Dub-Town Blues by Chris Miller & Lori Michelle

Author:Chris Miller & Lori Michelle [Miller, Chris & Michelle, Lori]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chris Miller
Published: 2023-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

12

Reggie Fuller was smoking a cigarette when Lee and Robbie entered the room. He didn’t make much of their entrance. Just looked at them in turn, deadpan, and took a long drag, blowing coils of blue smoke into the room.

“I can see you’re comfortable, Mr. Fuller,” Robbie said as she took a seat and Lee stood to the side of the table, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Coffee? Soda? Water?”

Reggie waved off the offer.

“Okay,” Robbie said after placing a couple files on the table. She leaned forward, clasping her hands. “Mr. Fuller, I—”

“Fuck all that mister shit,” he said. “I’m Reggie.”

“Reggie, then,” Robbie corrected and smiled. “I need to know about your relationship with Eric Collins, aka Rooster. Our . . . friend, Mr. Barker, has made some claims—”

“Silas Barker is a lying sack of white shit,” Reggie interjected. “That motherfucker tell you the sky is blue, you best to question it.”

Robbie chuckled. “All right, how about this: You tell us about you and Collins, we’ll just listen.”

Reggie’s eyes seemed to narrow slightly, then glanced over at Lee. They were only on him for a second, but Lee felt something tickle at his spine, and he had a hard time concealing it.

When he looked back at Robbie, he took a long, final drag on his smoke, mashed it out in the ashtray, and leaned back in the chair blowing the smoke out. There was a thin atmosphere of only God and Big Tobacco knew what hanging near the ceiling.

“Rooster fuckin’ Collins,” Reggie began and did a little laugh. “Talk about a man whose greatest talent was pissing off everybody he ever come in contact with. Asshole, lazy, drunk, junkie, thief, and all-around motherfucker. Least, that’s my opinion.”

He paused with a sly grin on his face, something sinister in his eyes.

“Y’all think you gonna find the Dub-Town Killer, don’t ya? Shit, best of luck to ya, but it ain’t me. Y’all seen my sheet, you know I been picked up for dealin’. That’s how I met Rooster in the first place. Man needed work, he said, but one look and you could tell he was strung out. I put him to work anyway, but not with no dope. Weed, that was it at first. Figure if the motherfucker gonna steal something from me, may as well be something easy to come by. But he ain’t steal no weed from me. Either that or he managed to come up with my end of the money somehow. I don’t know and don’t really give a shit. Few months went by—this was back in ’89, ‘fo you cocksuckers busted me up—he seemed to be gettin’ some meat back on his bones. The other boys said he had this sort of cycle he’d go through where he’d get all strung out and broke, then he’d get some work, clean up for a bit, and so on.

“And that’s what he done with me. Seemed like he got his head screwed back on about as straight as you could hope for with a fuckup like him.

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