He answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, nigger. I told you blood for blood. Or a little runt for a slut. Here’s how it’s gonna go—”
“I want to talk to the man in charge,” Ike said. Grayson almost guffawed.
“You making demands on me, Sambo? I am the man in charge, boy,” Grayson said.
“No, you just the messenger. Gerald Culpepper is the man in charge, and I want to talk to him,” Ike said. Grayson squeezed the phone. Gerald and his stupid ass. He should’ve never talked to his wife’s ex-husband, but he wanted to play Bond villain and rub salt in the wound. He got off on that shit.
“You deal with me. I’m the big dick in this deal and you about to get fucked unless you do exactly what I tell you. Or do you want me to start sending you pieces of that little half-breed?” Grayson asked.
“You do that and I’ll start sending you pieces of Gatsby Culpepper,” Ike said. Grayson had been slouching in his president’s chair. Now he sat up ramrod straight.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Grayson asked. Ike didn’t respond. Instead Grayson heard someone moaning in the background. Not a fun, good-time, ball-juggling moan, either. This was an agonized sound.
“Gerald, is that you, son?” Gatsby said.
“What the fuck?” Grayson asked. Ike came back on the line.
“Now I’m gonna tell you how it’s gonna go. You call Gerald and tell him we got his daddy. Then you call us back and we’ll tell you where we gonna meet. We’ll bring Old Man Culpepper and you bring Arianna.”
“That’s not the fucking deal, you—”
“You gonna need to start watching your mouth or I’m gonna pull one of Papa Gatsby’s teeth out and make a ring out of it. Oh, and hear me when I tell you this, son: don’t even think about riding back out to Red Hill. If I even hear a motorcycle on television, I might get nervous. I get nervous, I’ll put two in Old Man Culpepper’s head before you can say Smith and Wesson. I told you I don’t sell no wolf tickets,” Ike said.
The line went dead.
Grayson pulled the phone away from his face and stared at it. He wanted to toss it across the room. Stomp on it until he heard the satisfying crunch of plastic under his boot. He sat it on the table. It wasn’t a phone anymore. It was the physical manifestation of this whole godforsaken shitstorm. The neat black rectangle was a window into the parallel universe he now inhabited. A place where two old ex-cons kept outflanking him at every turn.
Grayson got up and grabbed a toolbox off a shelf in the back of the garage. He rummaged around until he found a short stubby carpenter’s pencil. He pulled a receipt out of his pocket from Hardee’s. He went back to the table and jotted down Ike’s number. He folded the receipt and put it back in his pocket. He grabbed the phone and walked outside. A few of his brothers were milling around in the yard. A few were leaning against their rides with some bunnies on their laps. Grayson put the phone on the ground. He took a step, pulled his .357 from the small of his back, and pumped all six bullets into the phone. He roared as he pulled the trigger until the gun went click.
Then he went back inside and called Gerald.
* * *
Ike poured some moonshine into his coffee.
He could hear Buddy Lee pestering Gatsby with questions. The old man’s mouth was re-taped so he couldn’t answer any of Buddy Lee’s queries.
“You remember when Derek graduated from college and none of y’all showed up? He told me about that. I was in jail, so I had an excuse, but you? You was retired. I mean, I know he was your step-grandson, but damn, you couldn’t skip a tee time to see him walk that aisle? I gotta tell you, Gatsby. That’s pretty unchivalrous for a southern gentleman,” Buddy Lee said. Gatsby mumbled. Ike figured it was a combination of all the curse words in his repertoire.
Ike’s phone rang.
Ike touched the screen and held it up to his ear.
“Listen to me, you goddamn savage: my father has nothing to do with what’s going on. You let him go, and I mean right goddamn now, and maybe, just maybe I won’t have Grayson slit that mongrel’s throat,” Gerald said.
“I’m getting sick of telling you boys about your mouth,” Ike said. He snapped his fingers. Buddy Lee grabbed Gatsby and pulled him into a sitting position. Ike came into the living room.
“Don’t you worry about my mouth. Worry about that little girl,” Gerald said.
“Hey, son? You hurt one hair on her head and I’ll make sure your daddy dies screaming,” Ike said.