Southern Gods Read Free Page A

the porch and toward his car. Untucked suspenders dangling at his sides, he walked with the rubbery gait of a sailor on leave, drunk and recently vigorous. At the car door, he fumbled with his keys.
    I could do this now. But he might not have the dough on him.
    Meerchamp pulled onto Pearl and headed south.
    Bugs made tracers in Ingram’s headlights as he tailed the Packard. Meerchamp parked at a large apartment building. Ingram cruised the block before parking.
    From the glove-compartment, he took a snub-nosed .38 and slipped it to the small of his back, followed by a foot-long leather-bound rod that he flattened to his forearm.
    He entered the building, passed the elevator, and checked the mailboxes. Meerchamp 713A. He entered the stairwell and bounded up the steps by threes until he reached the seventh floor.
    At apartment 713A, he stopped, scanned the hallway. No one. He rapped on the door.
    The voice, when it came, was hesitant. “Who is it?”
    Ingram kicked in the door, splintering the locks. He heard a satisfying oof as the door banged open.
    Ingram moved into the apartment, ducking his head. Meerchamp lay on the floor in his shirt-sleeves and boxers, blinking.
    “No!” the man screeched. “Help!”
    Ingram clubbed Meerchamp’s head with the sap, toppling the smaller man forward. He caught him by the neck with one big hand. Meerchamp’s breath whooshed out as Ingram yanked him into his chest.
    Desperate, he clawed at Ingram’s eyes.
    Ingram jerked his head back, snarling, holding Meerchamp out at arm’s length. He tossed him through the door, into the kitchen. Meerchamp slammed into the cabinets, head-first, and slumped to the floor.
    In a flash, Ingram was on him again, and dragged him to the sink, shoving the man’s head under the spigot. He cranked the water on. Meerchamp spluttered and screamed, fighting Ingram’s grip.
    “Goddammit, you son of a whore! What do you want?”
    Ingram banged Meerchamp’s head in the sink. “Stop playing games. You know why I’m here. Where’s the money?”
    “What?” The man’s voice pitched up an octave. “What money, what—”
    Ingram pulled him from the sink and smashed his face with the sap. The nose went flat, and the blood started coming.
    “The money. Where is it? Last chance.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    A ceramic pitcher sat on the counter, filled with wooden spoons, spatulas, whisks, and a meat tenderizer. Ingram grabbed the tenderizer and forced Meerchamp’s hand onto the counter.
    “Where’s the fucking money? Last chance.”
    “You already said last chance, you sonofabi—”
    Ingram slammed down the pewter mallet. The first blow sank into Meerchamp’s flesh and flattened the hand against the counter. The second blow pulped the man’s little finger. Meerchamp’s screams became frantic. No neighbors in sight but the man was getting too loud.
    Ingram bashed his head against the counter to quiet him.
    Meerchamp slumped to the kitchenette floor, face a bloody mess, eyes unfocused, barely moving. Ingram grabbed one of the dinette chairs and sat down, straddling it backward.
    “You got whiskey?” Ingram said. “Left mine in the car.”
    Meerchamp glanced at the ice-box. Ingram found a fifth of vodka in the freezer. He twisted off the cap and placed the open bottle at his mouth. Meerchamp sucked greedily.
    “You’re gonna lose those fingers.” Pulling the bottle away, Ingram brought it to his own lips and took a drink. “I can’t understand why you don’t just cough up the dough.”
    Meerchamp closed his eyes, leaning forward. Ingram propped the man up and patted his cheek.
    “Goddamn. Why didn’t you just pony it up?” Ingram shook his head. “Fuck. Put out your hand.”
    The smaller man looked at Ingram blankly.
    Ingram stood up and grabbed a dish towel. “You can die from wounds like that, soldier. Put out your hand.”
    The man stuck out his paw, and Ingram poured vodka over the man’s hand. Meerchamp