Page 6 of Thug

I gazed through the open garage door. The old man exited the donut shop and then turned toward his truck. Boxes of donuts were stacked all the way to his chin.

“Be right back,” I said.

I hustled across the street, reaching the old man when he was at the edge of the curb. He peered over the top of the boxes and let out a sigh of frustration.

“Let me help you.” I opened the passenger side door and reached for the boxes.

“I got ‘em,” he grunted, pulling away from me. “Just couldn’t get the goddamned door. I’m not an octopus, you know.”

“That’s a lot of donuts,” I said. “Picked a good place to get ‘em.”

“Been goin’ to the place off West Marana for sixty goddamned years,” he complained. “What’d they do to show their appreciation? Closed the goddamned place. Normally don’t venture this far south, but Virgil said this place was good.” He carefully lowered the donuts onto the seat, and then situated each box. “Got a bunch of idiots out at my place this morning. Staying through the weekend.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you know they’ve got a donut in there that has bacon on it?”

“It’s one of my favorites,” I admitted. “The Firemen get here Thursday mornings at about six o’clock. It’s a good thing you got here before they did, or all the good ones would have been gone.”

He stepped back and slammed the truck’s door. A once-over followed. “Do I know you?”

“Don’t think so,” I replied.

He looked me over again, slowly. After studying me thoroughly from head to toe, his face washed with disbelief. “I’ll be goddamned. You’ve got to be Earl McNealy’s boy. You a spitting image of him.” He pushed his hands inside his overalls and gave me another quick look, this time with admiration in his eyes. “You’re on the hundred and sixty acres just the other side of the old tracks. In the white house. Aren’t ya?”

I’d never seen him before, at least not that I could remember. Nevertheless, I wasn’t surprised that he recognized me as being my father’s son. In comparing old photographs, we looked like twins. I considered my response, but before I could answer, he continued.

“Place used to be yellow, and it was brown before that,” he said convincingly. “Think your father painted it yellow in ’73 if my memory serves me correctly.”

“It was yellow when I was a kid. I painted it white.” I extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Name’s Gardner. Jim Gardner.” He struggled for a moment and eventually pulled his hands from inside his overalls. “Nobody calls me that, though.” He shook my hand. “Most around here know me as Jack. Cactus Jack. Road leading to my place is lined with ‘em. Planted ‘em three generations ago. Four, including me.”

I nodded in acknowledgement. “Price.”

“Can’t imagine they’d have been more than a few cents a dozen, back then,” he replied. “Hell, it was a hundred and fifty years ago when he bought that place. Home’s different, but the cactuses haven’t changed.”

I mentally laughed at his response. “Price is my name,” I explained. “Price McNealy.”

He looked down his nose at me. “Not your given name.”

“I don’t use my given name,” I said. “I go by Price.”

He gazed at the toes of his boots for a moment as if digesting the name. “Shame about your folks,” he said, looking up. “Goddamned cops around here are a bunch of dimwits. Always have been. The whole lot of ‘em.”

He paused, waiting for me to respond. Instead of being lured into a conversation, I admired the rust spots on his truck.

“Live down the way from you a piece,” he explained. “Off Missile Base road. Been there since before your mom’s sister sold that place to your father.” He turned toward the truck. “I better get home before one of my clan misses me. They’ll probably think I wandered off into the desert. Hell, Martin might even call the cops. Last thing I need is that know-nothing kid who’s on night shifts out at my place nosing around.”

It seemed he was trying to get me to trust him. Short of the men in the club, I didn’t trust anyone, donut eating old men included.

I offered him a crumpled smile. “Enjoy your donuts.”

“I got five dozen of the goddamned things. That’s six a piece for the ten of us.” He sauntered around the front of the trunk and opened the driver’s door. “We get together once a year and shoot up my place. Been doing it for twenty years.”

I gave him a confused look. “Shoot up the place?”

“Machine guns,” he said with a nod. “I’ve got a couple Tommy Guns and an M16. Martin’s got a belt fed M60. The rest of the clan has Grease Guns, some British stuff, and a few pieces of Russian junk. Always enjoyed machineguns. More fun than plinkin’ at soup cans with a pellet gun, that’s for sure.”

Arizona was a machine gun friendly state, and allowed legal ownership by civilians, as long as the individual registered the weapons. Accordingly, the state was filled with gun enthusiasts, automatic weapons, and the occasional extremist. Nevertheless, it surprised me to hear what Cactus Jack’s plans were for the day. Machine guns or not, I still didn’t trust him.

“Sounds like a good time,” I admitted.