GRAY MATTER by Gary Braver Page B

big ones to lay out, then the kid’s probably better off where he’s going, since the old lady lives in a goddamn bug-infested aluminum box in the woods.
    About two miles out of Callahan, down service road 108 past the junction of 301, A1A, and U.S. 1 North, Billy spotted the red-white-and-blue Amoco sign.
    He had no idea what the kid’s father looked like or what his name was—Something Valentine. (Sounded like a Delbert McClinton song.) And all he’d been told was to bring the kid to the blue shack in a lot about twotenths of a mile past the station on SR 108—which was where the transfer would be made.
    He also didn’t know what the guy was driving. But the guy knew what
Billy was driving because they had supplied the van, dropping it off in a mall parking lot with the key and an advance of three thousand dollars cash and promise of the balance on delivery.
    (It had crossed Billy’s mind to take the money and run, but he was told the guy was good people and true to his word. And ten grand to bag a kid was a piece of cake. Besides, Billy had his professional code. Not good for business.)
    He pulled slowly past the Amoco lot, which was one of those gas station /minimart setups that were open twenty-four hours and manned by a couple of kids. He drove on, checking his rearview mirror. Nothing—just black road as far back as he could see.
    Around the bend, he saw the lot, and set back under some trees a dark locked shack with a big sign reading BOILED PEANUTS—SALTED AND CAJUN STYLE. They were big in Central Florida with stands dotting the roadsides. But Billy could never understand the attraction. They looked like cat turds and tasted worse.
    There were no other cars in the lot, so he backed in, facing the road, and turned off his headlights, keeping the motor running. He was early. He reached under his seat and pulled out his Python. It was fully loaded. He always had it on these jobs—standard operating procedure, whether he knew his clients or not. It made him feel more comfortable about driving off into the night with seven thousand dollars.
    He kept the CD playing, but very softly so he could hear the outside sounds. There were none but cicadas and frogs.
    After ten minutes, he began to get nervous. He turned off the CD.
    After ten more minutes, he began to wonder if this was the right place. He looked back at the kid, who had stirred, but didn’t wake up. He wished the guy would arrive, because he didn’t want to have to go back there and shoot up the kid again if he awoke. Let the old man take care of that. He had done his part.
    Twelve minutes later, Billy was still waiting, the kid still asleep. The dashboard clock said 10:04. He was over half-an-hour late.
    Just as Billy began to think he had the wrong place, a big black Mercedes pulled alongside. Startled, Billy gripped his gun, his heart thumping like a kettle drum in his chest.
    The driver gave a little wave and got out. He was alone. He was about six feet and slender, dressed in dark pants and a pullover. His hands were empty
and there was no gun in his pants or holster across his torso. But around his neck he wore a stethoscope.
    “Sorry I’m late,” said the man.
    Billy nodded. Already he was feeling better, especially with the big M500. Billy imagined he was a wealthy millionaire who would take his kid off to a foreign country to beat an extradition rap. What didn’t make sense was how he had ended up with a trailer-trash wife. Unless he had met her in a bar on some business trip down here and one drink led to the next and that led to some hotel bed where he knocked her up. Billy had glimpsed the mother during stakeout. She was a looker.
    The man peered into the windows of the van. “You have Travis?”
    “Yup.”
    “Good.”
    “You the father?”
    “Uncle,” the man said. “Can I see him?”
    “First things first,” Billy said. He got out of the van, holding the Python at arm’s length.
    “You don’t need that,” the man said.