It never failed to freak Smitty out, this thing that Chuck Otterman did with the fifty-cent piece. It was like he was trying to hypnotize you or something, but it had the opposite effect on Smitty. Rather than lull him, it made him nervous as a whore in church.
Every time he came to this place, he dreaded it more, and always considered himself lucky when he was able to leave under his own power, drive away in his own car, all his parts still attached, his heart lub-dubbing in a more or less regular rhythm.
The only reason he risked coming here was because doing business with Otterman was so profitable. But their transactions required him to drive for miles through an eerie swamp, nary a light to be seen after sundown, to this fishing cabin that had probably been put together by a coon-ass using Elmer’s and thumbtacks.
He’d once asked Otterman what state it was in, Texas or Louisiana.
“Are you into geography?”
“Not really.”
“Then what difference does it make?”
The difference it made was a long list of federal crimes involving words like “interstate trafficking,” but Smitty kept his concerns to himself and had continued to make periodic trips to this old fishing shack way out in the middle of spooky-effing-nowhere.
The corrugated tin roof leaked. A bucket had been placed on the floor to catch the constant drip from the hard rain that contributed to the chilling atmosphere. The plunking sound the drops made as they splashed into the bucket was driving Smitty to distraction, but Otterman seemed unbothered as he set aside his coin and counted out hundred-dollar bills onto the table between them, forming neat stacks of fifty. When he had ten stacks, he passed them one by one to Smitty, who placed them in a pouch.
With a flourish, Smitty zipped it up and flashed Otterman a grin. “Those boys guarantee their product. You have any trouble with the guns, you be sure to tell me.”
“You can count on that.”
Otterman’s tone wasn’t the friendly kind that Smitty had been hoping for. Truth was, it had the undercurrent of a threat and made him need to pee. With false bravado, he said, “When you need more, you know who to call.” And he winked. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Otterman.” He stood up.
“Sit down.”
Smitty dropped back into his seat. For what seemed like an endless time, the only sounds in the room were the incessant drips, the rain striking the metal roof like a hail of bullets, and distant rumbles of thunder.
Finally, Otterman said, “Pat Connor. Know that name?”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Prentiss policeman.”
“Oh well, no wonder.” Smitty shot a laugh over his shoulder at the two men standing behind him. “I don’t have many friends among enforcers of law and order.”
“Earlier this evening, Connor met with me in your crappy nightclub.”
“What about?”
“A couple hours later, he died in his kitchen.”
“Ticker gave out?”
“He was shot dead while pouring himself a drink.”
Now Smitty really had to pee. “You don’t say? Huh. I hadn’t heard that. The clubs don’t close till two a.m., so I don’t often see the evening news.”
“He was discovered too late to make tonight’s news.” Otterman glanced up at the man standing at Smitty’s right shoulder. “But I have it on good authority that two bullets were fired into the back of Connor’s skull.”
Smitty whistled, or tried to. His lips were too rubbery to pucker. “That ought to do it, all right.”
“To have been executed like that, Connor must have let down someone who was counting on him to deliver. Money. Goods. Information. Something of value like that.”
Smitty actually flinched when Otterman suddenly sat forward and leaned toward him across the table. “Do you know Crawford Hunt?”
He screwed up his face as though thinking hard. “Crawford Hunt, Crawford Hunt. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place him.”
Otterman said mildly, “Take your time. Think about it.”
After a few seconds, Smitty pretended to have suddenly remembered. “Oh, yeah. Wasn’t he the guy—”
“The Texas Ranger.”
“Right, right,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Wasn’t it him who was in the courtroom when it got shot up this week? Is that who you’re talking about?”
Otterman flipped the coin, caught it and formed a fist around it, then leaned even closer toward Smitty. “You’re a pimp, a crook, and a creep. The only reason I tolerate your company is so I don’t have to personally deal with the backwoods, redneck lowlifes around here who supply surprisingly good guns.
“But if you ever lie to me again, not only is your lucrative sideline with me finished, I’ll also burn your ratty clubs to the ground, and then stick the barrel of one of those pump-actions up your anus and pull the trigger.”