Poor Boy Road (Jake Caldwell #1)

Poor Boy Road

Copyright © James L. Weaver

First Published by Lakewater Press 2016

All Rights Reserved.

Cover by E.L. Wicker

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior documented approval of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9944511-2-5

ISBN-10: 0-9944511-3-X

To my amazing wife, Becky, and my two awesome kids, Madison and Max. Your support and daily inspiration made this book possible. I love you all more than you know.

POOR BOY ROAD

James L. Weaver

Crying out

Now you can’t escape you are buried in doubt

And it pulls you down

Now you’re in too deep you may never get out

Such an awful place

                            Alter Bridge

                            “Cry of Achilles”

The apartment door was a cheap, brown, six-panel hollow core with a grimy peephole and colorfully articulated graffiti—enough to make a priest blush. But Jake Caldwell was no priest. The door would splinter off its hinges with a swift kick from his boot like the previous dozen he’d blasted in over the years. But bashing in doors was noisy and drew the wrong kind of attention. It’d be easier if Carlos simply opened it, so Jake knocked—again.

He waited, listening for sounds of movement over barking dogs and crying babies in the units behind him. He felt conspicuous in the littered hallway with the Glock at his side, the sun shining on his head through a hole in the building’s roof like a spotlight. Even in this shitty neighborhood, a guy his size with a gun would warrant an eventual call to the cops. Shadows flickered across the bottom of the door—Carlos staring out the peephole. A stupid move. If Jake was here to whack the guy, he could shoot him through the door. The worst he planned to do was break Carlos' kneecaps.

“Open the door, Carlos,” Jake said, pounding the door twice. No answer, but the shadow wavered as if its owner was uncertain if it should stay or run.

Jake sighed and stepped back. With his good leg, he exploded forward, driving his heel above the knob. The lock assembly collapsed against the splintered wood and the door burst open. Carlos cried out as the door cracked his face, his wiry frame collapsing to the floor. He landed on his ass, holding his nose. Blood poured through his fingers and on to his stained, white T-shirt. Jake entered the apartment to the stench of cigarettes and fried onions, and shut the remains of the door behind him. Carlos pushed back toward a kitchen stacked with crusted plates and glasses, his wide eyes fearful.

With the gun trained on Carlos, Jake strode to the kitchen, grabbed a grungy dish towel and dropped it in the bleeding man’s lap. Carlos whimpered as he pressed the towel against his shattered nose. The late morning sun peeked through the blinds, highlighting his greasy hair that dangled across sunken cheeks. Jake tucked the Glock in his waistband and picked up a dented baseball bat leaning against a bookcase covered with dead plants. He held it with both hands, testing the weight. Thirty-two ounce aluminum fat barrel. He walked to Carlos and tapped him on the leg with it.

“Where’s your daughter?” Jake asked. The last thing he wanted was a little girl to run in screaming. It happened before.

“Hospital.”

“Still?”

Carlos nodded. “They can’t figure out what’s wrong.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Jake said. He didn’t wish that kind of heartache on anyone, but Keats wasn’t paying him to be a shoulder to cry on. “The two grand. Where is it?”

“Ain’t got it. No insurance and the damn hospital’s sucking me dry.”

The bat burned in Jake’s hands. He didn’t want to, but his orders were to liberally apply a blunt object to Carlos’ legs if he didn’t have the money. There would be hell to pay otherwise. He raised the bat, white knuckling the handle.

“Please, Jake,” Carlos pleaded, tears rolling down his weathered cheeks. “It’s my little girl, man.”

The brief howl of air and hollow thunk of metal meeting bone echoed in his head, a ghostly sound from long ago. The excruciating pain would rip through the man’s body, so intense he would shred his vocal cords from the screams. He knew because he dealt this punishment too many times in the past. He could feel it because he was once on the receiving end. As the bat barrel wavered and Carlos sobbed, Jake’s cell phone vibrated for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Like the previous four times, he silenced it.

He glimpsed a picture on the kitchen counter of Carlos and his daughter. Eight years old, cute as hell in a white dress with a daisy in her thick, black hair. What would happen to her if Jake broke her daddy’s legs? What would Keats do to him if he didn’t? His cell vibrated again.

Jake tossed the bat on the floor. It clanked toward the busted front door and he yanked the cell from his pocket, checking the number. 660 area code. Home, if there was such a place. He needed to think, and the call provided as good a distraction as any. Jake answered with his left hand and pulled the gun out with his right, aiming it at Carlos.

“Dad’s dying,” Janey said. His sister’s first words to him in a year. Like he was supposed to give a shit. Jake said nothing.

“You there, Jakey?” she asked. “I’ve been calling all morning.”

Carlos crab-walked across the threadbare carpet toward a darkened corner of the Kansas City apartment. Jake kicked Carlos on the leg. The bloodied face looked up and Jake held the Glock palm out, gesturing him to stay like a dog.

“This isn’t the best time, Janey.”

“Is there ever a good time for you?”

He pictured her in the kitchen at the old house in Warsaw, tapping a pink-slippered foot on the black and white checkered linoleum. The long, curly phone cord snaked around her bony arm.

He stepped back and sunk his two hundred and twenty pound frame into an ancient brown recliner. He glanced at the coffee table to his left, to a tower of overdue bills from Children’s Mercy Hospital and a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He set the gun on his lap and threw Carlos the cigarettes. Carlos fished a lighter out of his pocket and lit one with shaky hands.

A full minute of silence. Jake clicked the old, gold ring against the butt of the Glock, counting off the seconds until he couldn’t take it.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“Say you’re coming home and helping me take care of him. I can’t do this anymore by myself.”

“So phone a friend.”

“Yeah, right. Like anyone else would help him. Please. I need you.”

The old man’s hardened face sprang forward. Sharp nose, sharper tongue. Face cracked like an old baseball glove from too much time in the sun and too many Camel unfiltereds. Wispy remnants of dull red hair drooping from his long skull like some creepy circus clown. The white leather belt swinging and that goddamn gold ring. He rubbed his tired eyes. There were a million things he’d rather do than return to his central Missouri hometown. But, he owed his little sister.

“Okay, Janey. I’m on my way.”

Jake hung up without waiting for a response. He leaned forward, staring at the photo of Carlos and his daughter across the room, picturing her lying in a lonely hospital bed. Carlos may be shitty with his finances, but he was a decent father. There would be no bone breaking today. Then again, he probably knew that the second he raised the bat.

“It’s your lucky day, Carlos.” Jake stood and pulled the man to his feet. Carlos winced as he wiped his shattered nose on his shirt.

“You broke my nose.”

“You didn’t answer the door when I politely knocked.”

“I was sleeping,” Carlos said.

“Bullshit. You were hiding.”

Carlos paused. “No bat?”

“I’m giving you another week.”

“Keats never gives nobody more time.”

“
I’m
giving you the week, not Keats. Like I said, your lucky day. Go buy a lottery ticket.” Jake pressed the gun barrel into Carlos’ cheek. “Two grand, seven days or your nose won’t be the only thing that’s broken. Comprende, amigo?”

Jake tucked the Glock away and walked through the broken apartment door, down the narrow stairs and out to his truck. He climbed in and stilled, inhaling and exhaling measured breaths.
Dad’s dying
. Janey’s words hung in the air like a cartoon balloon. He let the adrenaline fade and replaced thoughts of his father with wonders about what Keats would do to him for not breaking Carlos into a million pieces.

Twenty minutes later inside his apartment, Jake pulled the dented, gold ring from his finger and set it on the counter. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, staring across the kitchen to the wall calendar sent courtesy of the Warsaw Chamber of Commerce. August featured a white board sign with peeling, green letters welcoming you to Warsaw, Missouri, population 1,654. The battered sign blocked the day’s blazing sun and was probably supposed to evoke some warm and fuzzy feeling of the dawn of a new day. Instead, it summed up home in an instant—chipped, shitty and falling apart.

He’d managed to avoid his father for sixteen years. Fucking Stony. Jake had to meet his boss first and, if he made it out of there alive, make the trek southeast to the home he swore he’d never return to. He took another drink from the bottle and poured the rest down the drain. He should’ve let Janey’s repeated calls go to voicemail. She always wore rose-colored glasses when it came to their father. She didn’t have the scars he did.

The patrons who recognized Shane Langston moved out of sight when his muscular frame filled the door of the dimly lit Danny’s Bar and Grill, finding the sudden urge to go to the bathroom or check out the songs on the broken juke box. He liked that respect. The foursome at the pool table didn’t know Shane and openly admired the busty red head on his arm, her pink spandex jogging suit leaving little to the imagination. Shane eyed them as he walked up to the bar, then ticked his head to his trailing bodyguard. Antonio moved his mountainous black frame toward the men who got the hint and returned to their pool game.

“Where’s my brother?” Shane asked the bartender.

“Back office," the bartender replied. "He ain’t in a good mood.”

“Neither am I.” He kissed the red head on the cheek. “Stay here with Antonio, sweetheart. Have a drink.”

“My shift starts in an hour,” she said.

“This won’t take long. You’ll be swinging from your pole in no time.”

He sauntered the length of the mahogany bar, and past the bathrooms to a door marked “Private.” He threw it open without knocking and found his older brother, hands to his head, staring through thick-framed glasses at a computer monitor on his paper covered desk. His brother stiffened and pushed away from the desk when Shane entered, his breathing ragged.

“Thought you were going to Warsaw,” his brother said, a tremble in his voice.

“I am,” Shane said. He dug his fingernails into his palms as he crossed the room and towered over his brother, looking into his red eyes, pupils dilated. High as a kite. Not surprising, but disappointing, a clean six months down the drain. Danny had the willpower of a gnat.

“Where’s the product, Danny? Or did you smoke it all?”

“It’s coming. There was…a slight hiccup in the delivery.”

Shane shot his palm out and smacked the side of Danny’s head, sending his glasses flying against the wall. With his teeth clenched, Shane leaned in. “You call my shipment getting hijacked and two of my men killed a fucking hiccup?”

Danny rolled his chair against the wall, pressing a pasty palm to his head. “I’m sorry, Shane. There was nothing I could do.”

Shane raised his hand again, fist white with tension. Danny was always the weak one.
Why are you surprised he screwed this up?
Shane closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, willing his fist to lower. He walked around the desk and sat in the opposite chair. Danny smoothed back his thinning hair and picked up his glasses from the floor. He sat upright, fidgeting, unable to figure out what to do with his hands.

“What happened?” Shane asked.

“Four guys broke into the office. Shot Dom and Marco in the head and took everything.”

“We know who it was?”

Danny shook his head. “Surveillance video didn’t help. All dressed in black with masks.”

“How’d they know where the office was?”

Danny shrugged and pulled himself back to the desk, flicking his eyes to the computer monitor. “Beats the shit outta me. I switched the location like you told me, never in the same place more than a coupla times. I did it just like you told me.”

Shane leaned forward and turned the monitor. A balance sheet for Danny’s Bar and Grill lit up the screen. He scanned to the bottom and regarded the large, red figure at the base.

“Seems your bottom line isn’t getting any better,” Shane said.

“There was the big check you had me cut to that children’s agency that hit this month.”

“My helping find homeless kids a bed isn’t affecting your operational costs.”

“I’m doing everything I can. Power & Light District is killing me,” Danny said, referring to the bar and restaurant complex across from the Sprint Center arena a couple of blocks south in Kansas City’s downtown. A hot spot for sure, but the bar shouldn’t be hemorrhaging money. Danny picked at a scab on his arm.

“How much did we lose in your little fuck up?”

Danny’s eyes darted around as if looking to the ceiling for the answer he didn’t want to give. “About a hundred grand.”

“A hundred twenty-five, to be exact. Would just about cover the hole you’re in, wouldn’t it?”

Danny raised his hands, eyes wide. “Whoa. You suggesting I set this up?”

That’s exactly what he suggested. Shane sat back in his chair, searching his brother’s wide set eyes.

“Did you?”

“Jesus Christ, Shane. Why would I do that?”

“That’s not a denial.”

“You’re my brother, man.”

His brother. One of three. The two oldest six feet under, killed in a shootout with the Chicago police when Shane and Danny were teenagers. Shane’s heroes who taught him it was better to be at the top end of the food chain, and not the low end consumer. Danny was never a hero to anyone. Just a stupid, useless addict.

“When did you start using again?”

“I’m not,” Danny said.

“Don’t bullshit me. You’re wired tight as a drum right now. I sell the shit, big brother. I know what it looks like.”

“It was just a taste.”

Shane sighed. “I’m working hard to get a foothold in this town. If I’m going to take it over, I need you. That asshole Keats isn’t just going to roll over and let me have his territory.”

“But why mess with Keats? Don’t we have enough?”

“That’s your problem, Danny. You always were short sighted. You can never have enough. Even Keats won’t be enough, but it’s a start.”

“You really think Keats hit us?”

Drug addicts were notorious liars. Danny was no exception. Shane plucked a letter opener off the desk and cleaned his nails with the tip. “I have no doubt it was him. I just have questions about how he found out about the office location.”

“Keats has ears everywhere. He could've heard about it from any of your guys.”

Shane stared at the eight inch letter opener he bought for Danny when he gave him the bar business. A gift to his big brother for his six months of sobriety. That was two relapses ago. This time, he actually thought he’d make it. He jumped back years to Mickey and Ian showing him the ropes while Danny stayed home to read comic books. Danny who refused to come to their funeral because it would “be too hard.” Danny who spun the revolving door in and out of rehab. Danny who screwed up everything he touched, no matter how many chances he was given. He was weak, and a chain was only as strong as its weakest link.

Shane stood, and paused behind Danny’s chair, the letter opener still in hand. Danny tried to push away, but Shane shoved the chair forward and pinned him to the desk.

“I have ears everywhere too, Danny. And I know you told Keats about the office location for a cut of the loot. Didn’t you?”

“No. No way, man.” Tears choked his voice.

Shane stuck the point of the letter opener under Danny’s chin, pressing up and forcing his head back so he could see into Shane’s eyes. Shane placed a hand on his brother's sweat-covered forehead. Tears rolled from Danny's bloodshot eyes and over his cheeks.

“I have big plans for Kansas City. You were supposed to come along for the ride. We were going to make it a family business.”

“Shane, please,” Danny blubbered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d kill Dom and Marco. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that.”

“It’s okay, big brother. I forgive you.” With a quick thrust, Shane shoved the letter opener into Danny’s throat, holding his convulsing body as the blood spilled down his last brother’s shirt. Danny’s red eyes bulged, then grew dim. The twitching stopped and Shane stepped back, dropping the letter opener into the pooling blood on the floor.

In the office bathroom Shane washed his hands, then smoothed his hair in the mirror. He took one last look at his brother and walked out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Antonio hung up his cell phone as Shane strode across the bar toward him.

“Dexter is all set with the supplies. It’s going to be a very lucrative load,” Antonio said. The red head sipped her drink and flipped through a magazine.

“Good. Send him to Warsaw.”

“How’d things go with Danny?”

Shane shrugged. “My brother has decided not to continue with the family business. He left a little mess in his office on his way out.”

Antonio looked over his shoulder at the closed office door. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll take her to the strip club. Call me when you’re done and we’ll head to Warsaw. Keats needs a message.”

“What kind of message?”

Shane glanced to the red head, leaned in and whispered into Antonio’s ear. Antonio drew back, eyes widening for a split second before resuming his normal stone faced appearance.

Shane’s lip curled. “Keats just started a war he’s going to wish he never even thought of.”