Fortune's Fool by Greg Kithe

Author:Greg Kithe [Kithe, Greg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-12-30T16:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Seven

WITH LESS THAN A mile to go before the turnoff for the Antebellum, McCabe saw blue lights in the rearview, heard the siren. A cop car approaching fast.

“Shit,” he heard Tracksuit Woman say.

He stole a glance at her odometer. The digital display read forty-nine. “What’s the speed limit?”

“Fifty. But it doesn’t matter. This is not about speeding.” She hit her hazard lights and slowed. She turned into the gravel drive fronting a long-closed, long-abandoned gas station from back in the days of mom-and-pop full-service gas stations. She put the Hummer in park, but left the hazards on.

“What’s it about?” he asked.

“Some old bullshit.”

“I’ve got a problem,” McCabe said. “We’ve got a problem.”

“So, there is a body you need to bury?”

“No, but I’ve got a gun. On me.”

“So do I,” she said. “.357. Not on me, but in the glove box. This is Mississippi. Everybody’s got a gun.”

“Is yours registered?”

“Of course.”

“Mine’s not.”

“Is it stolen?”

“Let’s say it is. Technically. Might also have the serial number filed off.”

“But the shovel and the machete are for gardening and not getting rid of a body?”

“Let’s focus on the immediate issue. If he makes me get out of the car, if he searches me, I’m fucked. And you’re probably headed for jail, too.”

She gave him a sour look. “Not happy with you right now.”

Tracksuit Woman — Margie — looked in the rearview. McCabe looked in the side mirror. The cop was getting out of his cruiser. White. Medium build. A little under six feet tall. Marine-cut flattop with the sides shaved. Mirrored aviators. A chaw of tobacco swelling one cheek. In the picture book of cliches, he was on the asshole cop page.

“You know him?” McCabe asked.

“Everybody around here knows him. Let me handle this,” she said. “Keep your mouth shut unless I tell you to speak.”

McCabe nodded.

“Hey HV,” she said. A pulse of green light rolled across the dashboard LED screen.

“Hello, goddess,” a polite, melodious voice answered from the console.

“Turn on exterior cameras,” she said. “Begin recording.”

“Recording.”

“What are you doing?” asked McCabe.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“I thought you meant once the cop got here.”

“Assume I meant from now on.” She glared at McCabe, shook her head. “Not happy with you at all.”

She pushed a button on her door rest and the window slid down silently. The cop stopped outside her window. He spit a stream of brown tobacco juice and worked his jaw to the side, repositioning the chaw. He leaned forward and put a hand on the door.

“Get your fucking hands off my ride, Virgil,” she said.

The cop did not remove his hand. “Turn off the ignition. Put the keys on the dashboard.”

“I’ll turn off the ignition,” she said. “But the key stays right where it is.”

The cop removed his aviators, folded them, and tucked them into his chest pocket. “Are you ignoring my command? Cunt.”

Margie smiled at him. “See that little dot just above my door, Virgil? That’s a camera. I know how your body camera tends to spontaneously turn

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