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Three men approached while seven hung back. Right away, I could see the weird looking motherfucker with the handlebar mustache and ginger sideburns was some kind of leader of the group. Despite being a good head shorter than the others, and with a voice usually saved for jockeys, he exuded crazy like it was pheromones.
“Whataya doing here, Bull?” he whined, squinting his eyes against the midday sun as he looked up at our prez.
“I want to talk to Snake,” Bull said, straight to the point.
“And what business you got with our mayor?”
Just as we all were, the Swampers were governed by federal law and local law enforcement, but that didn’t stop them creating a sovereign government within their community. They were led by a slimy guy appropriately named Snake.
“That’s for me to discuss with Snake,” Bull said.
Ginger Fuzz and Bull stared off for a moment before the little man spat a wad of wet tobacco out of his foul mouth. “Guess I better take you to him.”
“You guessed right,” Bull replied.
Ginger Fuzz and his associates led the way as we headed into the swamp and crossed a rickety wooden bridge toward a house buried deep in the water oaks and Spanish moss.
“Man, this is real The Hills Have Eyes shit,” Maverick muttered, all six-foot-six of him looking squeamish.
“It smells like decomposing bodies ’round here,” Vader said. “Do they bury their dead above ground in this part of town?”
“Bury? Once a Swamper dies, they’re gator food,” Ruger replied.
“Pet food.” Maverick grinned. “Just another way of keeping it in the family.”
Despite smiling at the conversation, Bull said, “Keep your focus, boys. Not to mention your eyes on the greenery. You can’t be too sure what’s lurking in them.”
The wooden bridge gave way to a mud path leading up to the house. It was an eerie place. Despite be open and seemingly harmless from the outside, there was a heavy sense evil in the air. And weirdness.
Not to mention decomposition of some kind.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Michael Western and his band of merry men,” came a voice from a hammock hanging between two water oaks.
We all turned to see Snake lying casually in the afternoon sun. He had sunglasses on and was wearing dirty jeans and a T-shirt with a near-naked woman on the front.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the hammock, slowly rising to his bare feet. “So what do I owe the pleasure of the mighty Michael Western darkening my doorstep?” He chewed a toothpick with his rotted teeth.
Bull held out his hands. “You don’t pick up your phone, you don’t call, how else am I going to know how my crazy Swamper friend is doing?”
Snake removed the toothpick from between his lips. “Friend? I don’t think so. We stopped being friends the day you came in here and blew holes in my family.”
“They shot first.”
“You killed my cousins.”
“You brought drugs into my town and wouldn’t listen to reason. You forced my hand. Their blood is on yours.”
Snake’s jaw ticked. He removed his sunglasses. “What do you want?”
“I want to know where Laurent de Havilland is hiding out.”
Snake’s eyes shifted to a pocket of trees to the side of the house then back to Bull. It was so quick I wasn’t sure anyone noticed. But I did. And there, just through the leaves, I could make out a flash of bright red paint.
My wife is dead and her red Mustang is missing.
“Name isn’t familiar,” Snake said.
“Cut the shit, Snake. We know he’s on your payroll. So stop wasting our fucking time. Where the fuck is Laurent de Havilland.”
“And why would you be looking for him?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Vander Quinn.”
“Name’s not familiar.”
“Just like Laurent de Havilland wasn’t familiar, huh?” Maverick said.
“If you’re not familiar with Vander Quinn, why is her car parked through those trees?” I asked, stepping forward.
Brandishing a shotgun, one of Snake’s buddies stepped between us, the stony look on his face telling me he didn’t have a problem blowing a hole in any of us.
“I think it’s time you boys leave,” Snake said, replacing his toothpick between his teeth and walking back to his hammock. “And next time you think about wandering into these parts again… do yourself a favor and don’t.”
On the ride back to Destiny, we stopped at a roadhouse a few miles before the state line. After ordering, we sat at a counter by the window. Just as our food was ready, I noticed a woman make her way through the crowd of diners toward us. She was tall and beautiful and all kinds of sin wrapped up in a tight body. Long blonde hair flowed like satin down her back. She wore a tiny pair of denim cutoffs with cowboy boots and a top that did little to hide her ample rack. As she walked through the roadhouse, she had the attention of every man in the room and knew it.
