Accidental Outlaws

ACCIDENTAL OUTLAWS

Three Crime Novellas

Matt Phillips

PRAISE FOR ACCIDENTAL OUTLAWS

The hardest hitting rural noir I’ve read in ages, like a mule-kick in the teeth. —CS DeWildt, author of Love You to a Pulp and Kill ’Em with Kindness

Just sh*t loads of good fun…trailer trash noir at its very best. —Grant Nicol, author of On a Small Island, The Mistake, A Place To Bury Strangers and Out On The Ice

Matt Phillips speaks fluently the language of the dispossessed…His whiskey-soaked prose can at times be as slick as a man slinging snake-oil, and other times as brutal as a baseball bat to the head. —Eryk Pruitt, author of Hashtag and Dirtbags

Phillips’ writing is so multi-layered and deep…An author to watch out for. —Regular Guy Reading Noir

Copyright © 2017 by Matt Phillips

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by JT Lindroos

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Accidental Outlaws

Mesa Boys

The Feud

Bar Burning

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

Other Titles from Down & Out Books and its Imprints

Preview from Cleaning Up Finn by Sarah M. Chen

Preview from Knuckledragger by Rusty Barnes

Preview from When the Lonesome Dog Barks by Trey R. Barker

This one is for all the desert rats—you know who you are.

Mesa Boys

Part One

Saylor is my uncle, Ronnie said. He pulled the tab on a tallboy. Beer suds floated to the surface. You know, like, part of my family. He’s my mom’s brother.

What’s he ever done for you? Marl said.

Ronnie shifted in a rusted lawn chair. He took a nervous sip from his tallboy. Next to him, Marl reclined on a black pleather couch and chewed a hand-rolled cigarette. They were out front of Marl’s prefab home talking get-rich-quick schemes. He ain’t done shit for me.

My point, Marl said. There it is. They both stared westward. The sun, deep in its pendulum arc, tinted the desert purple and pink. My favorite time of day, fucking sundown.

Ronnie scraped the dirt with his Vans. He was cash-strapped. They both were, but Ronnie didn’t care for this scheme. Steal from family? Shit. Still, he wondered. What do you think we could get for that Bronco?

Part it out, shit. We’d get top dollar over the internet—no questions asked either, Marl said. It’ll take some time, though. We part it out piece by piece. The sooner we steal the fucker, the sooner we start making money.

But how much?

Marl shrugged. He scratched his month-long beard with dirty fingernails and yawned. Ten Gs, probably. Over six months to a year.

Ronnie took another sip from his tallboy. He didn’t like the family part, but the money part sounded pretty good. Ten Gs in six months. Split that two ways and it’s still half as much as he made last year at Cheap Subs—fucking sandwich art. Five Gs each, that’s pretty fucking good.

That’s only one truck, too. This is what I see: we pull in a couple restored cars, yeah, the Bronco first. But then we see what else we find around town. Three, four cars. Shit, we milk that for a while and it’s steady money. Marl lit his cigarette and crossed one leg over the other like he was at a business meeting or a legit sit-down. He blew smoke and eyeballed Ronnie.

There’s that Shelby Mustang always parked near Save Coins, Ronnie said.

See, now you’re thinking. But no, not the Shelby. Too rare. We sell those parts and we’re done. Something like the Bronco, how that’s perfect is there are so many people who don’t give a shit where the parts come from. It’s an early seventies model. Real cherry, but a lot of people have those models. A lot of people work on them.

Ronnie turned this idea over in his head.

On the one side, he needed cash and it had to come fast and soon. His professional sandwich artist position wasn’t cutting it. And Jennie, she was doing her best with the tattoo thing, but it took a while to build a regular customer base. The thing about Jennie, she was an artist. That meant she wasn’t happy doing anything else but art. Ronnie understood Jennie, so he understood that about her—he accepted it.

On the other side, steal from family and what were you? Maybe a scumbag or a lowlife. Maybe you were those things and whatever it was that went with them. Or maybe you were desperate. Maybe you were up to your neck in hopelessness and maybe you needed a little something to keep you afloat. His uncle had insurance, he’d pull in some money from this thing too. Yeah—it was all a win from what Ronnie could see. It might be wrong, with morals and shit, but Ronnie was starting to think morals were a luxury. Shit, morals are definitely a luxury. Fuck it, he said.

There he is, Marl said. He blew more cigarette smoke between them, leaned back into the pleather couch and smiled. Come on over to the dark side, Ronnie. It’s sundown everywhere you look.

Come down these dirt roads at sixty miles-per-hour and make believe, for just a few minutes, that you’re free and everything is okay—okay? Feel the Civic del Sol slide left and right to make its way around the squared-off turns. Rattle the car’s bolts and deaden the shocks across the washboard surface. See the three prefab homes in the distance, matching puke-green paint and an above-ground pool between them. Slide to a dusty stop and switch off the radio. Take one hit from the glass pipe in the center console—just a little weed to get through the morning—and think about how you’re going to say it.

Like this: Mom, I’m pregnant.

No, like this: Okay—good news, mom. I’m pregnant.

Or, like this: Guess what, mom? I’m fucked.

Yeah, that last one had a nice rhythm to it. Jennie looked into the rearview mirror and said it again, louder than the first time. Guess what, Mom? she said. I’m fucked. Jennie poked a finger at the corner of her right eye. She had a twitch there. Started a few weeks ago and wouldn’t stop. She tried to catch sight of it in the mirror, but there was nothing. It was invisible, below the surface where Jennie could feel it but not a damn soul could see.

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Well, here goes.

She locked the car and hurried across the yard, littered with engine parts and old tires, toward the closest house. Her mom’s place. The other two points in the little prefab home triangle were occupied by renters. Her mom kept the pool clean—kind of—and the two houses in semi-working condition. She’d bought the land after winning a civil lawsuit in the eighties. Jennie wasn’t born then, but it seemed like all her mom ever had came from that lawsuit—Jennie didn’t even know what it was about.

She stepped over two black plastic bags filled with aluminum beer cans and pounded on the front door. Mom, it’s me!

No answer.

She pounded on the door again.

Still, nothing. Her mom’s car, an old Dodge Caravan with one hubcap, was out front. So, she wasn’t at Walmart and it was too early for her shift at the diner. Where the hell was she?

Jennie pounded on the door again, but nobody answered. She stepped over the trash bags and walked around back. All the windows were covered with aluminum foil or thick blankets. Her mom wasn’t a tweaker, not that Jennie knew, but she did prefer a dark little house. What the fuck, Mom? Jennie tried the sliding glass door. It was locked. I swear, lady. You better wake the fuck up. Jennie started to pound on the door.

You okay? It was the neighbor guy, a jarhead—that’s what Jennie called Marines—who owned two pit bulls. He was standing there in his boots and camouflage pants. He was shirtless. I heard you screaming all the way over at my place.

Just mind your own business, okay? What she thought, though, was Not bad. The jarhead worked out from what Jennie could tell, and he had some hot tattoos on his arms and stomach. How old was he? Maybe in his early thirties…A little too old for Jennie.

Shit, you don’t have to be such a bitch about it, he said. He turned around and started to walk back around front.

Hey, wait. Have you seen my mom around?

The jarhead shook his head and kept walking.

Prick.

Jennie tried the sliding glass door again. Wouldn’t budge. She was going to have to call downtown. Maybe the jarhead prick would let her use his phone.

Marl hadn’t slept after Ronnie left. He spent his night playing old school Legend of Zelda and drinking beer. Now, though, Marl needed to make some money. He switched off his television and walked into the kitchen. The prefab wasn’t too bad. His grandma had left it to him in her will. Sort of a jackpot for Marl, unemployed with no high school diploma and only a few years working construction for job experience. Marl’s expenses were few. Property taxes, the payment on his new pickup and drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. Marl liked to have parties at his place. But he found that nobody would come unless he had beer, booze, and cocaine. And not exactly in that order.

So, to work.

He sat at the table with a phone book—yes, Marl still used it—and a pay-per-minute cell phone. He opened to a random page and chose the first name that caught his attention.

Marliss Spaulding.

Sounded nice and regal to Marl. He dialed the number.

Hello, Spaulding residence. A woman’s voice. She sounded a little shaky to Marl—she wasn’t young, he was sure of that.

Miss Spaulding, is that really you?

It is, may I ask who’s calling, please?

Marl smiled. People would trust, trust, trust until they gave everything. It was funny to Marl. Dummies. Miss Spaulding, I’m an account manager here at your bank—

You work for Wells Fargo?

I do, ma’am. My name is Sidney. Marl paused for a moment. Let the lady gather herself. Ma’m, I’m embarrassed to say this, but we’ve had a data breach here in-house.

You have?

Yes ma’m, we have.

Somebody got my account information?

Well, we aren’t quite sure about that. We just know there’s been a breach. It seems, right now, like it’s mostly personal information, but that’s what I’m calling to confirm.

Oh hell. Did you just call to tell me this?

No, ma’m. Not at all. What I have to do is confirm your account, make sure that, well, you’re you. I need to confirm all your personal information. Once I do that, we can cross reference you with the breached accounts. To be honest with you, I’m just doing some basic data entry here for the cyber-security department.

Well, the woman said. Tell me what you need.

Thanks for your patience, Miss Spaulding. I’ll make this as fast and painless as possible. Why don’t you begin by confirming your home address for me?

There is nothing like the smell of processed meat in the morning.

That’s what Ronnie thought to himself as he sliced ham behind the Cheap Subs counter. The morning shift was slow, but morning bled into the lunch rush. Ronnie would have shredded lettuce in his shoes and mustard under his fingernails in a couple hours. Minimum wage, this same old shit. Out the front window, Ronnie could see his dusty white Plymouth Road Runner. The slow leak in the driver’s side front tire was getting bigger. He’d have to use the air compressor before he headed home. Cheap Subs was in a Chevron station, one of those weird fast-food and deli combinations. You’ve seen them at truck stops between here and El Paso, the ones that make your stomach turn like melted rubber. Still, the place got busy at lunch time.

Man, Ronnie would love a new car.

Well, not a new car, but a car that was new to him. Something that started every day and wouldn’t get him pulled over for fix-it tickets. He just hoped Marl was right about stealing the Bronco. There was a lot about Marl that Ronnie didn’t like—like how he’d looked at Jennie’s tits the one time the three of them hung out together, but Ronnie always had beer in the fridge, gas in his truck and he was always getting girls. Dumb as rocks, but they were hot.

Ronnie finished slicing the ham and put it into one of the low coolers, a backup for later. When he stood and looked back out the window he saw a Harley Davidson motorcycle coming down the highway like a banshee. It was only a moment until he heard the engine roar into the Chevron parking lot. The rider, with long hair and a white beard, wore a leather vest with a reaper on the back. Middle-aged guy, maybe early forties. Young enough that his white beard was a trip.

Sweet. God, he’d love a bike too.

The guy killed the engine and climbed off the bike, a solid black hog with chrome pipes. He reached into a saddlebag for something and tucked it into the waistband of his Levis. Holy shit, Ronnie said.

Across the convenience mart, Revis, the morning clerk, stopped thumbing through Playboy. What’s up, Ronnie? he said.

Dude has a gun.

Revis came around the counter then and tried to look out the window, but the guy was already opening the glass doors and stepping inside the Chevron station. The digital bell sounded its sing-song declaration—customer inside.

What’s up, fellas?

The guy kept the gun between his waistband and rock-hard abs. He only wore the vest, nothing beneath, like a character from a comic book. He was younger up close than Ronnie first thought. The beard was long and white, but the color was premature. Maybe late thirties. Revis put his hands up right away—like a damn soldier who’d been overrun. Take whatever, man.

The guy raised his chin at Revis—get behind the counter—and stared hard at Ronnie. You stay right there, he said. I don’t want to touch this piece while I’m in here, but I promise I will if that’s what it takes.

Ronnie nodded. So, this is what it looks like? To be on the other side of it, to feel like the edge is right there, like it’s waiting for you to step over it, like you’re about to fall into nothing and come out the other side?

Put all the money in the register inside a plastic bag, the guy said to Revis. Then, I want you to go into that safe behind you and pull out the petty cash. You’re gonna put that into my plastic bag, too. You’ll bring it to me right here—like I’m going shopping.

Revis went to work. The guy watched him with no expression. After a moment, he reached out and plucked a Butterfinger candy bar from a rack and slid it into his vest pocket.

Ronnie watched the guy.

Tattoos on both wrists, but his arms were bare and tan. The guy worked out or spent time doing hard labor—one or the other. The way he spoke though, that was something to think about. Not with the same lazy lilt most people from around here used. He spoke like a professor down at the community college. Ronnie had taken a few prerequisites there. The professors had that same surety in their instruction, that self-assurance—the I’m-in-charge voice. This guy didn’t talk like he was high, or drunk, or trying to get to either of those things. Just cool, like he was doing a job the same as any other day.

Turn your head.

Ronnie snapped out of it. He felt the guy’s eyes on him. What?

I said, turn your head.

Ronnie did what he was told. He stared out the window at the still-empty Chevron lot, his Plymouth there next to the guy’s Harley. No cops. No customers.

Revis brought the bag to the guy and put his hands up again. The guy took the bag and walked toward Ronnie. He