Kill 'Em With Kindness Read online

  “Asshole!” He cracked a smile, “Where were you last night?”

  “Nate’s, where do you think?”

  “You forget I was coming by last night?”

  Nick stepped aside and let Hobo in. “It’s Saturday. You always come on Saturday.”

  “I told you last week I had to come by on Friday. My wife’s fucking sister’s thing? Said I’d come by on Friday. I left you a voice mail.”

  “Huh. I never check that thing.”

  Hobo sighed. “Can I just have it? Please?”

  “All right, all right, all business,” Nick said.

  “I had a guy set to take it last night. He doesn’t like to wait.”

  “All right. Calm down. You’re here. I got it.” Nick cocked his head toward the kitchen. “C’mon.”

  Hobo looked down the dark hall as he passed, glancing over the photo frames littering the carpet. “Your pictures are all fucked,” he said.

  Nick led Hobo through the kitchen and down to the basement, a cluttered mess of Grete’s old clothes and all kinds of baby shower gifts: boxes and bags and gift baskets, still wrapped in paper and seven years of dust. Nick had tossed it all down the stairs at a time when he’d desperately needed it gone. Hobo had long stopped asking if he was ever going to clean it up.

  The men waded through the plush and plastic mire to a door at the base of the staircase and passed through into an unfinished yet pristine concrete shell of a room, warmer than the upstairs. In the corner a humidifier rumbled low. Combined with the heat it was like entering a swamp. Nick took a seat at a long workbench and began working the dial of a combo lock securing the large red safe. Hobo eyed the only other door in the room, dark varnished teak wood secured with three dead bolts that led into an unpainted five-by-five-foot drywall closet.

  “Can I have a look?” Hobo said. “You mind?”

  Nick glanced up, nodded to the silver key hanging on the wall adjacent, went back to the combination lock. “Knock yourself out.”

  Hobo opened the door and the light inside the closet was warm and white. “Oh, look at these beauties,” Hobo said.

  Nick smiled despite himself. He loved plants. All plants. “Should be ready to cut and dry next week.”

  Hobo silently admired the cannabis, sixteen plants on a series of shelves that lined the closet’s interior. Each shelf held pots with varying stages of growth. The tallest plants on the floor, buds nearly ready to cut and dry. Younger plants sat on the shelf above. On top were the smallest, maturing sprouts. Hobo pulled one from the top shelf and admired it before gazing at the rest with the same look of lust. “Forget about thumbs; you’re green to the shoulder.”

  Nick pulled three one-pound bricks of marijuana from the safe’s guts, each brick wrapped in heavy, industrial cellophane, the same kind he’d wrapped the Chancellor’s car in after being expelled from State.

  “Who says a college education isn’t valuable?” Nick said. “Now close the door, huh? You’re fucking with the light.”

  Hobo reached high and placed the small plant back on the top shelf. Nick cringed as he envisioned Hobo dropping the pot to the concrete. Then he saw Hobo’s belt line as his jacket raised with his arms, saw the pistol tucked there.

  “Since when do you carry a piece?”

  Hobo turned, looked confused a few seconds. “Oh, yeah. Lately. Open carry. Easiest way to break the law. And you know, safety? Never really know what people might be carrying.”

  “Aren’t your customers like eleven years old?” Nick said. It was an old joke. Back in college Hobo had nearly gotten busted dealing at a middle school near campus. He was there to sell to one of the teachers on the guy’s lunch break, but campus security came around and chased him off, literally. He nearly got caught, but hopped the chain link fence surrounding the campus and found a slow-moving freight train just beyond the school property. But the thing picked up speed and Hobo was nearly to Chicago before the train slowed enough to hop off, find a phone, and call Nick to get him. The story even made the local paper, no names, but it got around campus and pretty soon Jonathan Prince was known only as Hobo.

  Nick didn’t get such a close call when the campus police kicked in his door six months later. No nickname either.

  “Who’s your new guy?” Nick asked, almost as an afterthought.

  “Huh?”

  “Whoever wants the pound? The reason you’re knocking on my door at seven o’clock in the morning.”

  Hobo stalled, but finally said, “Chad Toll.”

  “Give it back.” Nick reached for the cellophane packages. “I’m serious.”

  “You can’t make me do that.”

  “Can’t I? I saw his girl at Nate’s last night and she had her head kicked in pretty fucking good. Jesus, man! Chad Toll?”

  Hobo sat there, looking shamed but complacently so, defeated but alive. He shrugged.

  Nick stood. He wanted to throttle Hobo. Nick had managed to do okay with the business. A few thousand a month, just to survive, not draw attention. Hobo then broke up the bulk and turned it into whatever he turned it into. Nick didn’t usually ask questions, but in this case he was glad he did. Or maybe not. Now Hobo was in with Chad Toll, so whatever he was making, it would never be enough.

  “You’ve got no fucking sense. ‘Under the radar’ was rule number one from day one.”

  Hobo didn’t speak. Instead he tossed a wad of bills to Nick, who grabbed it from the air, technically completing the deal. Nick looked at the money, then at Hobo. What was he going to do? Leave the guy dry? Even if he didn’t feel some loyalty to the dummy, holding out meant that Chad and his crew would come sniffing around.

  “You shouldn’t have done it,” Nick said.

  “He came to me, Nick. And when you’re in with him you’re in with him. Or you’re out, permanent. He made that very clear. So there you go.”

  “How long you been dealing with him?”

  Hobo looked away. “Six months.”

  Nick shook his head. “Unbelievable. What else you keeping from me?”

  “He wants to double his order.”

  “Oh, this just keeps getting better.”

  “And he wants to meet you.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  Nick watched out the kitchen window as his friend left. The sun was high and bright and ice melt from last night’s frozen rain fell from the roof like a second shower, exclusively over Nick.

  Hobo gave him a wave through the water and glass. They’d been together a long time, a serendipitous meeting due to nothing other than a random roommate assignment. Never friends, just each with a skill set: Nick knew the plants and Hobo had a network of customers. From the very beginning it was little more than a professional partnership. When Nick was kicked out of school they kept going, Nick growing out of his parents’ basement and then his own apartment. The business took off with Nick’s newfound free time. Nick continued studying horticulture at the community college and the business grew with the addition of his own new contacts. Then the golf course came calling. And Grete. Then the law. And darkness. The garage. More darkness.

  And what had been a tolerable stagnation of body and soul was about to become something new. It was easy to think that with a little luck, the something new would work out and everything would be okay. Easy to think if you were a fucking moron.

  THREE

  NICK SAT ALONE on his end bar stool, sipping a Killian’s and smoking. The TV was on. This year’s state championship featuring the Horton Hawks had finished the same way as last year, with an out-of-sync Horton destroyed by the defending champs from Ypsilanti. They shouldn’t have been there, the Hawks. Their schedule was weak, they were nothing more than the cherry on top of the crap sundae. But they showed up and the only bright spot on the team, quarterback Tre Brickle, had been taken out by a brutal helmet strike to the knee. The kid rolled on the field, crying and writhing in agony to the sound of cheering Ypsi fans. As soon as he was off the field the game was on with number two QB, hot-shit sophomore Grady Jenkins. The boy managed to keep his joints intact, but he was swallowed by the dominant Ypsi defensive line over and over. And the screen at Nate’s showed it all, showed the new number one lose his lust for the game. A single game it took to beat it out of him. You could see it in his eyes with every shot he took downfield, with every yard lost to his inefficient scramble from the shadows of boys who were more dangerous than most men.

  The city limits sign on the forty-five east of Zeeland boasted last year’s team as District Regional Champs. Runner-up State Champs. Those signs were intended to inspire community pride, but in Horton’s case, it was nothing but a sore reminder to those men commuting back into town from their jobs at the clock or furniture factories near the lake. And of course, any informed outsider could snicker, because even they knew the real winner of that game was the Hawks coaching staff and various boosters who’d taken bets.

  But no one was asking. And when the door opened at five o’clock and Chad Toll walked in with his dogs and his boys, Nick knew that some very slippery questions was about to be asked of him. And when Chad stopped behind him and grabbed him by the shoulder—not friendly, not aggressive—Nick was sure of it.

  “Want to see the conference room?” Chad said. Nick followed the man and the dogs to the basement while Russell and Erik hung back and played pool.

  The conference room was low ceilinged and carpeted in thick black and orange shag from the last decorator forty years ago. Chad had a seat at the poker table and pointed for Nick to sit across from him. A stained glass lamp hung from a chain over the center of the table, throwing a warm yellow glow and a mix of red, blue and green stains onto the white ceiling.

  “You showed up on my radar twice in one night.”

  “Sorry?” Nick
said.

  Chad shook his head and gave a sad smile. “Don’t. Don’t be a dipshit. I’ve got enough dipshits. I know what I need to know about you. All but your reasons. You drove Kimmy home,” Chad said. “Why? You fuck her?”

  Nick shifted, hoped it looked like he was seeking comfort, not words. “No. No. She wasn’t in shape to drive. And I didn’t want to see her get taken in for beating on that girl.”

  Chad nodded as if he understood, but he narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you care?”

  Nick shrugged. “I should have let her be, maybe. Or not. I don’t like to get involved. Usually.”

  “But you did. Twice. We have a mutual friend?”

  “Yeah. Business partner. But look. I mean it, I took her home and dropped her off, yeah, that’s it. And I didn’t know Hobo was working with you until this morning. He never told me.”

  Chad said nothing, just searched Nick’s eyes for deception. Despite his desire to remain calm, Nick’s shifting took on a weasel’s squirm.

  “She was upset,” Nick continued, grasping. “I didn’t want to see her locked up. That other girl okay?”

  Chad shrugged, scratched the head of his right-hand dog. “No need to worry about that.” Satisfied with whatever he found in Nick’s gaze, Chad grabbed a loose cigarette from the poker table, lit it, blew a long stream of smoke into the twirling ceiling fan. Nick watched the smoke diffuse into a thin cloud that vanished except for the lingering smell.

  “You believe in fate?”

  Nick shook his head, confused then annoyed. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  Chad eyed him and Nick again felt the need to speak. “You? Believe in it?”

  “You bet. And the more I hear out of your mouth the more I believe in it.” Chad tipped back what was left of the bottle from the previous evening. “Nate told me you were a farm boy.”

  “I guess,” Nick said. “One of Pop’s entrepreneurial pursuits. Raised pigs for about a year. Tried breeding horses. Didn’t pan out.”

  “He drink?”

  Nick nodded.

  “He beat on you?”

  Nick shifted in his seat. “When I deserved it.”

  Chad laughed. “I always deserved it.” He took another long drag and blew the smoke, shaking his head, dismissing a memory, and letting the fan clear it away. He crushed out the butt in the full ashtray in front of him. “You know anything about cows?”

  “A little. Took some AG classes at State.”

  “College boy.”

  “A year. Then a couple semesters at Ottawa Community.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  Nick shifted forward, just barely. “That’s my business.”

  Chad grinned. “Yep. There it is.” His smile fell. “You’re your own man. I can respect that. I am too. You don’t have to tell anything. Here’s what I know: You were kicked out for dealing marijuana in your dorm. Lost your job at the golf course for the same reason. Don’t you learn? Ha. Is that what set your wife off? Financial strain? I mean, a lot of folks got money problems, so maybe that was just the final push. And being so close to the edge.”

  The dogs knew how to read the slightest threat against their master. Chad smiled again as Nick glared and the two-hundred-fifty-pound beasts at his side rumbled.

  “Don’t be mad, Nick. Lots of folks got problems. Not like yours maybe. But their own. And whatever they are, to those people, they’re the most important problems in the world.

  “But I can help you, Nick. That’s why I’m asking about you. I don’t like to see a useful man go to waste. You like jerky?”

  Nick minded the eyes of the dogs, nodded, “Sure.”

  Chad reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag of beef jerky. He tossed it across the table.

  “My dogs love it,” Chad said, scratching both of their heads. He looked Nick in the eye. “Feed them,” said Chad. “Hand to mouth.”

  “It was a ride. That’s it.” He was stalling, he knew damn well what had happened: Chad didn’t get his package and talked to Hobo. Hobo probably sitting in the same chair Nick was sitting in now. Nick had known Hobo a long time. His kind of criminals were pothead middle school teachers and gas station employees and college kids. Hobo had a kid, a wife. He’d give up everything with barely a squeeze.

  Chad was becoming impatient. “Don’t worry about that. I know people, many people, two of which are these dogs that will tear your ass up if I say so. Nothing recognizable left if you’re stupid enough to be thinking about it. Now feed these dogs.”

  Nick saw little choice but to feed the beasts the jerky.

  “Go get it,” Chad said. The dogs moved quickly and stood in front of Nick. They took the meat from his hand, both growling on verge of bite until Nick withdrew his mitt. Chad smiled. “They only bite people who need to be bit.”

  “Nice to know,” Nick said.

  “Who needs to be bit is who I say.”

  Nick nodded. Part of the program. For now.

  “You’re the grower. Small time or I would have heard of you before now.”

  “I get by. It’s just me, but you know all that.”

  Chad nodded, his good ol’ boy smile returned. “Look, Nick, here’s what’s happening. I’m going to sell your weed for you. Maybe. There’s a couple things have to happen first. You do right and I can protect your enterprise. Make it more profitable. Better than ‘getting by.’”

  Nick looked at the dogs, placated for the moment by food and calm. Nick tossed two more strips of jerky on the floor.

  “Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”

  Chad smirked. “There’s always a choice, Nick. Don’t fool yourself. You got a choice. You always got one.” Chad stood from his chair. “You make your choice by morning. I hate to rush a man through his chance to choose. So go. Use your time. I got churches to burn.”

  The expression was new to him, but he’d been let go and Nick didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, backed halfway to the door. The dogs stood alert, rumbling just barely as Nick turned away and moved past the Kiss pinball machine and small private bar and the freedom of the door and stairwell. Nick took one last look back to see the dogs returning to their master.

  When Nick stepped back into the bar it was shut down tight, dark. Erik and Russell were still at the table but they put their cues down and made for the basement when they saw Chad had released Nick.

  The Horton PD squad car was there in the parking lot waiting for him, engine running, red brake lights lighting up the exhaust like blood. Chief stepped out. A big fucker. Nick remembered him from one other run-in. A speeding citation that included a chat about his record. “I like to know what’s what,” he’d said before taking a twenty off Nick and letting him go with a warning.

  “What’s this?” Nick asked.

  “Nick, are you going to make me go through the entire speech of what and why? Or are you going to get in this car? You can save us time by letting me tell the story on the way.” Chief rubbed his thumb and forefinger on the end of his sheathed baton. Turning and pinching it like a whore’s nipple. Nick felt as if he were being given another choice.

  “Just tell me what for. And I’ll come along.”

  Chief spat on the ground. “What it’s about ain’t worth a sack of sand here, Nick. But if you need to know, right now it’s about not getting your head caved in.”

  Nick looked over his shoulder. He felt the opposite of being watched, felt he was actively avoided, as if no one wanted the burden of bearing witness. If Horton had a single strength, it was looking the other way.

  Chief opened the door of the cruiser. “So come on now. Let’s go. You can ride in back.”

  FOUR

  NICK SAT WITH both hands cuffed to the chair. Chief sat across from him, the surface of his desk lost beneath a mound of paperwork. Chief put a small digital recorder on top of a stack of manila folders.

  “Time you drop Kimmy Flynn off?”

  Nick shrugged as he gathered his thoughts. “One maybe?”

  “Maybe?”

  “I think it was one o’clock. Nate’s was still open.”