Page 5 of The Last Grift
“Idiot.”
The truck’s canopy had been left open, and the bed was packed with white five-gallon buckets stuffed with chanterelles and bulging black plastic garbage bags, likely full of mushrooms too.
“Dammit. Can’t these fuckers find something else to do? Maybe my new campaign slogan for the park should be: Take a day off from exploiting the environment.I’d make a damn bumper sticker for that.”
Bowie barked in agreement.
Casey leaned across the seat and grabbed his service weapon, a SIG Sauer P320, out of the glove box. He knew who was out there and also to never approach them unarmed. Hequickly checked that the SIG was loaded before sliding it into his hip holster.
“Is it too much to ask that they harvest the legal amount? Five fucking gallons each. Not rocket science.”
He estimated that the amount of mushrooms already in the back of Calvin’s truck was worth thousands of dollars on the black market. Overharvesting was a real issue, but the Perkins brothers didn’t care. They just wanted the fast cash.
“Probably need new fucking tires for that monstrosity.”
The brothers were a bane on the county—on the entire country, in Casey’s opinion. They’d run wild since they were kids and had somehow made it into their thirties still alive, to the surprise of most, but were now completely ungovernable. Casey had the bad fortune to be the same age as the younger brother, Dwayne, which meant he’d been threatened daily with toilet dunkings or even more clever “smear the queer” shit until Casey’d skipped fourth grade. Casey doubted Dwayne knew what queer was at that time in his life, but it rhymed and was hateful so he’d liked it.
Over the years, the Perkins brothers had learned the hard way to be wary of Casey and, more recently, of Bowie.
“Come on,” said Casey, opening his door.
Bowie woofed and jumped down, his tail sticking straight out. This was going to be better than a boring walk in the woods.
“By me,” Casey commanded, tapping his thigh.
The brothers were trompingaround in the underbrush not far from the road, not trying to be silent. They didn’t expect anyone else to be up that way. Casey could hear Calvin talking like always, this time muttering at his brother, and Dwayne’s answers were indistinct murmurs.
Moving quickly and quietly, Casey transferred thePerkinses’ harvest from their truck into the back of his. They weren’t the type to stick around to give him a hand after he dealt with them. The final confiscation count was six buckets and two trash bags, and Casey had a slight sheen of sweat on his face to show for his efforts. It was surprising how heavy a five-gallon bucket of mushrooms was.
That taken care of, Casey and Bowie followed the trail the brothers had created tramping back and forth with their bags and buckets. They weren’t far, less than an eighth of a mile from the road, and they’d discovered a bonanza of what to Casey looked like goldens. Unnoticed, Casey stood to the side for a minute, watching and using his cell phone to record their activity. Never hurt to have proof.
After a minute or so, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
“Calvin, Dwayne, I’m going to need to see your state permit.” His voice sounded loud in the hush of the woods.
The brothers straightened, their heads jerking and twisting toward him like some child’s toy bobbing on a spring. Maybe that possessed doll, Chuckie?
“Shit.” Calvin swiped a hand across his face, leaving a black streak of dirt in its wake. He was the talker. A bit bigger, a bit uglier. Less hair, but more tattoos than his brother. But they both wore Realtree camo hunting fatigues. Casey was certain they were armed but he didn’t see any weapons.
Dwayne had always been eerily quiet, usually content to let his brother do the talking—except when he’d bullied Casey. Like Calvin, he had grown into a big man who enjoyed intimidating others. He glared at Casey, making his opinion clear. The man didn’t need to speak.
Not wanting to be ignored, Bowie released one short, sharp bark that drew the brothers’ attention to him.
“Keep your fucking dog off us,” Calvin snarled. He backedup a few steps, into a dip in the soft earth, and had to windmill his arms to keep from falling.
“I’m confiscating the mushrooms,” Casey informed them. “Five gallons each is the limit unless you have a permit.” It wasn’t as if the two of them didn’t already know that. “Do you have a permit you’d like to show me?”
“Fuck that,” Calvin spat. “There’s plenty for everyone.”
Casey did not take his eyes off Calvin or Dwayne. Mushroom hunting was both skill and luck. From the sheer volume of what they’d had in their truck, Casey thought they’d found more than one spot in the forest to harvest from.
“There won’t be for long,” Casey told them and not for the first time. “I’ll allow you to keep a bucket each, but I’m confiscating the rest.”
Calvin groaned, a guttural, disturbing sound. Bowie growled again and took a step forward.
“Hold,” Casey commanded.
Bowie shot Casey a disappointed side-eye, like his owner had somehow failed to pass a test. Part herding dog, Bowie was more of a nipper than a biter, but Calvin and Dwayne didn’t know that. And at eighty pounds, he was big. No one wanted an eighty-pound dog rushing them at crotch level.
