I shake it off and return to reality. The heavyweight fight lasts for a full forty seconds with my favorite still standing. I can’t wait to reconvene with my little gang. We meet in the same dark room with the door locked, and the trash talk is brutal. All six of us pull cash from our pockets. Frankie has the notes and keeps it all straight. For the evening, I’ve netted $8,000 from my wagers, though $2,000 of this will go to Tadeo for his impromptu bonus. I’ll get it back from his cut of the purse. That will go on the books for IRS purposes; this cash will not.
Tadeo earns $8,000 for his efforts, a great night that will allow him to add another gang member to his entourage. He’ll pay some bills, keep the family afloat, save nothing. I’ve tried to offer financial advice, but it’s a waste of time.
I stop by the locker room, hand over the $2,000, tell him I love him, and leave the arena. Partner and I go to a quiet bar and have some drinks. It takes a couple to settle me down. When you’re that close to the action, and you’ve got your own hitter in the ring two seconds away from a concussion or a broken bone, and five thousand idiots are screaming into your ears, your heart races wildly as your stomach flips and your nerves tingle. There’s a flood of adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever felt.
Jack Peeley is a former boyfriend of the mother of the two Fentress girls. Their father was long gone when they were murdered, and their mother’s apartment was a revolving door for local tomcats and slimeballs. Peeley lasted about a year and got the boot when she met a used-tractor dealer with a little cash and a house without wheels. She moved up and Peeley moved out, with a broken heart. He was the last person seen near the girls when they disappeared. Early on, I asked the police why they did not treat him as a suspect, or at least investigate him, and their lame response was that they already had their man. Gardy was in custody and confessing right and left.
I strongly suspect Jack Peeley killed the girls in some sick act of revenge. And, if the cops had not stumbled onto Gardy, they might have eventually questioned Peeley. Gardy, though, with his frightening appearance, satanic leanings, and history of sexual perversion, became the clear favorite and Milo has never looked back.
According to the Bishop, who is relying on his low-life sources, Peeley hangs out almost every Saturday night at a joint called the Blue & White. It’s about a mile east of Milo and was originally a truck stop. Now it’s just a redneck dive with cheap beer, pool tables, and live music on the weekends.
On Saturday night, we ease into the gravel parking lot at around ten, and the place is packed, wall-to-wall pickups. We have our own, a rented Dodge club cab with Ram power and big tires, perhaps a bit too shiny for this joint but then it belongs to Hertz, not me. Behind the wheel, Partner is pretending to be a redneck but is a pathetic excuse for one. He’s ditched his daily black garb and is wearing jeans and a Cowboys T-shirt, but it’s not working.
“Let’s do it,” I say from the front passenger’s seat. Tadeo and Miguel jump from the rear seat and casually walk through the front door. They’re met just inside by a bouncer who wants ten bucks each for the cover. He looks them over and does not approve. They are, after all, darker-skinned Hispanics. But at least they’re not black. According to the Bishop, the Blue & White will tolerate a few Mexicans but a black face would start a riot. Not that there’s anything to worry about. Such a cracker dive has zero appeal to any sensible black guy.
But a riot is what they’ll get anyway. Tadeo and Miguel order a beer at the crowded bar and do a passable job blending in. They get some stares but nothing bad. If these fat, drunk rednecks only knew. Tadeo could take out any five with his bare hands in less than a minute. Miguel, his brother and sparring partner, could take out four. After fifteen minutes of surveying the crowd and getting the layout, Tadeo flags a bartender over and says in unaccented English, “Say, I need to get some money to a guy named Jack Peeley, but I’m not sure I can recognize him.”
The bartender, a busy man, nods to a row of booths near the pool table and says, “Third booth, the guy with the black cap on.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
They order another beer and kill some time. In Peeley’s booth there are two women and one other man. The table is covered with empty beer bottles, and all four are chomping away on roasted peanuts. Part of the ambience of the Blue & White is that you toss your empty shells onto the floor. At the far end a band cranks up and a dozen folks ease that way for a dance. Evidently, Peeley is not a dancer. Tadeo sends me a text: “JP spotted. Waiting.”
They kill some more time. Partner and I sit and watch and wait, nervous as hell. Who can predict the outcome of a brawl in a roomful of drunken idiots, half of whom carry NRA membership cards?
