Chapter 1 West Virginia
On the fifth weekend of the new semester, Betty came home and paid Jamie eight thousand dollars for the third batch from his uncle’s farm. Even though Hank had doubled Jamie’s share, Jamie told her there were better ways to work their business.
“Hank is out. No more pot from me.”
Jamie did not expect Betty’s reaction.
“How can you say that? After all Hank has done for you! That’s not fair!”
She looked into space—somewhere above Jamie’s head.
“Fair? I can’t believe you’re talking about what’s fair. But I do think I understand. You only care about what pleases you! And I think maybe all Hank has done is cheat me!”
Betty rolled her eyes, pouted, and went back to her mother’s.
On Sunday afternoon, before Betty left for school, she came over to Jamie’s apartment for another duffle bag of pot. She told him she had promised Hank she would bring it.
“Can’t do it right now. I’ve got to go visit my mother. Besides that, I don’t have any ready. But I’ll drive up and bring him two of them Thursday evening. But that’s it! No more!”
“You don’t even know where he lives. He’s not at the college, he’s off-campus, just outside of Bethany.”
“Well, I suppose you could give me his address.”
Exasperated, she agreed and wrote directions to Hank’s.
“Best come around seven in the evening, and be sure you call first. Here’s his number. Hank’s got school... And a job.”
He showed up and knocked on Hank’s door at seven-thirty Wednesday morning. Half-asleep, Betty opened it, wearing an oversized white terry-cloth bathrobe. Jamie had not called ahead. She was surprised. So was Hank.
Jamie didn’t say a word. He looked hard at them, turned around, walked to his truck and drove back to Ripley—with both duffle bags.
The following weekend, Betty came by.
“Hank says to tell you to give me three duffle bags to take back to him now… Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else we’re calling the cops and getting you arrested, you dumb bastard.”
“We who?”
“Me ’n Hank.”
“Yeah, sure... Enough of this. Get the hell out of here!”
The next week, Jamie finished drying the crop. He called his friend in Charleston to work out something.
It’s not the best deal I could’ve made, but it’s acceptable.
He packed the pot in old chicken feed sacks. Because the load was more than he could conceal in the truck bed, he strapped it tight under an old canvas tarp. Babe jumped up on the shotgun seat, and they headed for Charleston.
Things might not go the way I planned, tho.
His paranoia got the best of him, so he stopped at a gun shop outside the city. A Beretta .32 caliber semi-automatic pistol caught his eye. He bought it, some ammo, and stashed them under old roadmaps in the glove compartment.
The Charleston transaction was smooth and easy. Jamie now had sixty-five thousand dollars stuffed into his jeans pockets and half a feed sack of pot in the back of the truck. He rolled a joint for the ride back to Ripley and played his Marine Band harmonica, Babe yodeling along.
A speeding police car with siren blaring startled him as it passed a couple of blocks from his place. He almost ran off the road. Jamie made a right turn and parked mid-block. He got out, moved the sack into the cab, and walked towards his apartment. Babe could guard the truck.
From a block away, he saw four squad cars parked in front. Framed by his windows, silhouettes moved back and forth, illuminated by lights inside.
Jamie turned and walked back to his Chevy, jumped in and drove.
Rage over Betty’s betrayal exploded as he sped toward Bethany.
Damn her to hell!
He slammed his fist on the dashboard and let out a terrifying yell. Babe curled up tight in the far corner of the floorboard.
Full of fury, on the run, Jamie hit Hank’s flimsy apartment door with his shoulder. It was five-thirty in the morning when he burst in and entered the bedroom. He threw back the covers and pressed his .32 to Hank’s kneecap and fired.
Surprise and disbelief crossed Hank’s face for a split second before the pain overtook him.
Betty shrieked and struggled to get out of bed, but Jamie grabbed her ankle and jerked her close. He twisted her leg and fired a second shot—into the side of her knee.
Jamie had carried the feed sack from his truck and left it outside their door. He ducked back into the hallway, grabbed it and dumped pot all over the living room.
He ran to his truck. The screams faded.
At a pay phone next to a 7-Eleven outside town, Jamie dialed 911.
“Two crazy druggies in my building just shot each other. Send the police and an ambulance—quick!”
He gave Hank’s name and address and hung up.
