“Have you?”
“I do.” Jesse tugged the garbage bag open so they could all see the boxes of game consoles.
“I don’t play video games,” the General said.
“I got a truck full of ’em and can get more.”
“Can you now?”
“Yes, sir. And I was thinking you and me should partner up. I got a handle on a steady supply and could sure use a bit of help distributing them.” Jesse realized he was talking too fast and made himself slow down. “Be willing to go fifty-fifty the whole way.”
The General grinned at that, but Jesse didn’t like the look of that grin.
“And just how’d you come by these?” the General asked.
“Well,” Jesse hesitated. “Well, sir . . . not really at liberty to say.”
“You’re not?”
“No, sir. We could just say that Santa brought ’em to me.” Jesse made a weak laugh, but no one else even cracked a smile.
The old man stared at him. Nobody moved or spoke. Jesse didn’t like the mood, didn’t like the way this was playing out, something wasn’t right, and all at once he wanted to leave.
The General nodded. Jesse knew the nod meant trouble, but before he could act Chet caught hold of his arm. Jesse tried to twist free, but they were all on him.
They dragged him over to the row of shop tools, forced his right hand onto a drill press, held it over the plate, right where the bit pushed through once it got spinning. Chet snatched up a roll of duct tape and began wrapping the tape around Jesse’s hand and arm, round and round, strapping his hand to the press. Jesse struggled to yank his hand free, but it was bound tight. The men pushed him to his knees and held him fast.
The General walked up. “Got a call from Dillard. Any idea what that might’ve been about?”
Jesse’s blood went cold.
“He said you were talking crazy, like maybe you’d turn snitch. Start squealing if you didn’t like the way we was treating you.”
Jesse shook his head. “No. That’s not what—”
The General kicked him in the gut. “Shut up.”
Jesse coughed and choked, struggling for breath.
Chet tore off another strip of tape and wrapped it across Jesse’s lips. The taste of glue filled Jesse’s mouth and his nostrils flared as he fought to get enough air into his lungs.
“Talk like that makes me nervous,” the General continued. “I believe you and me, we got a few things to work out. Let’s start with what you got to lose. I hear you’re pretty sweet on that guitar of yours. Ain’t that what you said, Chet?”
“Yup,” Chet replied. “Why, I’m willing to bet he’d rather fiddled with that guitar than a hot slice of poontang pie. Told me his dream was to make it big down in Memphis.”
“Well, that’s gonna be hard to do with big holes in your hand.” The General nodded and Chet hit the switch on the drill; a high-pitched whine filled the bay. A half-smirk pushed at Chet’s cheek as he slowly lowered the drill, lowered it until the spinning bit just nipped Jesse’s skin.
Jesse grit his teeth, struggled not to yell.
Chet let the drill sink near a quarter inch into Jesse’s flesh.
“Fuck!” Jesse cried through the tape.
Chet laughed, pulled the drill bit back up, leaving a dot of blood on the top of Jesse’s hand.
“Didn’t tell you to stop,” the General said.
The humor left Chet’s face. He looked at the General confused. “But—”
“Do it.”
“What? You mean all the way?”
“Hell, yes, I mean all the way.”
Chet continued to stare at the General.
“You gone deaf? Press the fucking drill through his hand.”
“Thought we was just aiming to scare him.”
“He don’t look scared enough to me. Now, do it. I want to give him something to remember who he’s fucking with.”
Chet still didn’t move.
The General’s face twisted into something resembling a wadded-up dishrag; he stepped over and jabbed a thick finger into Chet’s chest. “You need to learn to do as you’re told, boy.” He shoved Chet aside, nearly knocking him off his feet. The General took hold of the drill and leaned over to Jesse. “Next time your tongue feels like wagging, you’ll want to remember this.” The General slowly lowered the drill into Jesse’s hand, driving it deep into Jesse’s flesh.
Searing pain shot up Jesse’s arm. His palm felt on fire. He screamed and choked on the tape, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes.
Chet and the men winced as the drill punched completely through. The General didn’t so much as blink, just nodded the way you would while enjoying a favorite song, letting the drill spin in place. Specks of tape, flesh, and blood spattered Jesse across the face and the stench of seared flesh filled his nose.
The General raised the drill and shut it off. The men let go of Jesse and he slumped against the drill stand, quivering.
The General removed his handkerchief and wiped a speck of blood off his cheek, then squatted next to Jesse. “You listen up, son, ’cause you’re only gonna get this one time. If I ever hear talk about you spilling the beans . . . there won’t be no more games. And if you ever cross me . . . in any way, I’ll put you and that pretty little girl of yours in a box together and bury the both of you alive. That’s a promise, Jesse. You just think about how that would be the next time you get a wild hair up your ass. You get me?”
Jesse nodded.
“We’re good then,” the General said and stood. He looked at Chet, looked him up and down, looking in no way pleased. “We’re all squared up with Jesse now, so let him be.” The men nodded and the General headed across the bay and up a set of open stairs draped in flickering Christmas lights. He entered a second-floor office, shutting the door behind him. The moment the General was out of sight, Chet flipped him the bird.
“Better watch that,” warned the lean, wiry man standing to Chet’s left. Lynyrd Boggs wore a sweat-stained cowboy hat with an eagle’s feather stuck in the band. His father was a big Lynyrd Skynyrd fan, so Lynyrd had the good fortune to have his name misspelled in tribute.
“Fuck,” Chet said. “That son’bitch needs to chill the fuck out. Just because things is shit, don’t mean he’s gotta treat us that way.”
“Pressure’s getting to him, that’s all. I remember not too long back when the General was about the only place you could get your fix around here. Now every tweek-head is brewing their own shit right in their own damn basements. General’s losing ground and in case you ain’t noticed, he ain’t taking it real well.”
“And I don’t care none for this talk of hurting children neither. Ain’t the way we do things around here. Not at all.”
“Rules is changing. These meth heads, they ain’t got no respect for the old ways.”
“Goddamn tweekers,” Chet spat. “Goddamn meth. Fucking ruining everything.”
“Well, that ain’t all. I hear we got some competition.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Been some Charleston boys down here dealing.”
“In Goodhope? You got to be kidding?”
“Wish I was. Overheard the General talking to Dillard. Apparently Dillard caught a few of ’em.”
“Dillard? No shit. Bet that didn’t go so well for ’em.”
“You’d be right on that.”
“Think they ended up in the deep end of Ned’s catfish farm?”
Lynyrd shrugged. “Let’s just say you won’t find me eating anything caught out of that pond.”
“Fuck, that Dillard’s a scary son’bitch.”
Jesse ripped the duct tape from his mouth and let out a gasp. He tugged and tore at the wad around his arm, working to free his hand.
Chet walked over. “Bit of advice, Jesse. Just you let Dillard be. You might think you got a handle on that motherfucker, but you got no idea what he’s capable of.”