The Redeemers (18 page)

“Well,” he said. “I don’t know. I guess. Sure.”

“OK, Big Daddy, let’s get our asses off the frozen beach and back to those space heaters and some warm booze,” she said.

“How about we make it double or nothing?”

“Double what?”

“Double the drinks I owe you.”

“I don’t give a damn about those drinks,” she said. “I can buy my own, Mickey Walls. I didn’t come down here because I need free shit from you.”

“What fun is in that?”

She grabbed the front of his work coat, the pink fake fur tickling his nose as he brought his lips down to her neck, tasting a bit of that salt after they’d done tequila body shots. Tonya snuggling right on up to him, breath smelling like booze, eyes hazy, not saying a word as he got a good hand on her ass and said, “Let’s go swimming.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind,” she said, looking this way and that, down the miles of beach from Alabama on one side and Florida on the other. Not a soul. The Flora-Bama was a big old two-story boardwalk of pressure-treated pine wrapped in plastic. Hundreds of people were packed inside the four bars and two stages. Florida Georgia Line supposed to come onstage at eleven and would be counting down the New Year.

“It’d be our own little club,” he said. “Let’s get buck-ass nekkid and run on into the water, wash away all the bad shit that happened last year. It’ll be like a damn baptism.”

“A Flora-Bama baptism?”

“They do have a church service here on Sunday.”

“You’re crazy as hell,” Tonya said, but looking up at him, grinning a little. Some devilment about her. “Do I have to take my bra and panties off, too?”

“Everything or it don’t count,” Mickey said, taking off his work coat, a forgotten little wrench jingling in his pocket, cold wind like a damn knife ruffling his silk shirt as he worked on the buttons and kicked off his boots. He stripped down to his boxers, the cold so hard and mean that it just numbed him all over. His last thought before taking down the boxers was about his pecker. He knew that thing would be crawled up inside him like a scared turtle. But, fuck it. Fuck it all. It wasn’t easy to make things right.

He took off his boxers. Tonya shook her head like she was talking to one
bad
boy and took off the pink coat and then the dress. It was too cold for some kind of debate and, a second later, they were nekkid as could be, hand in hand, shivering and laughing and waist-deep in the Gulf of Mexico on the last day of the year.

“God damn you,” she said.

Mickey grabbed her and pulled her cold skin in tight, pressing her big tan boobies against him, thinking this was damn well going to be the year. Everything was going to work out. All the bad shit would just float on away down to Cancún. She was screaming and yelling and laughing, and he dipped them both under the water, more screams, and then they broke free, running like hell back onto the beach and pulling on their clothes. Teeth chattering, her lips turning blue but smiling, “Four drinks,” she said, “Big Daddy.”

“And then?” Mickey said, glad to be pulling his pants over a unit that had all but disappeared. Sand clinging to his bare feet.

She slipped into the pink coat. Wet hair and big teeth. Dark brown skin. But something off about her, makeup running down her eyes.

Something just didn’t seem right.

“Come on,” she said. “Come on.”

He knew the smile just slid from his face.

Damn, he saw it. Those mean, lying eyes of her daddy. God damn Larry Cobb’s ugly ass. He wobbled a little bit and made his way up toward the boardwalk. Tonya hadn’t noticed he wasn’t laughing anymore and raced ahead of him, shoes in hand, toward the bar and the free drinks she’d won from her Big Daddy.

Mickey picked up his boots and followed. Maybe another drink would help.

•   •   •

I
t’s getting to be midnight,” Chase said. “We better get the fuck out of here.”

“Boy’s got it,” Peewee said. “He’s got it.”

“Shit,” Chase said. “He can’t get a grip. Them things are meant to cut into fucking cars, not safes. Those pinchers can’t grab hold of a big ole safe like that. We need some kind of damn saw, something that can cut through that thick metal.”

The generator Kyle had brought with him from the fire station was heavy as shit, noisy as hell, and Chase had to yell a bit as he was conversing with Uncle Peewee. Uncle Peewee had all but quit, sitting at the big fancy dining table of the folks they were robbing. He’d helped himself to their scotch and some Christmas cookies. He had green sprinkles stuck all around his mouth as if he’d just gone down on the Grinch himself.

“Well, we’re gonna need some kind of miracle,” Chase said. “Y’all need to start thinking about running the ole two-minute drill. You remember last year’s LSU game when the Tide was down by a touchdown? Ole AJ switched things up in less than a gosh-dang minute. He damn marched their ass down the field in five plays. Five damn plays. How you like that?”

“This ain’t football, son,” Peewee said, licking his fingers. “It’s robbing.”

“I’m just saying we need a big play,” he said. “All we’re doing is farting around and fumbling. We need some momentum. Leadership. We got to see some daylight in that there safe. Ain’t nobody taking charge.”

“You want a drink or something?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Hell you don’t.”

“I drink beer,” Chase said. “But that ain’t like drinking alcohol or nothing. Beer never killed a man. Hey, hey. You hear that? Hold up.”

Chase left Peewee in the dim-lit dining room with that fancy-ass table and chairs, pictures of some big-headed man with a gray beard with all his kids and shit, and walked on into the bedroom and that deluxe closet. He heard a popping noise, a squealing that sounded like a dying squirrel, and figured that maybe old Kyle sure as shit was getting close. You could feel all the pressure, nearly popping in the air, as that boy was down on both knees sticking those metal pinchers in the door. But the pinchers were still closed, needling into the frame, trying to run the machine in reverse, hoping to separate the pinchers and open those doors to glory.

“Hell-fucking-yes,” Chase said.

“Won’t budge.”

“I heard it,” Chase said. “Come on, now.”

“What you heard is this damn machine going full tilt,” he said. “If I could just get a little more grip, just edge a little more into that door. Hey, hey. You got a crowbar?”

“Peewee got one.”

“Get it.” Kyle’s face was red as hell. But even though he was breathing hard, a lit cigarette hung from his mouth in true dedication. It bobbed up and down in his lips while he cussed. “God damn. Son of a bitch.”

Chase got the crowbar from the bag and walked it back into the closet. There was a floor-to-ceiling mirror back there and from a long ways it appeared that four folks were working on that safe. He handed the bar to Kyle, Kyle snatching it away, and Chase stood a little taller and sucked in his little gut. He had on a hooded canvas coat over a
ROLL TIDE
hoodie. The smoke and sweat in that little room sure was getting to him. Kyle worked and worked with that crowbar, but didn’t seem to get nothing, and tossed it on the floor.

Chase checked his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. Damn.

Kyle used his legs and feet to push those pinchers as far as they’d go into the safe’s frame and pushed the lever. His face reddened more, sweating, cigarette bobbing and then falling from his mouth, as he gave one final all-out groan, the generator and pump on a real high whine, until he fell to his ass and caught the cigarette just as it burned a hole into his jacket. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“You tried,” Chase said. “Hell of an effort. I mean it. Hell of an effort.”

“Get your uncle in here,” he said. “This ain’t working.”

“You want to try some more with that crowbar?”

“I said, go get that fat bastard and tell him to get in here now,” he said. “Shit. Shit. Wait. What the hell’s that?”

Gunfire was popping off all around them.
Crack-Crack-Crack.
Pistols, and then an automatic weapon on full blast. Kyle scrambled to his feet and ran to the generator to turn off the device. “It stopped. Wait.”

More shots. Chase ran from the closet to get Peewee. This whole thing was headed south fast. Good thing Kyle had driven the van on up the dirt road. If they could just get on out to the vehicle, maybe they’d still have a chance. Sounded like a damn army out there.

Peewee was standing near a lamp and studying the bottle in his hand. He didn’t look as if he had a concern in the world.

“Come on,” Chase said. “Didn’t you hear that shit? Come on. They’re shooting at us.”

Peewee looked up at him from under those wild, crazy eyebrows and shook his head. “Damn, son,” he said. “It’s New Year’s Eve. People got an American right to fire off their weapons.”

Chase turned back and saw Kyle wheel the big cutters and generator out of the bedroom. The man had heard what Peewee said and shook his head, knowing he’d been just as almighty stupid. “Think,” Chase said. “This is when the game breaks down. We make mental mistakes that’ll cost us a game. We need that safe. We got to get it with us and then find a way to bust in.”

Kyle nodded. He gathered up the orange electric cord in his hand.

Peewee moved on toward a back door that opened into the garage just as a light shone into the dark room, all of them hitting the carpet to dodge it. The flashlight circled over the far wall, and they heard footsteps on the walk outside and the halting sounds of the sleet. Whoever was walking around had on a radio, the radio making squawking sounds, as doorknobs rattled and someone knocked on the front door.

And they just kept on knocking.

Chase looked to his Uncle Peewee. Peewee grinned and put a long finger to his lips. This whole night just seemed funny as hell to the old man. That automatic weapon went off again. Six shots from the pistol.

The knocking stopped.

Happy New Year.

•   •   •

W
hat kind of problems?” Mickey said into the phone.

“Big fucking problems,” Kyle said.

“I don’t like the way that sounds,” Mickey said. “Not at all. Talk to me.”

Tonya was on her knees in front of him, unbuckling his belt, and working on his zipper, when the cell had rung. They’d just gotten back to the condo, deciding the Flora-Bama was too much country for them, buying a bottle of Barefoot Bubbly and a pint of Beam at the liquor store across Beach Road. The condo was real nice, high-class, with a lot of paintings of seagulls, seashells, and smiling kids on the beach. Mickey was laid back into the sofa, watching a replay of the ball dropping in Times Square, and pressed mute on the remote. Tonya wouldn’t stop fiddling with his pants. He knocked her hand away and she got up off her knees and stormed back to the kitchen, pouring herself some more champagne into her red Solo cup.

“These boys,” Kyle said, talking low, Mickey knowing someone was listening. “These Alabama boys are full of shit. The old one. Peewee Sparks? Shit, man. He doesn’t know any more about busting a safe than you or me. I had to go down to the fire station and get the fucking Jaws of Life and we still couldn’t bust into it.”

“Where are y’all now?”

“At Larry and Debbi’s.”

“Get out of there,” Mickey said. “Get the fuck gone. Now. Didn’t you get my message?”

“What message?”

“Shit.” Mickey looked back to Tonya and held up a finger and made his way out the sliding doors to the balcony. The condo looked right out at the beach and the Gulf, as a cold-ass wind wrapped around the tall building. “Damn, Larry and Debbi are headed back tonight, man. Shit. Y’all are still there?”

“I didn’t get no message.”

“Larry was pissed because he lost too much at blackjack,” Mickey said. “I had Tonya check up on them and she said they left Tunica about an hour ago. I figured y’all would be long gone by now. God damn. What have y’all been doing?”

“Trying to bust that easy-ass safe you been talking about,” Kyle said. “The one you said you had the combo and, if the combo didn’t work, you had the best safe man in north Alabama to bust it open. Dixie Mafia. A real-life Sparks.”

“He can’t do it?”

“Hell, no, he can’t do it,” Kyle said. “That’s what I’m saying. Shit, man. We’ve been here for three fucking hours. I’m just calling to tell you we’re gone.”

“Hold up, hold up, hold up,” Mickey said, pacing back and forth on the little balcony, hitching up his pants, zipping them up and buckling the belt. “How about a crowbar?”

“You think we ain’t tried that? Come on, man.”

“How about the sledgehammer,” he said. “Just knock the holy fuck out of it. You can do that. You hit anything hard enough and it’ll bust open.”

“Not this,” Kyle said. “I’m only calling to let you know we tried. But we’re gone, man. I ain’t going to Parchman for this. Fuck that shit. And don’t you be calling me back for a long time. Understand? I ain’t answering.”

The sliding door opened and Tonya peeked outside, the curtains bustling about in the wind. “Everything OK?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mickey said. “Just great. Just some work shit. Go on in. I’ll be right there.”

“It’s New Year’s, Big Daddy.”

“I know,” Mickey said. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Tonya looked sad, but shrugged and slid the door closed, staying on the other side of the glass. She smiled at Mickey, dropping that pink furry coat to the floor, and then working the straps of her dress off her shoulders. The dress dropped down to her ankles. She was wearing something pink and transparent, with only a gold ankle bracelet.

“Wait,” Mickey said, whispering. “Wait. Can you move the safe? Just take it with you?”

“Had you forgotten I got an asthmatic fat man with me and some half-retard kid?” Kyle said. “I’m not Superman.”

“What about a winch?”

Tonya turned off the television and turned on the stereo. She was switching the stations around, squatting there at the console in her Victoria’s Secret bra and panties, until she found something to her liking. That song that Miranda did with Carrie Underwood, “Something Bad,” the video where Miranda and Carrie dress up in different costumes to rob a bank. For a second, Mickey wondered if Tonya didn’t know just what the hell was going on. But then she started dancing in her underwear, with her red Solo cup filled with Barefoot Bubbly, and he knew his mind was just screwing with him.