HOT PEANUTS
J.W. Swain

[24 may 2002—proofed for #bookz]

They were the hot-boiled kind, the kind that you don't get north of the Mason Dixon. You can eat them all day and night and never quite get enough. 'Course, when you're washing them down with some nice Tennessee mash, well, then they're that much better. 
I think a part of me was wishing I'd taken the warden's advice and headed away from town instead of towards it, but I'd never been much good at it ... advice taking that is. I'm sitting here, mixing hot-boiled peanuts, Tennessee mash, and a real good helping of the get-evens, knowing all along that the peanuts and mash might be great companions, but tossing in that bit of the get-evens was kind of like boiling dynamite then getting all surprised when it blew up.
"Times Billy Jenkins usually get here?" I said to the bartender, tossing another handful of peanuts into my mouth.
The bartender looked up from the bar he'd been polishing with a rag, squinted like he was trying to concentrate, and studied my face. Not that it'd do him any good. Seven years since I'd been around. Seven long years. "Not like Billy's a regular type of guy. Gets here when he gets here," said the bartender.
"Gimme a ballpark."
"Friend of his?"
"Not really. Billy Jenkins I know doesn't have any friends."
"Guess you do know 'em. New to town?"
"Nah, just been gone a while is all."
"Billy'd be expecting you then?"
"Should be."
"'Cause?"
"I owe him something."
"Oh," replied the bartender. "Well, he's never here later than six."
I glanced at the Budweiser clock suspended in front of the dirty, cracked mirror behind the bar. It read 4:30. I'd waited seven years, so another hour or so wasn't going to be hard. I motioned toward my glass and the bartender brought the bottle of liquor over, poured me a good three fingers, then went back to polishing the bar. 
I went back to thinking about Billy Jenkins and my lost seven years. Seven years worth of get-evens, a whole lot of cellblock dreaming. There's maybe a whole bunch of stuff that gets you through a bit in the slam, but evening scores has got to be the best. I know it is for me. And, today would be the day. After that, well, hey, whatever.
* * *
"Hit 'em again."
"Fuck, you want me to croak the old geezer?"
"Don't make me no never mind."
I looked at Jenkins and knew that he meant it. Crazy fuck. Never should have gone on this score with him, regardless of how much scratch it was worth. Jenkins was a one way ticket to the slam ... or worse. I turned my attention back to the bank manager. "Open the safe you old fart, or so help me god I'm gonna blow your brains all over that cheap WalMart suit you're wearing."
"It's on a time lock. I can't open it before it's time. Honest."
"He's a lyin' ass sonuvabitch. Here, you watch the rest of 'em and I'll make him open the fucker."
"I got this covered," I'd said. No way was I going to let Jenkins go nuts on the bank manager or anyone else. I might not be the brightest guy in the world, but no way am I taking a ride on Old Sparky 'cause nutso Jenkins wants to prove how bad he is.
"You got it covered, we better be getting in that vault pronto, partner. We don't, I just might start making me an example or two, know what I mean."
"How much more time we got?" I asked the branch manager.
"Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes. I can open it at 8:47. I promise."
I'd looked at my watch. It was right around 8:35. "Okay, old timer. At 8:47 you open that vault, or you die."
Jenkins had piped up once more, but I'd calmed him down. I thought about a lot of things in those twelve minutes, but mostly I'd thought about what made me go out on a score with a whack job like Jenkins. I mean, he was a standup guy, not a rat or nothing, but he was also certifiable. Not the type of guy you'd want at the rudder if the ship was adrift, if you catch my meaning.
At 8:47 I'd grabbed the manager under his arms and said, "Time to do your thing." It took the old bastard three tries 'cause his hands were shaking so much, but he finally dialed in the combo. I heard the click as the bolts on the vault door were released. I remember my heart quickening a bit. Jenkins pulled on the vault door and it swung open like it was a featherweight instead of a four ton door. 
We looked inside and saw the prize. Bags of cash. I'm not talking a couple bags. I'm talking serious cash. Big time. This is the kind of score you retire off of, specially when it's two guys splitting the take. I mean, I was dreaming of haciendas, chiquitas, funny little drinks with umbrellas in them, and a whole lifetime of siestas. Not quite what I ended up with.
"Holy shit," Jenkins had said, in a classic case of understatement. "There's gotta be a million bucks in there."
"Probably more," I'd replied. "Let's get to work."
We herded the branch manager, and his three tellers, inside the vault and put them in a corner with instructions to stay there. They did. Me and Jenkins started scooping the bags of money onto a cart. When we knew we couldn't fit any more bags on the cart, we wheeled it out of the vault and started to close the vault door. I wasn't worried 'cause I knew the first couple of customers would figure something was wrong and call the cops. The cops'd get them out of the vault. No problem.
No problem until I heard Jenkins say, "Hey, old man. There's something about you I just don't like." I saw Jenkins raise his left hand, and I heard the report from his pistol. The branch manager jerked, then slammed against the back wall of the vault and crumpled. "C'mon, Jimmy Lee. Let's get our asses out of here."
I cursed Jenkins for using my name. Not like there were a whole lot of Jimmy Lee's capable of this kind of bank caper in the state. Between the physical description and my name, it took the cops all of three days to track me down and charge me with the robbery. I guess the only piece of good news was that the manager got lucky, and so did I. The slug had caught him high in the shoulder. He survived, which meant I wasn't going to hear my own skin sizzling, but that meant he also was able to point a bony finger at me in the courtroom. 
* * *
"Jimmy Lee Spires, have you anything to say before the court pronounces sentence?"
I looked up at Judge Jebediah Thomas and said, "No, your honor, I do not."
"It is the judgment of this court that you have demonstrated an acute lack of respect not only for the laws of this great country, but also for the sanctity of human life. It is only by the most gracious of miracles that Mr. Matheson survived his wounds. Given your rather extensive past criminal history, I have no other choice than to sentence you to serve a term of not less than seven years and not more than twenty years at the state penitentiary."
I heard a few gasps in the courtroom, but I ignored them. I'm sure that most folks thought I'd be getting the real big time since none of the money ... over two million ... had been recovered. I probably would have, too, but a combination of a good lawyer and a generous contribution to Judge Thomas's favorite charity, which just happened to be in an off-shore Bahamian account, assured me I'd still be out while I was relatively young. 
So, I'd served the minimum. Seven years. Could have been a whole lot worse. But, during the whole time, I'd never heard from Jenkins. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Heard a whole bunch about him, though. How Jenkins had gone legit. Owned a whole mess of land in the county, lots of cattle, a few honky tonks.
Now, it was payback time.
* * *
I glanced up at the clock. 5:45. Wouldn't be much longer now. The bar had gotten a little busier, with half the bar stools taken, and more than a third of the tables. Busy enough so that a cocktail waitress was working the tables, while the bartender took care of the customers on the bar stools. 
The doors to the bar opened and a group of men entered. And there, swaggering in the middle of the group, walked Billy Jenkins. Large as life. I felt my heat beat faster. Not 'cause I was afraid of Jenkins, or his crew, but because it was time. 
I let the group pass me by, giving the bartender my best 'don't fuck with me' stare so's he wouldn't tip my hand early. I'd been planning this for seven long years, and I wasn't going to have it go any way but the way I'd set out for it. 
Billy and his boys went to the very back of the room and sat at the last table. From the way the cocktail waitress hustled over to them, it was obvious that they were not only regulars, but they also received preferential service. Could be one of Billy's places, but that didn't matter one bit to me. Just stick to the plan.
I sat and nursed my drink, all the while eating more of the hot-boiled peanuts. Damn, they were good. Funny what you can miss when you're away in the slam. But Billy hadn't had to miss the taste of those, or anything else. 
"Hey, bartender."
"Another?" he said, pointing to my almost empty glass.
"Nope. Wanna buy a round of drinks for the table up back."
"You mean Billy's table?"
"That'd be the one."
"Same Billy you're so close to but don't even recognize you when he walks in?"
"Yah, that Billy."
"Suit yourself." He poured out three mixed drinks and two tap beers, called the cocktail waitress over and sent her off to Jenkins' table. 
I watched as she set the drinks on the table. Jenkins said something to her, and she turned and pointed in my direction. Jenkins shielded his eyes with his hand as he looked down the bar at me. I doubted that he could make me out from that distance, but I raised my hand and waved anyway. He turned and said something to the man to his left, who almost immediately got up from the table and walked toward me.
"Sent Billy and us some drinks?" said the man, now standing in front of me.
"Yah, I did."
"Billy'd kinda like to know who his drink is comin' from."
"Just an old friend."
"Old friend got a name?"
"Mmm, mmm. Tell 'em Jimmy Lee's back in town." 
I could see Billy's head as he leaned over toward the man who had returned to the table. His back stiffened as the man spoke to him. Billy's head swiveled in my direction. It was time. I got up off the stool, placed a fifty on the bar for my drinks, and walked towards Billy's table. I took my time. Man waits a long time for a get-even, man wants to enjoy it.
Finally, I was standing at the table, directly across from Billy. He remained seated, but his eyes never left me, and his left hand stayed under the table. I remembered he was left-handed. 
"Hey, Billy. You're lookin' good."
"You too, Jimmy Lee. Been back long?"
"Nope. This is day one."
"Sounds like you're planning on staying some more."
"Yah, a whole lot more. 'Sides, I figure you got something for me."
"Don't reckon I do."
"Short memory?"
"No, just don't reckon I do. Shoulda done you once we'd gotten away."
"Well, that is your style, isn't it. Back shooting ... or maybe throwing down on old men."
The man on Jenkins' right started to reach into his waistband, but Jenkins stopped him. "I got this, Bob. No need to sweat it. I think Jimmy Lee here was just on his way out the door. Ain't that right, Jimmy Lee?"
"Not hardly," I said. I grabbed for the inside of my denim jacket. I could see Billy pushing his chair back, standing up and raising his left hand in almost one motion. He never got the chance to level the gun in it at me. Three loud explosions echoed throughout the bar room, and three splotches of red appeared on Billy's shirt. I threw my hands up in the air, including the one which now held the wallet I'd taken from my jacket. "I'm not armed," I said loudly. One of Billy's guys had skinned his piece, and would have shot me but there were too many witnesses. Even in a bought town, you can't shoot an unarmed man and expect to get away with it.
I waited for the cops to show up as I watched the life drain out of Billy in an ever-widening pool of blood.
* * *
"So, that's your story?" said the uniformed cop.
"Yah, that's my story."
"Strange, you just getting out of the can and all and now we got us a dead body."
"Stranger things have happened."
"You got no idea why Billy threw down on you?"
"Nope. Bought his table a round of drinks, then went over to say hi 'cause I hadn't seen him in so long. Billy's not known for having his cap screwed on too tight. Wanted to show him my parole papers, you know, me being so happy to be out and all. Crazy bastard drew on me when I reached for my wallet."
"Guess you're double-lucky, huh?"
"How do you figure?"
"How many times is there an armed citizen close by to stop something like this? If that guy hadn't shot Jenkins, you'd be dead now."
"Well, I guess we chalk another one up for the NRA."
"Yah, right," said the cop.
"Can I go?"
"For now, yah. So far everyone confirms your version of what went down. Stick around town though, in case we need to talk with you."
"Sure thing, officer. I need to do a little job hunting anyway, plus report to my parole officer." I walked out of the doors to the bar room, certain that he couldn't see the slight smirk on my face.
* * *
It was dark, and I'd been parked out on the edge of town for close to an hour. My butt was getting sore, and I couldn't get a decent country station on the radio. I settled for sipping my beer and eating some more hot peanuts. Not quite as good as mash and peanuts, but it'd do. I watched a set of car lights approach me. The car passed by me, did a lazy turn, came up behind me and parked. The lights were turned out.
I got out of my car, walked to the passenger side of the one parked behind me and got in next to the driver. 
"Been a long time," he said.
"Seven years."
"Never thought I'd see you again."
"It is pretty strange at that," I agreed.
"It went like you said. The cops think I'm a hero."
"Ask you why you're carrying?"
"No. I think past events pretty much explain that."
"This is the last time we'll ever talk together. It'll be better that way. Safer."
"Fine by me. This is not the sort of thing that I'd normally be involved with."
"You ask me, you did just fine. Just like a pro."
"Actually, it was easier than I thought it would be. You set him up so well."
"Like you said, seven years. It gives a man a long time to plan."
"How'd you know I'd go along with this?"
"I didn't for sure, but I'm a pretty good judge of human nature."
"Hmm. So, we both got payback. You because he screwed you out of all that money, and me because he damn near killed me. An inch lower and I'd have been one dead bank manager."
"I guess that about sums it up, Matheson." I turned to him, held out my bag of hot peanuts and offered him some.
"No thanks," he said.
"Don't know what you're missing," I replied. I got out of his car, walked back to mine, got in and drove away.