“Nah, Deputy Jones, I don’t see no NASCAR signs. Why don’t you boys get out your IDs and have a seat on the pavement here?” Deputy Hall said.
“We ain’t doing nothing but parking here, officer,” the sweaty brother said. Deputy Jones whirled around. He dropped his hand to his gun.
“Did I ask you a goddamn thing? Get your ass on the ground. All of you get out your IDs and get on the ground.” There were about twenty of them in the crowd and about fifteen cars. But they were all black and the two cops were white, and had guns. Everyone pulled out their wallets and sat down on the pavement. Beauregard sat on a sprig of scrub grass that had broken through the concrete. He grabbed his driver’s license out of his wallet. The cops started at opposite ends and worked their way to the middle of the group.
“Anybody got any warrants? Child support, assault, shoplifting?” Deputy Hall asked. Beauregard tried to see what county they were from, but they kept the light in his eyes. Deputy Jones stopped in front of him.
“You got any warrants?” he asked as he took Beauregard’s license.
“No.”
Deputy Jones shined the flashlight on Beauregard’s license. There was a patch on the deputy’s shoulder that said POLICE.
“What county you from?” Beauregard asked. Deputy Jones shone the flashlight’s beam in Beauregard’s face.
“Fuck You County, population of one,” Deputy Jones said. He handed Beauregard his license. He turned and spoke into the radio on his shoulder. Deputy Hall was doing the same thing. The whippoorwills and frogs and crickets had resumed their concert. Minutes ticked by as the two deputies conferred with whoever was on the other end of their radios.
“Alright, fellas, here’s the deal. Some of you got warrants. Some of you don’t. But that don’t matter. We don’t need y’all tearing up and down our roads here in Shepherd’s Corner. So, we’re gonna let you go on down the road. But to discourage you from coming back, we gonna get you to pay the racing tax,” Deputy Hall said.
“What the hell is a racing tax?” the sweaty brother asked. Deputy Jones pulled out his gun and put the barrel against the sweaty brother’s cheek. Beauregard felt his stomach tighten.
“Everything in your wallet, fat boy. Or do you want to be a victim of police brutality?” Deputy Jones asked.
“You heard the man. Empty your pockets, gents,” Deputy Hall said. A soft breeze began to blow. The wind caressed Beauregard’s face. The scent of honeysuckle traveled on that breeze. The deputies filed up and down the men sitting in a row and grabbed the money out of their hands. Deputy Jones came to Beauregard.
“Empty those pockets, son.”
Beauregard looked up at him. “Take me in. Arrest me. But I ain’t giving you my money.”
Deputy Jones put his gun against Beauregard’s cheek. The harsh smell of gun oil wafted up his nose and stuck to the back of his throat.
“Maybe you didn’t hear what I said to your friend over there.”
“He ain’t my friend,” Beauregard said.
“You want to catch a bullet? You trying to commit suicide by cop?” Deputy Jones said. His eyes glistened in the moonlight.
“No. I just ain’t giving you my money,” Beauregard said.
“Bug, let it go,” Kelvin said. Deputy Jones shot him a glance. He pointed his gun at Kelvin.
“He’s your friend, isn’t he? You should listen, Bug,” Deputy Jones said. He grinned, exposing a row of crooked brown teeth. Beauregard pulled out his roll of money and the one he had won from Warren. Deputy Jones snatched them out of his hands.
“Good boy,” Deputy Jones said.
“Alright, fellas, go on and get out of here. And don’t come back to Shepherd’s Corner,” Deputy Hall said. Beauregard and Kelvin got up. The crowd dispersed amid a smattering of muffled complaints. The night was filled with the howl of Chargers and Chevelles and Mustangs and Impalas coming to life. Kelvin and Beauregard climbed into the Duster. The cops had moved, and cars were leaving as fast as they legally could. Warren was sitting in the Olds staring straight ahead.
“Move along, Warren,” Deputy Hall said.
Warren rubbed his hands across his face. “It won’t start,” he mumbled.
“What?” Deputy Hall said.
Warren’s hands flew away from his face. “It won’t start!” he said. Kelvin laughed as he and Beauregard pulled out of the parking lot.
Beauregard turned left and headed down the narrow road.
“Interstate is that way,” Kelvin said.
“Yeah. The town is this way. So are the bars,” Beauregard said.
“How we getting a drink with no money?” Kelvin said.
Beauregard stopped and backed the Duster into the entrance of an old logging road. He killed the lights and let the car idle.
“Those weren’t real cops. They didn’t have no county insignia on their uniforms. And that gun was a .38. Cops haven’t carried .38s for twenty fucking years. And they knew his name,” Beauregard said.
“Motherfucker. We got played,” Kelvin said. He punched the dashboard. Beauregard glared at him. Kelvin ran his hand over the dash, smoothing down the leather. “Shit, sorry, man. So, what we doing here?”
“Warren said his car wouldn’t start. He the only one that stayed behind,” Beauregard said.
“You think he was the snitch?”
“Ain’t no snitch. He in with them. He stayed behind to get his cut. None of us was from here that was racing. I’m thinking somebody like Warren gonna want a drink to celebrate,” Beauregard said.
“All that shit he was saying about you cheating was just a show.”
Beauregard nodded. “Didn’t want me to leave. Give his crew time to get there. He ran a few races to get people in. Probably was checking for how much money was on the table. Then when I dropped that grip, he texted them.”
“Son of a bitch. Huh. Dr. King would be so proud. Whites and blacks working together,” Kelvin said.
“Yeah,” Beauregard said.
“You think he really coming this way? I mean he can’t be that stupid, can he?” Kelvin asked.
Beauregard didn’t speak. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He figured not everything Warren had said and done was for show. He really was a conceited ass. Guys like that never think they can get caught. They always think they’re one step ahead of everyone.
“I used to run into guys like him when I was driving for crews. He ain’t from around here. He sounds like he from somewhere north of Richmond. Maybe Alexandria. Guys like that can’t wait till they get home to celebrate. And he wants to celebrate. Cuz he thinks he won. He thinks he fooled us good. He wants to get to the nearest place that sells alcohol and get his drink on. He’ll be by himself cuz his partners can’t go walking around in their fake uniforms. He’ll be in there talking big shit like he was before. He can’t help himself.”
“You really think so, don’t you?” Kelvin said. Beauregard didn’t answer. He couldn’t go home without that money. A thousand wasn’t enough to pay the rent but it beat a blank. His instincts told him that Warren was gonna go into town and get his drink on. He trusted his instincts. He had to.