Noon. The sun was as high as it was going to be. The heat baked down on his back, and his linen shirt clung to him with the sweat. Still, “Mr Williamson” needed a proper send off. Waylon wouldn’t be happy till there was six feet of ground between them. He stepped back to admire his work. [color=82ca9d]”How long do you think he’ll be down there?”[/color] came a voice from behind him. [color=bc8dbf]”Couldn’t say,”[/color] Myers replied, removing his glove and wiping the sweat from his brow. [color=bc8dbf]”Folk round here always lookin’ for uh… men like him.”[/color] There was a long silence between the two. Father MacMillan had always insisted on this code; no one suspected graves in a churchyard, but the pastor made sure each grave had a story attached to it. Made sense, he supposed. The feds never came down this way, and even if they did, Dawkins would deal with them, but you could never be too careful, not in this line of work. His pappy had been pulled in by G-men in ‘44; he hadn’t covered his tracks well enough. His Uncle Elmer had told him how as his father got pulled into the car he had been shouting: “Get Crump on the phone! Call the Boss!” but Boss Crump had never heard of Winston Myers Jr. Waylon had been putting off visiting his father at Shelby County. He had been too busy with the boys, or with the business, and now it had been twenty-five years. Pappy would be eighty years old now, near enough. Poor, old crook. [color=82ca9d]”I had a call from Mr. Cokeley not long ago.”[/color] [color=bc8dbf]”Who?”[/color] replied Waylon, pulling a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbing his brow. [color=82ca9d]”Harold Cokeley? He works with Mrs. Hawkins.”[/color] [color=bc8dbf]”He say what he wanted?”[/color] [color=82ca9d]”Well, he said something about a man from Chicago? And perhaps to expect a not so auspicious visit.”[/color] [color=bc8dbf]”Chicago?”[/color] Waylon turned to look at the pastor for the first time. There was a pregnant pause between the two. [color=bc8dbf]”We don’t deal with Chicago... we pay people so we don’t have to deal with Chicago.”[/color] [color=82ca9d]”Waylon, I’m just telling you what Mr. Cokeley told me. I’ve always said: you can take the calls yourself if...”[/color] The pastor was cut off by Waylon’s annoyed growl. He yanked the shovel out of the ground and marched towards the church, muttering to himself as he walked. [color=bc8dbf]”God damned Chicago bigwigs think they make the rules. Man can’t run a damn business in peace.”[/color] The door to the rear vestibule creaked angrily as Waylon threw it open and stomped through. He seethed for a few moments before Father MacMillan followed him through the door. [color=82ca9d]”I know it’s not the kind of visit we hope for but… you never know what these people want.”[/color] [color=bc8dbf]”...Money’s what they want, Father. Money’s all people ever want. Hawkins has been payin’ ‘em off and now they want their due from us.”[/color] said Waylon darkly. He stepped through another door to the church’s kitchen, with the pastor close behind. He turned and leaned against the counter to be face-to-face with MacMillan. [color=bc8dbf]”Hammond around?”[/color] [color=82ca9d]”He’s around somewhere.”[/color] [color=bc8dbf]”Get ridda him. He’ll make this more difficult than it needs to be.”[/color] There was another long pause between the two men. [color=82ca9d]”I have a sermon to prepare.”[/color] MacMillan said as he left the room. A long sigh escaped from Myers’ lips. He let go of the shovel he had neglected to put down and it clattered to the ground. He waited for a few minutes until he was sure the pastor had gone before he stooped, opened the cabinet under the sink and reached in, a few moments later pulling out the Type 14 Nambu that had been duct-taped to the pipe and tucking it into the back of his trousers. [hr] The sun was lower in the sky when the car arrived. The black sedan cast a long shadow as it drove slowly, one might even say menacingly towards Calvary Hill Baptist Church. From the passenger seat emerged a well-dressed man, who walked similarly to how the car had driven; every step was calculated. He made Waylon uneasy. He’d met enough city-slickers as a boy in Memphis, always thought they were too good for this part of the country. The driver was visible only by his silhouette, and the occasional puff of cigarette smoke that emerged from the barely open window. He heard Father MacMillan’s hurried greetings and nervous small talk. The man engaged in the pleasantries for a few minutes, before the words that every man who visited Calvary Hill with business on their mind inevitably uttered. [color=aba000]”...I need to talk to The Bishop.”[/color] That was Waylon’s cue. He had dressed up a little bit for the occasion. He had put on a clean shirt, blue with white pinstripes, but the collar still turned up at the corners with wear, and the colour had faded. The cold steel of the Type 14 pushed against his back; an ever present reminder of the gravity of this situation. He lit his wooden pipe and took a long draw, and made his way out to the front of the church. [color=aba000]”Ah, this must be him. I gotta say, I was expecting someone a little more…”[/color] [color=bc8dbf]”Respectable looking?”[/color] Waylon said, curtly. [color=aba000]”You the Bishop?”[/color] the man said, blankly ignoring Waylon’s words. [color=bc8dbf]”Who’s asking?”[/color] There was a pause. [color=aba000]”Okay.”[/color] said the man, lighting a cigarette. [color=aba000]”We can play it that way, I’m not here to be anybody’s friend.”[/color] he took a few slow steps forward. [color=aba000]”You’ve had it easy, pal. Operating out of a church, nobody’s any the wiser. Your friend here says ‘God bless’ and sends them on their way.”[/color] he continued, casually gesturing to Father MacMillan with his cigarette. [color=aba000]”It’s a smart operation, I gotta be honest, I’m a fan of what you’re doing, and I want you to be able to continue without any burdens.”[/color] He took a long drag. Waylon did the same. [color=aba000]”But, I hear you have connections in town and…those connections have connections with me, so the way I see it, you owe me.”[/color] He spoke as if he had rehearsed this speech, or perhaps he had repeated it enough times he knew it by heart. Each word was weighed out carefully, and each phrase was choreographed in his body language. He reminded Waylon of Uncle Elmer. [color=aba000]”You picking up what I’m putting down?”[/color] Waylon didn’t speak for a moment. He took a few puffs on his pipe and cleared his throat. [color=bc8dbf]”I uh… I suppose some arrangement could be made.”[/color] The man broke into a wide smile. [color=aba000]”Now that’s what I like to hear”[/color] he said, tossing his smoke casually to the floor. [color=aba000]”Hey, Bishop. Because I’m a nice guy, I won’t take anything from you today, and I’ll even forgive you not inviting me in for a glass of communion wine and some of those little wafers. But next month, and every month after that, I’ll be here, and I need twenty percent of your action.”[/color] Waylon stiffened. Once again, he said nothing. Before he spoke again, the man’s smile dropped, and his tone shifted. [color=aba000]”I’m glad we understand each other”[/color] he said, darkly, taking a few steps back as he did. He nodded towards MacMillan. [color=aba000]”Thank you pastor, God bless.”[/color] He shot one more look at Waylon before turning on his heel and walking purposefully back to the car. Father MacMillan turned and walked towards the church. [color=82ca9d]”That went well.”[/color] He said dryly. Waylon said nothing. He watched the black sedan disappear over the horizon before he moved a muscle. He headed inside and grabbed the keys to his truck. [color=bc8dbf]”The Calaway boys will be here soon. Deal with them.”[/color] he said as he passed the Pastor’s chamber door. [color=bc8dbf]”I need to run a few errands.”[/color]