The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [66]
“They were carrying equipment into the trailer,” Mom said to me, almost in a whisper. “Grow lights and spray bottles and hoses and bags and bags of marijuana and—” She paused. “You know what I mean, grow lights?”
I nodded, closed my eyes for the pain again. Grow lights. Pot.
Weed. This was about weed?
Goods, of course. They were growing stuff out here. But where was here?
And now here came the doctor himself, Cleve Ravenel up out of the dark, his white hair orange in the light. He had on camos like every other time I’d ever seen him, and he was carrying another box, him breathing heavy. He set it in the bed, pushed it back to the others.
“The doctor of kind bud,” Yandle said. “If it hadn’t been for that little bastard over there falling down on top of me,” Yandle said, and nodded at me, looked back at Ravenel, “I’d be a little more service to you this evening, Cleve Ravenel, DKB. Doctor of Kind Bud.” Yandle slowly rubbed his shoulder, the neck of the bottle held between his thumb and first finger. “But life takes its turns, don’t it, DKB?” He laughed.
Ravenel shook his head. “Why the hell I have to deal with you is beyond my comprehension,” he said, and wiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
He looked over at Unc. “I’m sorry about all this, Leland,” he said. “This taking you hostage and all. I’ll make good for you. I will.”
Unc said nothing, didn’t move.
“You got to deal with me,” Yandle went on, too loud, his eyes on Ravenel, “because I’m the only one knows who the hell to distribute to out thisaway, and who knows how to keep anybody wanting in from getting in out thisaway.” There was an edge to his voice now, something like what he’d used wanting to take charge of everything at the crime scene. “You fucking pasty-face doctor types living South of Broad wouldn’t know how to sell a kilo if a College of Charleston undergrad walked up and waved a thousand-dollar bill in your face. Only kind of work you’re comfortable with is putting on your candy-ass latex gloves and giving a finger up the ass of some ninth-generation Pinckney.” He stopped, tipped back the bottle, took a swipe at his mouth with his sleeve again. “Truth is, I’d rather be out here and take billy-club hits at trailer trash any day. Any day, you fat motherfucker.”
Ravenel stood there, hands on his hips, his eyes on Yandle, staring hard at him. He tilted his head to one side the smallest bit.
I glanced at Unc. He hadn’t moved, eyes still swollen shut, those black streaks of blood like some kind of tattoo down his face.
Mom was sitting next to me now, and put her arms around me, held me to her like I was six. But it felt good with what seemed about to turn into something past the ugly it already was, all of it out of our hands not fifteen feet away.
“And so now we have three hostages who know precisely what the hell has gone on here on their own property,” Ravenel said. “Three hostages, and not a clue in the entire animal world what we’re supposed to do with them, because you and your gap-toothed little minions get it into your heads you’re going to go over and frame Leland Dillard, just in case your SLED pals figure out our little enterprise here.” He shook his head. “And then the woman shows up, and your boys decide to play take-the-hostage.”
“How was they supposed to figure she’d show up?” Yandle said, and put his hand with the bottle to the bed, steadying himself, or holding himself back, I couldn’t tell which. “How’s they to figure she’d pop up and screw everything to pieces? SLED’s showing up tomorrow morning, my man tells me, to go over every square inch of the whole club land, this backwater parcel even Leland Dillard forgets he owns. We ain’t got enough time to liquidate and tear it all down, I figure, so why not go ahead and plant evidence at Leland’s? Where’s the harm in hammering a couple more kilos