Rats

By Phillip Thompson

It’s four-thirty in the morning, and I’m in the back of a van going down the interstate at eighty miles an hour.

It’s not what you think.

I’m in the van with the Shake and Bake Twins because Cam was a rat. And not even a very good one, mainly because when push came to shove, Cam didn’t have the stones to straight-up lie to Smoke, after crossed him in the worst way possible—over Smoke’s money and his woman.

Of course, I knew Cam had the hots for Terry. He was about as discreet as a nuclear blast, which was stupid on his part because the only two things Smoke cared about was his cash and his gash. It’s not like that was a secret to anybody who knew him.

So, when Cam got around to banging Terry and, with her help, stealing from Smoke, I knew that it was going to end only one way: with Cam begging for his life, probably while standing in his own grave.

It took Cam less than a day to figure out the magnitude of his fuckup and another day to tell me about it. As I said, Cam was stupid. I don’t care how tempting that much money is, you don’t steal fifty grand from a drug dealer with Smoke’s reputation unless you are insane or a Terminator. Cam was neither.

Smoke had been kicked out of the Marine Corps and the Hell’s Angels. Before the age of thirty. He’d also killed three men as he built a dope operation that covered two counties that straddled the Mississippi-Alabama state line. And he kept the rest of us—his street dealers—in line with a pair of fists that hit you like bricks. I knew from that first-hand experience.

“Lip, you got to help me out here,” Cam said when he called me. I agreed to meet him at a barbecue place on the edge of town that night.

He showed up on time, twitchy as a scared cat, and we ordered our meals and settled into a booth near a window that gave us full view of the highway that coursed through low hills and kudzu past the barbecue shack and into town.

“I’m in a shitload of trouble,” he said over a basket of fries. “And I’m seriously worried Smoke is going to fuck me up.”

And then he told me how he and Terry hooked up and, after the dirty deed, decided to swipe some of Smoke’s meth money.

“How much?” I asked as I worked on a plastic mug of draft beer.

“Fifty thousand. But we left something like two hundred grand.”

I tried not to spit beer across the table at Cam’s admission of an act of sheer lunacy. I wiped my mouth, shook my head.

“How’d Smoke find out you stole it?” I said.

Cam looked at me like a confused puppy. “Terry.”

“Seriously?” I said, though it made sense to me. Of course Terry ratted Cam out—Smoke probably got suspicious, and Terry instinctively covered her own ass.

“I know,” Cam said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why only fifty?” I asked. “In for a penny, right?”

“Terry knew where the fifty was and could get to it,” Cam said. “The rest of it—Terry said it was two hundred fifty grand—was locked up in their bedroom in a strongbox, and she didn’t have a key. We figured fifty was enough for us to take off somewhere.”

“Somewhere like where?”

Cam shrugged. “California. Las Vegas.”

“Not good,” I said before biting into my sandwich, processing this information, wanting to tell Cam he’d signed his own death warrant, but he already knew that. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. “What are you going to do?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” he said, his voice becoming a whine. “What the hell am I going to do?”

I chewed, swallowed. “You need protection. Top cover, you know?”

Of course Cam knew what I meant—or thought he did. Whenever we sold Smoke’s meth, we always covered each other, because meth heads are squirrelly, unpredictable sons of bitches. If I got into trouble with one of those idiots, I knew there was a gun hand nearby—sometimes

Cam—to handle the situation.

“You mean to keep Smoke from killing me?”

“That, too,” I said. “But what you need is real protection. Like cop protection.”

Cam’s eyes widened. He nearly choked on his fries. “You can’t be serious.”

“He can’t kill you if he’s in a cell, can he?”

Cam stared at a spot over my head for a solid minute. He was thinking about it.

“I ain’t no rat,” he said, finally.

I shrugged. “Suit yourself. But he’ll be coming after your ass, you can believe that.”

Cam pushed his fries to the middle of the table, licked his fingers. “Fuck it, I’m not looking over my shoulders for the next few days.”

“Few days?” I said.

“You know what I mean.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You really think you can duck a guy like Smoke for even days?

He’s going to be after you until you’re in the fucking ground. I was you, I’d take some of that money and get the hell out of the country. One-way ticket to New Zealand. Or Nepal.”

“I don’t even know where Nepal is. Or what it is.”

“It’s country, dumbass. Loaded with hippies, hash, and crazy-ass gurus on a lifelong high.”

“I ain’t got a passport.”

“Get one.”

Cam dug some crumpled bills from his pocket, threw them on the table between us, then stood. “Not a goddam word about this, right? You don’t tell nobody.”

“Nary a soul.” I wiped barbecue sauce from the corner of my mouth. I watched him scurry to his car like he was running through a hailstorm as I finished my supper.

When his car had disappeared down the cracked asphalt of the highway, headed toward town, I dug my phone out of my pocket. The burner all of Smoke’s dealers use to conduct business.

Smoke answered on the second ring.

“It’s me,” I said.

“That don’t tell me much.”

“It’s Lip,” I said, staring through the greasy plate glass window of the restaurant.

“What do you want?”

“We should meet later on tonight,” I said. “I need to deliver some proceeds and some news.”

Smoke grunted, which sometimes meant agreement. “Ten o’clock.”

He didn’t need to tell me to not be late. He clicked off, then I called Jorge.

“You with your brother?” I said when Jorge answered. He and his twin, Guillermo—the Ramirez brothers—were known as the Shake and Bake Twins. They weren’t part of Smoke’s crew—or anybody else’s. They were more like a freelance operation. Muscle on demand.

“He’s here,” Jorge said.

“Put me on speaker.” I waited a couple of seconds, then Jorge said, “Go ahead.”

“How does splitting a quarter mil sound?”

“Where’s it coming from?” Guillermo said.

“Smoke,” I said.

A long pause—the kind that makes you think even bullet-headed psychos with a penchant for ax handles and nail guns might have limits. I wadded up the wax paper that held the remains of my supper.

“We’re in,” Jorge said.

Smoke moved faster on Cam than I thought he would. Two days later, Cam called me in a full-blown panic, screaming that Smoke had put the word out.

“Whoa man,” I said. “Where’s Terry?”

“Gone. Can’t find her. Not answering her phone.”

That meant Smoke had already taken care of his Terry problem. “What are you going to do?”

I said, hoping he was going to give me the answer I wanted.

“Nothing I can do,” Cam said. “He’s coming over tonight.”

Not the answer I was hoping for. “You got a gun?” I said.

“Yeah. Got myself some protection.”

“Good. You’ll need it.”

“That ain’t all.”

My breath caught. “What do you mean?”

“Cops. And I already told them he’s going to kill me tonight.”

“Goddam, Cam, that’s a huge gamble,” I said. I was surprised that Cam would actually rat on Smoke, but relieved at the same time. Even after his declaration at the restaurant, Cam must have realized that being a live rat is better than being a dead drug dealer.

“Maybe, but Smoke’s a maniac,” Cam said. “You know that. I’m not going up against him alone. So I dropped a dime to a cop, like you said I should. They’ll be here, too.”

I checked my watch. This was happening way faster than I’d planned. “Jesus, Cam, you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah, I’m taking care of my own ass.”

“When’s all this going down?”

“Soon as Smoke gets here. In about an hour.” Cam hung up, and I called the twins.

When Jorge answered, I said, “Change of plans. Time to roll.”

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Jorge’s newly painted olive-green van. It had been white until I convinced him that white vans draw attention from the cops.

“Where’s Guillermo?” I say.

“Watching Smoke’s place,” Jorge says, eyes on the road.

“Cool.”

Typical Jorge. Speaks only when spoken to. I watch the pine trees whiz by in a dark green blur. The summer night has encased us in an ebony blanket, wet and warm, making our operation feel even more urgent than it is. Jorge drives the six miles to Smoke’s small house in the woods in silence.

We’re rolling down the highway, about halfway to our destination, when Jorge’s cell phone chimes. He answers with a “yeah.” Then: “Got it. Okay.” He lays the phone on the console and looks at me.

“Smoke left. House is empty.”

I check my watch. By my calculations, we have a solid hour. That would give Smoke time to get to Cam’s apartment, take care of business and return—if he returned at all.

“You better be sure about this,” Jorge says as he drives down the wide blacktop. Feels like he’s reading my mind.

“I am,” I say, with slightly more confidence than I feel. There are a lot of moving parts in this caper. Jorge and I are working off the assumptions that Smoke would go to Cam’s place to confront (and probably kill) Cam. And that the cops would be there waiting to arrest Smoke when he did, if Cam ratted him out to the cops as I’d hoped. Still, a lot is riding on those two assumptions.

Jorge wheels the van onto the gravel strip that is the driveway to Smoke’s one-story cabin set in a copse of fifty-foot pine trees off a nearly forgotten county road. The headlights reach out ahead of us into the darkness and finally land on the house. Jorge parks, and we jump out and step through a gray cloud of dust toward the side of the house, heading for the screened-in back porch.

Among Jorge’s numerous criminal skills is his wizardry at picking locks. He has us inside in less than a minute. As our eyes adjust to the darkened interior, I glance at him. “Where’s Guillermo?”

“On his way to Cam’s apartment. Where’s the cash?”

“Bedroom.”

Smoke’s bedroom is surprisingly tidy for a man with such a fearsome reputation. Terry’s work, I reckon. Bed made. Curtains hung well and partially open. Nightstands and lamps on either side of the queen-size bed, each with a neat arrangement of alarm clock and phone charger.

“Closet,” I say as I point to the door opposite the foot of the bed, next to a sixty-five-inch wall-mounted TV. “It’s in a strongbox.”

“How you know all this?” Jorge says.

“He trusts me.” Even badass drug lords like Smoke can be a bad judge of character. I’d seen Smoke pull the box down on some of my cash deliveries. “Top shelf.”

Jorge grunts, stands of tiptoes, and grabs a battleship-gray metal rectangle. Grunts again at its heft, then hauls it into his arms. He looks over his shoulder at me.

“You sure?” he says.

“I’m sure.”

Jorge drops the heavy box on the bed, and the weight of it makes the mattress bounce. He tugs a small black leather kit out of a pocket and goes to work on the lock. He pops the lid open after about thirty seconds.

“Holy shit,” Jorge says. It sounds funny in his Salvadoran accent, but I don’t laugh. I’m goggle-eyed at the stacks of cash in Smoke’s strongbox. Banded stacks of various currencies crammed into the thing.

“Let’s move,” I say, suppressing the urge to touch that much money, count it, rub it on my face.

Jorge slams the lid and we trot to the van. Jorge even locks the door behind us. He has the key in the ignition when Guillermo calls. Jorge answers, looks over at me, brow low over brown eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Cool. Meet us at the spot.” He hangs up, nods toward the back of the van.

“Get in back.”

“Why?”

“Guillermo always rides up front.”

Jesus Christ, I think as I clamber out of my captain’s seat into the bench seat behind the cockpit. Not wanting to argue in the middle of this operation, I oblige Jorge. I wait until we’re sailing down the highway before I say anything. When I do, Jorge lets loose with an uncharacteristic grin.

“It’s going down just like you said,” he tells me, making eye contact in the rear view mirror.

“Guillermo tailed Smoke to Cam’s place, then hid. About a minute later, he heard a gunshot

inside the apartment.”

Cam had bought the farm. Just as I’d figured he would. I just didn’t think it would be there.

“Cops showed up three minutes later,” Jorge says. “Like four cars, eight cops, all carrying shotguns. Busted in, lots of yelling.”

I’m amped over the news, but also apprehensive. “Yeah? And? Smoke?”

Jorge grunts. “Cuffed and stuffed. Three cops hauled him out of the apartment and shoved him in a car. Guillermo waited until things settled down, then hauled ass. He’s meeting us up ahead, as planned.”

I slump back in my seat, relieved. Jorge checks the rearview, then swerves off the highway into a convenience store parking lot. He swings the van behind two vehicles parked at the gas pumps, drives to the side of the store, near the ice machine and propane tanks. Guillermo steps from the side of the ice machine and climbs into the passenger seat. Jorge is back on the road in less than a minute.

I lean forward as Guillermo settles in next to his brother.

“Tell me how it went down,” I say. Guillermo shrugs. “Like I told Jorge, ese. I scoped it out.

Smoke rolled up to the place, went inside. Heard a shot. Then the cops show up. Lights everywhere.”

“And you’re sure Cam is dead.”

“Pretty sure,” Guillermo says. “I mean, I didn’t see the cops take him out. Just Smoke.”

I face the windshield. If Guillermo’s version is accurate, Cam had damn little time to blab before Smoke put one through him, which is all the better for me. I point to a side road up ahead.

“Turn here.”

Jorge gives me a sidelong look. “There? Why?”

“I stashed a vehicle by a lake. I told you this van is way too obvious.”

Guillermo makes a noise in his throat. “You just now telling us this, man?”

I grin at him. “What do they call it? Operational security? It’s cool, though. We switch out our ride, then split the cash.”

Jorge locks eyes with his brother for a long second—long enough to make me tell Jorge to watch the road. Guillermo nods.

Jorge slows, wheels into the right-hand turn onto the narrow gray macadam road that falls away from the highway through a stand of tall oaks. After a quarter mile, Jorge follows my directions and turns onto a dirt road, and we bump down a gentle slope until a sparkling lake opens up before us. Six acres of flat black water glittering under a crescent. Off to the right, next to a concrete boat ramp that disappears into the lake, sits a Honda sedan. Jorge pulls next to the car, parks.

I pull my nine-mil from the back of my jeans, lean forward and shoot Guillermo in the base of his skull. The pistol sounds like a howitzer in the closed-in space, and the bullet decorates the windshield with Guillermo’s blood, brains, and hair. I swing my arm to the left and fire again, this time into Jorge’s stunned face as he watches his twin brother’s body slump over the dashboard, soaked in blood. The bullet hits Jorge at point-blank range under his right eye, blasts through his skull and shatters the driver’s side window. He falls backwards against the ragged edge of the busted window, as dead as his twin.

I huff out a breath, then slide the big cargo door open and hop out. I drag the box of cash from the floorboard and drop it. It lands two feet from the van with a thud. Run to the driver’s side. Fragments of glass glitter like diamonds on velvet in the soft brown soil. I scuff dirt over them with my shoe, note pulpy masses of Jorge’s head, and stifle a gag as I fling dirt over the mess.

I yank the driver’s door open, then haul Jorge’s body from behind the wheel and push him to the floor between the seats. It takes longer than I expect, and I’m drenched in sweat from the exertion of wrestling two-hundred-plus pounds of dead weight. I crawl behind the wheel, crank the engine, and maneuver the van to a low spot at the water’s

edge. Point the nose of the vehicle at the lake, then stand on the running board on the driver’s side. I drop the van into drive and steer with one hand, jumping free as the van rumbles into the water. I land in a mushy apron of algae and slip several times before my shoes find purchase on

the bank. The vehicle sinks fast, with a gurgling sound that turns into a hiss before it disappears below the surface. I wipe sweat from my forehead as I watch concentric circles of ripples fade away, returning the lake to its placid natural state.

I grab Smoke’s strongbox from the ground and heave it into the Honda’s back seat. Twenty minutes later, I’m in Alabama, headed east, into a lightening sky, doing the speed limit and listening to the radio.

Nepal is too far away and too cold. Plus, I don’t speak the language.

But I do speak Spanish.