out all his hunting buddies. The doctor’s friends typically made so much noise that nearly every deer on the place got spooked, and Moon Pie knew their primary escape routes. If the wind was calm or out of the northwest, he would be in great shape.
He jumped into his hunting clothes, grabbed his rifle, and dashed to the woods as daylight was breaking. He needed to kill a buck on opening day because it tied directly to his sense of self-worth—saying to whoever saw it that he was such an accomplished hunter that he could take a wall hanger in the first few hours of the season opening.
Moon Pie and Levi rarely missed a day of hunting during the season, and if they did, they went during that night. Levi also had two horses they occasionally rode on large, open properties. Horse tracks weren’t obvious signs of poachers and were often dismissed as merely signs of a neighboring landowner rounding up lost cattle. They also road-hunted the beautiful Natchez Trace, a 444-mile, ancient, wooded road that sliced through prime whitetail habitat between Nashville and Natchez.
In all of Moon Pie’s illegal activities, he was as slick as a greasy BB. While law enforcement agencies were aware of his nefarious ways, Moon Pie had paid off so many locals with meat and drugs that they watched his back, making him that much harder to catch.
By nine o’clock that morning, Moon Pie was already pissed at himself for oversleeping. He’d stayed up late watching a Swamp People marathon and the doctor’s friends had beaten him into the woods by at least thirty minutes. As a result, he had missed an excellent chance to poach one of the doc’s big deer. After hearing someone shoot three times, Moon Pie slithered down from his perch atop a blown-down white oak and headed back to his truck. There were too many hunters on the doctor’s place for him to slip across the property line today, and since he didn’t know exactly when Tam would be arriving to exchange the drugs for the cash, he felt an urgency to leave the woods.
Tam Nguyen made Moon Pie extremely nervous. The late Johnny Lee had introduced them about four years ago, which was yet another reason Moon Pie felt compelled to avenge Johnny Lee’s death. Tam had been searching for trustworthy drug runners and compensated proven dependability through a unique profit-sharing program, and with greater reliability came greater base pay. In the Vietnamese criminal culture along Mississippi’s Gulf Coast, trustworthiness was frequently challenged and constantly had to be proven.
Historically, the Dixie Mafia, as it was known along the coast, had been run exclusively by good ol’ boys—white boys. Recently, however, a few Vietnamese—and Tam Nguyen specifically—had proven they not only were excellent shrimpers but also possessed other talents, and they had staked a significant claim to a piece of the Gulf Coast drug trade.
Tam’s vision was to expand northward. To do so, he had to improve his distribution network. He would use Biloxi as a base, which worked especially well, since there was no port authority and any vessel could simply enter the bay and dock unchecked. Biloxi’s proximity to Interstate 10, a major drug route that went from Florida to California, and several interstates heading north, made Biloxi and the surrounding area ideal for drug trafficking.
Moon Pie had met face-to-face with Tam only a few times. Tam lurked in the shadows as much as possible. His trusted lieutenants did the heavy lifting. Because of Tam’s notoriety, he had to work and sleep in a different location every day, all the while maintaining a powerful and growing criminal empire. Rumors were that he had numerous bay houses and houses on the intra-coastal canals. When Moon Pie needed to talk with Tam, he called a prepaid cell phone, which was rarely operational for more than two weeks.
Moon Pie had heard stories of unfortunate souls crossing Tam. The tales ranged from more than one person being drowned in a shrimp net to another guy being hog-tied and partially fed to alligators; there was just enough of him hanging out of reach to be identifiable. One story circulated about a college kid on spring break who had been relentlessly hitting on Tam’s girlfriend. He went missing and was found three days later naked, frozen solid in a flash freezer at a seafood company. One of his shoes was stuck down his throat, and the other was up his rectum. The stories had the desired chilling effect—no one ever considered crossing Tam, ever. Moon Pie was one of the scores of true believers.
When Moon Pie got back to his truck, he retrieved the key from behind the driver’s-side front tire. The hair on the back of his neck stood. He felt that he was being watched. He tried to act casual as he peeled off a layer of clothes and glanced around surreptitiously. Not knowing who was out there was killing him. That damn doctor probably tipped off the game warden, he thought.
Moon Pie had resented the doctor since the day he had purchased the land. Moon Pie had hunted the place years before the doctor started raking in the big bucks from Jackson socialites’ boob jobs and face-lifts. Maybe it’s a damn good thing that I didn’t kill one today! With Tam coming up here and all, I don’t need any more hassles than I already got.
Moon Pie climbed into the truck and backed out, and, not seeing anyone or any vehicles, he slung gravel as he stomped the gas. As he neared the doctor’s gate, he slowed and laughed as he tossed out a double handful of roofing nails in front of the fancy entrance.