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Authors: Hunter Shea
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teens.”
“After the number you did on me on the boat, I could tell your daddy that he did a good job.”
Heat lightning flickered in the sky. There was no thunder, and thankfully, no rain. The lightning offered brief glimpses of their immediate area, and all was quiet, save for the droning of the frogs and buzzing of the mosquitoes.
Maddie sighed. “He died a year ago yesterday. He’d always wanted to see the Everglades. That’s why Liz and I came down here. We were kind of hoping he’d see it right along with us.”
That hurt. Rooster’s moment of rage had taken them from grief to running for their lives. He was about to apologize when she said, “You mind telling me why you have bags of guns and money and why those guys were trying to kill you? I’m not being nosy, but you just don’t seem the gun-running type.”
“And you know what the gun-running type looks like?”
“I watch a lot of movies and reality cop shows.”
He swatted a family of flies off his neck. “Long story short?”
She nodded.
“I wasn’t exactly running guns. These were for my collection. I’m a big Shooter Jennings fan. You know, the country singer? Waylon’s son?”
“I’ve heard of him. Who’s Waylon?”
Rooster was shocked, but had to remind himself that she was young. “Anyway, these pistols look just like the one Shooter has tattooed on his arm. I heard through the grapevine that this guy Cheech in the Cuban mob had a box of them. I don’t know why, but I just had to have them. I’ve dealt with Cheech on other…matters, so I figured it would be easy. I got the money by knocking off a few stores and stealing some cars. I know this may sound weird, but I was kinda hoping that I could somehow get Shooter’s attention through the collection and maybe, I don’t know, he’d send me a ticket to one of his shows, maybe even float me a backstage pass.”
“So you are a bad guy. And maybe a little stalkerish on the side. You know, you could have just used that ill-gotten money to buy a concert ticket and backstage pass.”
Lightning flashed and he could see that she wasn’t the least bit afraid.
“I’m no saint, but I ain’t the Devil. Come to think of it, I guess I just really wanted those guns. Anyway, I go to get them and Cheech, well, he was all fucked up and had his beer balls on, started ragging on me. It got to the point where I had to shut him up and he kinda died.”
“You killed him?”
“It was an accident. I only punched him a couple of times. I guess coke does all kinds of weird shit to your skull, because his head caved right in. Then his cronies found me and the body, and I took off. The rest you know.”
They stood in silence and Rooster figured she was taking everything in. After a while, she asked, “What did he say to make you kill him?”
“Accidentally,” he added.
“Yes, accidentally .”
This was the hard part. How else could he say it without sounding like an insecure kid in a school yard? Might as well rip the Band-Aid off and suck it up.
“He kept making fun of my name.”
“Well, you do have an odd name.” She said it without a hint of sarcasm or mockery.
“My dad was a real John Wayne and Johnny Cash fan. He wanted to toughen me up like the guy in that song A Boy Named Sue , but instead of Sue, he called me Rooster after his favorite John Wayne film.”
“I guess it worked,” she said.
“Huh. Rooster Murphy. All it gave me was a lifetime of anger issues.” It felt good talking to Maddie about this, way better than those therapists or his anger management coach. For the first time he could remember, he felt calm.
“I think it’s a pretty cool name. Hard to forget,” she said and giggled.
He jerked to his left when he heard the quick rush of leaves. Maddie reacted by raising her gun in the direction of the commotion.
Deep, angry growls filled the damp air, but it didn’t sound anything like the Bigfoots.
Something
“After the number you did on me on the boat, I could tell your daddy that he did a good job.”
Heat lightning flickered in the sky. There was no thunder, and thankfully, no rain. The lightning offered brief glimpses of their immediate area, and all was quiet, save for the droning of the frogs and buzzing of the mosquitoes.
Maddie sighed. “He died a year ago yesterday. He’d always wanted to see the Everglades. That’s why Liz and I came down here. We were kind of hoping he’d see it right along with us.”
That hurt. Rooster’s moment of rage had taken them from grief to running for their lives. He was about to apologize when she said, “You mind telling me why you have bags of guns and money and why those guys were trying to kill you? I’m not being nosy, but you just don’t seem the gun-running type.”
“And you know what the gun-running type looks like?”
“I watch a lot of movies and reality cop shows.”
He swatted a family of flies off his neck. “Long story short?”
She nodded.
“I wasn’t exactly running guns. These were for my collection. I’m a big Shooter Jennings fan. You know, the country singer? Waylon’s son?”
“I’ve heard of him. Who’s Waylon?”
Rooster was shocked, but had to remind himself that she was young. “Anyway, these pistols look just like the one Shooter has tattooed on his arm. I heard through the grapevine that this guy Cheech in the Cuban mob had a box of them. I don’t know why, but I just had to have them. I’ve dealt with Cheech on other…matters, so I figured it would be easy. I got the money by knocking off a few stores and stealing some cars. I know this may sound weird, but I was kinda hoping that I could somehow get Shooter’s attention through the collection and maybe, I don’t know, he’d send me a ticket to one of his shows, maybe even float me a backstage pass.”
“So you are a bad guy. And maybe a little stalkerish on the side. You know, you could have just used that ill-gotten money to buy a concert ticket and backstage pass.”
Lightning flashed and he could see that she wasn’t the least bit afraid.
“I’m no saint, but I ain’t the Devil. Come to think of it, I guess I just really wanted those guns. Anyway, I go to get them and Cheech, well, he was all fucked up and had his beer balls on, started ragging on me. It got to the point where I had to shut him up and he kinda died.”
“You killed him?”
“It was an accident. I only punched him a couple of times. I guess coke does all kinds of weird shit to your skull, because his head caved right in. Then his cronies found me and the body, and I took off. The rest you know.”
They stood in silence and Rooster figured she was taking everything in. After a while, she asked, “What did he say to make you kill him?”
“Accidentally,” he added.
“Yes, accidentally .”
This was the hard part. How else could he say it without sounding like an insecure kid in a school yard? Might as well rip the Band-Aid off and suck it up.
“He kept making fun of my name.”
“Well, you do have an odd name.” She said it without a hint of sarcasm or mockery.
“My dad was a real John Wayne and Johnny Cash fan. He wanted to toughen me up like the guy in that song A Boy Named Sue , but instead of Sue, he called me Rooster after his favorite John Wayne film.”
“I guess it worked,” she said.
“Huh. Rooster Murphy. All it gave me was a lifetime of anger issues.” It felt good talking to Maddie about this, way better than those therapists or his anger management coach. For the first time he could remember, he felt calm.
“I think it’s a pretty cool name. Hard to forget,” she said and giggled.
He jerked to his left when he heard the quick rush of leaves. Maddie reacted by raising her gun in the direction of the commotion.
Deep, angry growls filled the damp air, but it didn’t sound anything like the Bigfoots.
Something
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