In the back corner, beneath other signs for Ice Cold Jax Stout and Cobbs Creek Blended Whiskey, three men huddled over brown bottles.
“I am so sick of this shit,” said Johnson.
“Me too,” said Cabbage.
“How does he get away with it?” asked Mozelle.
“How? What color is his skin?” said Johnson. “I lost two weeks’ pay.”
“Then you had it good,” said Cabbage. “I was the fool who worked a third week after he kept puttin’ me off.”
“Somebody needs to do something about that asshole!”
“And end up like Jacob? You weren’t there.”
“I also heard he got run out of the Dominican for pulling a bunch of the same bullshit.”
“They say he doesn’t trust the banks or anyone since,” said Mozelle. “Keeps everything in gold, who knows where?”
“That’s just a crazy rumor,” said Johnson.
“Is it? I know a guy who saw him at the bank—”
“I thought he didn’t trust banks.”
“Not to deposit,” said Mozelle. “To change his cash into twenty-dollar gold pieces. Had a big-ass sack of ’em.”
Johnson lit a Lucky Strike, and they got another round of Blatz. They sat looking at each other.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Cabbage.
“I’m in,” said Mozelle.
“No time like now,” said Johnson.
They quickly finished their beer and headed out into the wee hours . . .
After brief trips home, they crept through the night with Colt revolvers and a crowbar, across tomato and strawberry fields. Then they entered rows of tall stalks yielding in the whipping wind.
“You heard about this storm that’s supposed to come?” asked Cabbage.
“We always get storms,” said Johnson.
“But what about that hurricane two years ago?”
“Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Like that’s going to happen again so soon.”
A gust came through, knocking them off-balance.
“I don’t know,” said Mozelle. “I heard the Seminoles already came through before sunset for higher ground. They tend to be right.”
“They tend to be Indians,” said Johnson. “We going to do this or not?”
They finally crouched on the edge of the cane field. Ahead, one of the nicest homes for miles. Columns and a second-floor wraparound veranda. Johnson took off running, and the rest followed until they were crouched again by a side door. They all reached in their back pockets and pulled out canvas flour bags with holes cut in strategic spots. They pulled them over their heads.
Johnson stuck the crowbar in the frame and cracked the door open. They charged inside and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Fakakta was snoring.
“Where’s his wife?”
“This other bedroom,” said Johnson, quietly closing another door in the hall.
Mozelle stuck his gun to the baron’s head and shook his shoulder. A whisper: “Wake up.”
Fakakta finally roused, then sat up quickly. “What do you want?”
“Gold.”
Then it all went south in an urgent hurry.
“I recognize your shirt from the fields,” said Fakakta. “Blue stripes. What was your name? Mozelle something?”
“Fuck!” He yanked off his flower bag. “Where’s the gold?”
“Mozelle, put your bag back on,” said Cabbage.
“Why? If he wasn’t sure about my name already, you just repeated it!” He swung his gun back to Fulgencio and pressed it between his eyes. “The gold!”
“What gold?” said the baron. “Go ahead and shoot. You’re all dead men anyway.”
Mozelle cocked the hammer. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously. You think you can just steal from everyone around here and get away with it? Not to mention lynching Jacob. You may not have known, but he was my cousin.”
A loud crackle outside as lightning laced the sky. The wind was now up to a roar, whistling through the clapboards and eaves. The shutters began coming loose, banging with a violent rhythm against the side of the house. Other stuff in the yard became airborne and crashed into things. Then another crash, but this one was different. It was inside. The trio saw glass and water explode on the wall over the headboard. Mozelle spun with his pistol.
Bang.
A thud in the doorway.
“Jesus!” yelled Cabbage. “You just shot his wife!”
“She threw a vase at me!”
“We’ve got more trouble.”
They heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Fulgencio’s adult son and chief enforcer, Pablo. With a rifle.
Johnson dashed to the door and fired his Colt, easily picking Pablo off before he reached the landing. The body slumped and tumbled backward down the stairs.
Cabbage grabbed his own head with both hands. “Shit! This was a bad idea! We never should have come!”
“We’re way past that now.” Johnson smacked the side of Fakakta’s head with his pistol. Blood spattered. He smacked him again the other way, then a third time.
“Damn!” said Mozelle. “Aren’t you going to ask him any questions?”
Another crack to the skull. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”
He raised the gun again, and Fakakta raised his hands. “Okay, enough. I’ll take you to the gold.”
Everyone marched out the back door and leaned forward in a driving rain. Fakakta led them out behind a falling-down old barn that came with the property. He placed his back against the wall, then counted out twenty measured paces. He stopped and pointed down.
Johnson shoved him out of the way and fell to his knees. “Keep him covered.” His hands clawed at the dirt. About a foot down, his fingers found netting. He grabbed it and stood, pulling hard. Earth flew. They all froze. An open pit with crate after wooden crate stacked to an unknown depth. Johnson opened the first box. Gasps.
“Look at all that money!”
Then they were all on their knees, running their fingers through the coins. “How much do you think is here? . . .”
Fakakta knew the effect gold had on people. He’d been waiting for his chance. He slowly inched backward, then all at once took off for the house.
“He’s running!”
Johnson stood and didn’t hurry his shot. Careful aim.
Bang.
Fakakta fell forward into the mud.
“He’s crawling,” said Cabbage. “He’s not dead.”
Mozelle calmly crossed the thirty or so yards, until he had walked around in front of the slithering Fulgencio.
The sugar baron raised his face to see the barrel of a gun.
Mozelle cocked it again. “This is for Jacob.”
Bang.
“We’re definitely going to have to leave the state,” said Cabbage. “I got some relatives in Natchez.”
“First things first.” Johnson grabbed the initial crate and heaved. “Let’s get all this out of the ground.”
The wind and rain became a brutal impediment, but they were motivated. Soon, crates were spread everywhere.
“He just left all this in a hole?” said Mozelle.
“It ain’t going to spoil,” said Johnson. “Gold doesn’t even tarnish. We need to go back and get your brother’s pickup truck. And it’ll take more than one trip.”