What We Reckon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About What We Reckon

  Also by Eryk Pruitt

  Dedication

  Quotes

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  PART II

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  "Reminds me of a young Quentin Tarantino. Pruitt is one of our best Southern fiction writers."

  —Bookreporter

  Meet Jack Jordan. He’s a smooth-talking con artist with a penchant for the fast life. He’s snuck into Lufkin, Texas, in the dead of night with little more than a beat-up Honda, a hollowed-out King James Bible full of cocaine, and enough emotional baggage to sink a steam ship. He’s charming, dedicated, and extremely paranoid.

  Summer Ashton, his partner-in-crime. She’s stuck by him through thick and thin, but lately her mind has begun to slip. They’ve told their fair share of lies and she’s having a devil of a time remembering what’s the truth. And recently, she’s been hearing voices. Unfortunately for both of them, she’s the brains of the operation.

  Furthermore, they have begun to tire of one another.

  For these two career grifters, the sleepy East Texas countryside is but another pit stop on their rampage across the American South.

  Will it be their last?

  In WHAT WE RECKON, Eryk Pruitt explores themes of identity, loyalty, and purpose with psycho-delic, transgressive, chicken-fried twists that read like Trainspotting cut with a couple grams of Helter Skelter.

  Dirtbags

  Hashtag

  For Jennifer,

  Geraud, and, as always,

  Lana

  “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.

  The spirit is willing, but the mind is weak.”

  —Jesus Christ, to his Disciples at Gethsemane

  “Find what you love and let it kill you.”

  —Charles Bukowski

  “You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something. Nowadays, everybody’s crazy.”

  —Charles Manson

  It will end much like this, thought Grant as the fire flickering up his nostrils gave way to a slow, mellow drip down the back of his throat. No sooner had he chased away the sweats, the whispers, the steady but fevered panic that so often wrapped its fingers tight around his windpipe than did he eyeball the rest of the kilo—still shrink-wrapped with only a jagged hole, hardly big enough—and consider into what further mayhem he might find himself.

  It was good coke, sure, but Grant had no reason to think it wouldn’t be. Back in South Carolina, Bobby had been his best friend and would hardly look sideways at shit that wasn’t of a particular quality. You want to put bullshit powder into your face, Bobby used to say, then go down past Decker Boulevard. Bobby had a reputation. Folks around town knew he had the good shit. They knew how to get a hold of him night or day. What they didn’t know was where he stashed it, but Grant did, so a fool and his narcotics were quickly parted.

  The only thing better than good cocaine, he thought as he plucked another pinch from the hole in the package, is stolen cocaine.

  Any tranquility, perceived or otherwise, came crashing to a halt with a knock at the motel room door. Grant quickly shuffled away the brick of cocaine into a hollowed-out King James Bible, then scooted it beneath the bed. He perked an ear. Listened. Held his breath.

  “Hey, Grant,” called a voice from outside. “Open up. I ain’t standing out here all day.”

  Craig.

  Relief.

  Grant reached into a paper bag for a brand new bottle of brown liquor and two plastic cups that came with the room, then set them on the tabletop where once sat the contraband.

  Craig did not enter when the door opened, but rather stood at the threshold.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Grant. “Means a lot.”

  “You look like shit,” said Craig. He nodded his head to Jasmine, sitting on the bed, not looking up from the television set. “Both of you.”

  “And you’ve lost more hair since last I seen you,” said Grant. “Come in. Have a drink. Been a while.”

  “Not long enough.” Craig took a step into the room. Only one.

  “Jasmine, say hey to Craig,” called Grant. If she heard him, she didn’t let on. “You remember Craig, don’t you?” When still she said nothing, Grant narrowed the distance between the two of them and said, “Jazz, you are being rude.”

  She turned only her head, made perfunctory eye contact, then returned to the television. The sound was off and the picture looked like shit, but still held her full attention.

  Before Grant said anything more, Craig waved a hand and called him off. “Don’t worry about it,” said Craig. “I ain’t staying long.”

  Grant rounded the little table in the corner and sloshed whiskey into the plastic cups. About two fingers’ worth. He swallowed one before pouring himself another, then handed one to Craig.

  “How you been?” he asked.

  “Got divorced,” said Craig. “About six months back, I reckon.”

  “Real sorry to hear that. I thought you two made a good couple.”

  “You never met her.” Craig sipped from his cup. “We married long after you skipped town.”

  “What I mean is, I seen photographs of you two. One of y’all dancing. I thought she was hot enough, even for you.”

  “Our wedding,” said Craig. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, if it’s all the same—”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Grant kicked out a chair, but Craig only looked at it. “Seriously, take a load off. This here is a fresh bottle and I already tossed out the lid. The least we should do is throw a dent into it. Talk old times.”

  Craig crinkled his nose like he smelled something funny. “I’d rather not talk old times, to be honest. It took damn near an hour to find this place and I ain’t looking forward to the hour back.”

  “I sure appreciate it.” Grant held out his palms. “Really, I do. It means the world that you’d do the work and make the drive. I’d come to you if I could, but it’s best if I steer clear from Lake Castor for a spell, if you know what I mean.”

  Craig nodded. He looked across the room at Jasmine and watched a single tear quiver across her cheek. He watched it a long time, then turned back to Grant.

  “This is it, you hear me?” he said. “This is the last time.”

  “Craig…buddy, I—”

  “I’m serious. You ain’t an easy person to say no to. So, after this, you’d best forget my phone number. Forget about me and anything I ever done for you.”

  “That’s a tall order,” said Grant. “Without you, I’d probably be dead. Dead or in jail, so forgive me if I don’t up and forget everyth—”

  “I’m not joking around.” He wasn’t. He’d hardly touched his corn liquor. The cup rattled as he slapped his hand against the table. “This is the last time.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  Grant licked his lips. “This is the last time.”

  Craig let the moment linger. Silence hung between them like a sinner. He let it linger a bit more before he reached behind himself and tugged a brown envelope from the waistband of his work khakis. He set it on the table between them, minding the liquor. Grant held his breath a bit before snatching it. He tore it open and dumped the contents onto the table.

  Drivers licenses. Two of them.

  Social security cards, also two.

  A pair of birth certificates.

  Two entire lives, scattered across the scuffed tabletop alongside a cheap bottle of liquor.

  “Dear Christ,” Grant whistled, “this is great work.” He picked up one ID, then the other. He held each to the naked bulb hanging between them, then lowered them to the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. “I mean, this is really good work. Jasmine, come check this out.”

  She didn’t move.

  “This time, you outdone yourself,” said Grant. “Jack Jordan. My name is now Jack Jordan. Will you get a load of that, Jas—I mean, Summer? From now on, I’m Jack Jordan and your name is Summer Ashton.”

  And so it became thus.

  “Who are they?” asked Jack.

  “Jack Jordan was just a kid,” answered Craig. “Grew up around Amarillo, in West Texas. Ran his car into a tree a few days shy of graduating high school. The girl, she died of leukemia about six months ago. These should pass an ordinary traffic stop or credit check, but if I were you, I’d stay out of the emergency room or anywhere asking after medical records.”

  Jack pat his old friend on the shoulder. “You are wasting your talents down at that copy shop. I’ve met some folks who’d pay a pretty penny for a fella like you.”

  “From what I’m to understand,” said Craig, “they’d pay a pretty penny to get hold of you too. Both of you.”

  Jack let that settle a bit before he up and poured himself another shot. Dropped a
jigger’s worth into Craig’s cup as well.

  Said, “If that’s the way you want to play it, then fine. I won’t call on you no more. After you leave here, you and me is done. But I won’t forget you. Not ever.” He cocked his head toward the cup. “Now, drink with me and let’s get on with our goodbyes.”

  Craig eyed him over the top of his cup as he slowly sipped. Immediately, he coughed. He choked down what he could, then broke into a clumsy laughter.

  “Should’ve known the stuff you drink would be shit.” He took another swallow. “I swear, I don’t think you could surprise me anymore.”

  “I got a kilo of cocaine stashed beneath the bed.”

  “Goddammit, Keith…” Craig stood, knocking over the chair.

  “You want to see it?” asked Jack. “I’d never seen that much blow before. We hollowed out a Bible and jammed it—”

  “Hell no, I don’t want to see it. I don’t even want to be in the same room with it.”

  Jack tried to block him from leaving. “Craig, wait…”

  Craig stopped. Looked his old friend in the eye.

  “I need you to help me sell it,” said Jack.

  “Go to hell, Keith, or whatever your name is. You know, for a short piece of shit, you really—”

  “I ain’t kidding around, man.” Jack put his hand on the knob before Craig could reach for it. “I need to move this shit kind of quick. I could use the cash. Hell, who couldn’t? You stand to earn a nice chunk of change for yourself if—”

  Craig slapped Jack’s hand off the knob, then opened the door. “I’m leaving,” he said to the room, “and I don’t want you calling me. Not for cocaine kilos, not for fake IDs…not for nothing.”

  Jack followed him into the parking lot. The night had turned cool, as the promise of autumn set upon them. Craig stopped shy of his pickup truck, then spun on his heels to face his old friend.

  “How much longer you going to keep her on?” he asked.

  “Jas—I mean, Summer? She can leave anytime she wants.”

  “You and her fucking yet?”

  Jack laughed through his nose. “No, we ain’t fucking, and we ain’t about to start.” He scratched at the asphalt with the toe of his shoe. “That’s the last thing I need right now.”

  “Then maybe you ought to see about cutting her loose,” said Craig. “She looks like she could use a little break.”

  “She’s fine,” said Jack. “If you remember, she always had a flair for the dramatic.”

  “It’s really none of my business, but I mean it when I say the two of you have seen better days. Y’all been eating?”

  “Things got a little messy, leaving the Carolinas.” Jack rubbed at the scar alongside his hip, still amazed at the feel of it. “I’m afraid our girl, she didn’t—”

  “I said I don’t want to hear nothing about it,” said Craig. “You asked me to get you some Texas IDs, so I imagine that’s where you’re headed next, if I wanted to imagine anything at all. Which I don’t. But if you plan to get lost, then I recommend you stay lost. I don’t want to know nothing about where you’re coming from, and I damn sure don’t want to know nothing about where you’re going.”

  Yonder, a stray tomcat emerged from the brush and crept silent and slinky across the parking lot in search of food. Jack watched it a spell longer than he’d planned and snapped out of it only as Craig opened the driver’s door of his pickup. Jack shuffled after him.

  “Remember how you and me and Davey used to stay up all night drinking coffee in the truck stop on the far side of town?” asked Jack. “What was it called, The All-Niter? What if I told you I saw a joint just like it about two exits up the highway? We could head up there and fetch us some hash browns and shit coffee and—”

  “Man, I’ve got to go.”

  “Say, how is Davey? You ever see him anymore? He still around Lake Castor? I ain’t—”

  “Keith, I’ve got to go.”

  Jack’s hands dropped to his side. He took two steps back and stared at the truck tires. He shrugged.

  Craig climbed behind the wheel, then rolled down the window. He nodded toward the motel door and said, “Look, I don’t plan to get in the middle of nothing. But if I were you, I’d clean up your act. That girl in there ain’t nothing like the girl I met, what, four, five years ago. You ain’t neither, but you’ve always been a smart fella. Too smart, sometimes.”

  Jack bit his lower lip.

  “What I’m saying,” continued Craig, “is maybe you two ought to take some time off. I can’t help but think this whole mess you’ve brought down on the both of you is going to do one or the other of you in. If you care about her as much as you say, maybe you ought to think about that.”

  “You’re right about all of it.” Jack touched each of his fingertips with his thumbs, popping several knuckles in the process. “That being said, it’d be a lot easier for you to sell off an ounce, were you just to ask around—”

  Craig threw up a hand. “You’ve got a way of dragging people down with you and, if it’s all the same, I want to be left out of it. One day or another, someone’s going to get a hold of you. The law or worse, and I can’t have it leading back to me.” He slipped the truck into gear, then didn’t so much as nod as he backed out of the motel lot and, in a spray of gravel and rock, got himself onto the freeway.

  Jack stood there a spell. First, he felt awful. Craig’s words, like ricochet, pierced him and knocked him senseless. Then, up came the fury. He’d become quite skilled at starting anew and wasn’t accustomed to someone popping in from his past to throw fast a finger in judgment. It was all he could do to keep from climbing into the shitty Honda they’d just bought and chase down his old friend to run him off the road, give him the what-for he’d probably had coming since they were little.

  Eventually, all of that settled and left him standing alone with only the florescent hum of the street lamps and the faraway din of traffic. It was easy to hate, thought Jack. It was easy to fly off the handle and take your eyes off the prize.

  More difficult was to keep focus.

  To learn from one’s mistakes.

  Perhaps Craig had a point. Perhaps things had run somewhat off the rails. Perhaps time for a change beckoned. Perhaps it was time he shed himself of Summer or Jasmine or whatever her name was, lest she drag him down.

  But he had many things to do before that day came. For one, he had a stolen kilo of cocaine to unload. For another, he had to carefully map the quickest backwoods route into East Texas. And, more pressing, he had about three-quarters of corn liquor left in that bottle back in the room.

  He slapped his palms against his thighs, as if brushing them clean, then headed back inside to see if maybe Summer would snap out of it long enough to help him finish it.

  The smell of gasoline.

  Cicada, whip-poor-will, and the sweet symphony of late August.

  Summer came to in the passenger seat of their shitty Honda, on the far side of a gas station parking lot. Maybe three, four in the morning. Roadside, but not another soul to be found. No one in the driver’s seat.

  Alone.

  No Jack.

  No keys in the ignition. If he’d finally up and abandoned her, he would have left her the keys. A little bit of money. Perhaps even…

  In a bluster, she thrust her hand beneath the passenger’s seat. Rifled through empty go-sacks and plastic soda bottles.

  Not there.

  Summer dove into the backseat and cast aside one trash bag full of her clothes, then a knapsack. Kicked errant books and CD jewel cases to the floorboard.

  Still nothing.

  In a fit of desperate inspiration, she reached beneath the driver’s seat and didn’t realize until finally her fingers found it, that she had forgotten to breathe.

  There it is.

  She exhaled.

  Jack would never leave without it.

  Summer leaned her head against the backseat window glass. There were lights on in the gas station. Streetlights, florescent and throttled with flies and moths and gnats swarming in angry spasms.

  She wiped sleep from her eyes.

  Summer had been dreaming of farming. Of raising carrots and beets and cabbages and wandering fields of produce. Rows upon rows, sprouting from good, honest dirt collecting between the toes of her bare feet, then sprinkling back to the earth to birth more plants. She had been dreaming of the barn, of the farmhouse, of the chickens and cows and even a rooster, which she named Gordon. In the end, it was Gordon who woke her. Gordon’s crowing, telling her and the rest of the world to wake up, lest they sleep through End Times.