JJ08 - Blood Money
Books by Michael
Lister
(John
Jordan
Novels)
Power
in the Blood
Blood of the Lamb
Flesh and Blood
The Body and the Blood
Blood Sacrifice Rivers to Blood
Innocent Blood
Blood Money
Blood Moon
(Short Story
Collections)
North Florida Noir
Florida Heat
Wave
Delta Blues
Another Quiet Night in Desparation
(Remington
James
Novels)
Double Exposure Separation Anxiety
(Merrick McKnight
Novels)
Thunder Beach
A Certain Retribution
(Jimmy “Soldier” Riley
Novels)
The Big Goodbye
The Big Beyond
The Big Hello
The Big Bout
(Sam Michaels and Daniel Davis
Series)
Burnt Offerings
Separation Anxiety
BLOOD
MONEY
a
John
Jordan
Mystery
by
Michael
Lister
Pulpwood
Press
Panama
City,
FL
Copyright © 2015 by Michael
Lister
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any
form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or
places, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
Inquiries should be addressed
to:
Pulpwood
Press
P.O.
Box
35038
Panama
City,
FL
32412
Lister,
Michael.
Blood Money /
Michael
Lister.
-----1st
ed.
p.
cm.
ISBN:
978-1-888146-53-0 Hardcover
ISBN:
978-1-888146-54-7 Paperback
Book Design by Adam
Ake
Printed in the United
States
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4
2
First
Edition
Jill Mueller
Truly
an angel, and a kind, wise soul.
You
have been a gift to me since the moment we began working together, a true partner in wordwork, a light that shines across oceans.
Thank
You
Dawn Lister, Jill Mueller, Lou
Columbus,
Mike Harrison, Dayton Lister, Phillip
Weeks,
Michael
Connelly,
Adam
Ake,
Travis
Rober
son,
Jeff
Moore, Aaron Bearden,
Dave
Lloyd,
Dan
Finley,
Charlene
Childers.
Chapter One
I
was
happy.
I had been happy before but nothing like
this.
Never anything remotely resembling
this.
Moments, glimpses, flashes, always fleeting, always evanescent, always tinged and diluted before had become something altogether different, something absolute, something
abiding.
Of course there was much to be unhappy about—both in the macrocosm of the wide
world
where the wounded, stunted, and sociopathic wanted war and control and more of everything, and the microcosm of my own small world where my dad and I were about to lose our jobs, my mom was about to lose her life, and
Anna’s
soon-to-be ex was spreading his misery around like a contact contagion––but Anna and I were together, a grace that not only made me beyond happy but put everything else into
perspective.
It was a beautiful mid-September evening, a little after four––several hours before the first body would be discovered and then stolen––and Dad and I were riding out to
Potter
Farm for a quarterly men-only social gathering of not inconsequential political import.
I
wasn’t
happy about that.
Being
away
from Anna at a social and political event with only the male movers and shakers––and wannabe movers and shakers––of
Potter
County and our part of the Panhandle was a special kind of hell for someone like me.
I had never been part of the good ol’
boy
club grasping for power and greasing of deals. The truth was I despised it. No matter how
mannerly,
no matter how seemingly good-natured and benign, the Old South oligarchy was not just corrupt and counter to
democracy,
but sexist, racist,
greedy,
and oppressive––a more invisible and insidious incarnation of Jim
Crow.
But Dad was up for reelection and facing a very real threat in the general election after narrowly winning the
primary,
and
it’d
be political suicide for him not to attend with his supportive sons in
tow.
Potter Farm was a forty-acre spread some five miles outside of town and a mile and a half from the prison, with a small lake, a barn, and a rustic old farmhouse.
Vehicles,
mostly large luxury trucks, were parked on either side of the winding dirt road that led into the place––and three and four deep in the pasture beyond them.
The setting sun was mostly an orange-and-purple aura behind the farmhouse and barn and the cypress trees lining the lake, its muted glow magical, beautiful, peaceful.
Between the old house and the barn, which
was
set some fifty yards beyond it, large event tents had been erected beneath banks of generator-powered halogen lights.
As we searched for a place to park, Dad said,
“Anything
you can do to help me . .
.”
I nodded.
“I know this
isn’t
exactly your kind of . . . but . .
.”
“
I’ll do what I can.”
“What the hell?” Dad said.
I turned to see what had caught his attention.
Hugh Glenn.
“Son of a
bitch’s
got some
balls,”
Dad added.
Hugh Glenn was the Democratic candidate running against Dad, and though this gathering was open to the public, it was being paid for by the Republican Party of
Potter
County and the four candidates standing for election––Dad for sheriff, Richard Cox for judge, Don Stockton for county commissioner, and Ralph Long for property appraiser.
It was bad
form
for Hugh to be here, and I wondered if those running against the other three candidates were
too.
By the time
we
parked and were climbing down out of
Dad’s
shiny new GMC truck, Hugh Glenn had disappeared into the crowd, but
Jake
walked out to meet
us.
“John,”
he said.
“Jake,”
I said.
Jake
and I, like Cain and Abel, were
brothers.
“How are you?” he asked.
“You
been able to stop smiling yet?”
I smiled at that and shook my head. “Not yet.”
He was talking about Anna and how happy I
was
to finally be with
her.
It was said with more warmth and genuine friendliness that I was accustomed to from
Jake—
something he had replaced his open hostility for me with since I had helped him out of a jam or
two
a few weeks back.
“Good
crowd,”
Dad said.
“Is,” Jake
said. “Good sign.”
“Maybe. More likely
they’re
here for the free food and
booze.”
Jake
had been here for a while––setting
up,
cleaning, cooking––and not just because this was his crowd, his friends, but because as a deputy and
Dad’s
son, his livelihood depended on Dad winning
too.
“Fuckin’ Hugh Glenn is
here,”
Jake
said. “Saw
him.”
“And
there’s
a lot of drinking already goin’ on.
I’s
you,
I’d
make the rounds, shake the
hands,
eat the food, make your speech, then leave before it gets late. No
way
the after-party
ain’t
gettin’ out of
hand.”
Dad nodded. “Here to do a
job.
Will leave as soon as
it’s
done.”
“Well,
then,”
Jake
said,
“let’s
get to
it.”
L
ater, I
would
think back on every interaction, every observation, attempting to recall every encounter and the thoughts and reactions they elicited, but as I
moved
through the throng of white men in pressed jeans,
Roper
Apache
boots,
and Brushpopper button
downs,
I had no
way
of knowing one among them
would
commit murder later in the night.
The first man I encountered was the head of the
Potter
County Republican
Party,
Felix
Maxwell.
A largish, colorless man with gray hair and glasses, he had become the head of the party after failing several times to secure a seat in public office––either
by
election or appointment. He
wasn’t
particular.
“John
Jordan,”
he said as he squeezed and pumped my hand. “How the hell are you ol’ son? Whatta you think your
dad’s
chances are? Pretty good, huh? He could stand to be a little more social, little more
friendly,
but . . . I’m glad
you’re
here with him. Means a lot to
us.”
