Page 136 of Deacon

“I sold a horse to him,” I say. “It’s been fifteen years, but I think he’ll remember me. And this is serious.”

There’s a long silence.

“Fine, I’ll text you the contact I have,” he says. “Do not tell him it was me who gave you the number. Got it?”

“I got it,” I say.

He hangs up. A minute later, a number with a Kentucky area code appears, along with a threat of what he’ll do to me if I reveal it was him who sent it. Before I lose my nerve, I hit call and put the phone to my ear. It rings.

And rings.

There’s no voicemail—it just keeps going. Just as I’m about to give up, the phone clicks. A smooth, low voice, thick with a southern drawl, breaks through the poor connection.

“Brothers Boyd,” it drawls.

“This is Deacon Ryder,” I say. “I sold a palomino mare to you over a decade ago.”

There’s a silence, then: “Well, fuck me, Deacon Ryder,” he says. “You know, I could use another one of your fantastic horses sometime.”

“I got a good crop clearing next year,” I say.

“Well, I might just take you up on that,” he says. I hear the scrape of a chair on hardwood flooring. “You’ve got good horses, Ryder, made of fine stock. Now, what can I do you for?”

“I need a hit,” I say.

There’s a slow laugh, thick as syrup. “Right to the point. I like that,” he says. “What’s the name?”

“Braxton Whitaker.”

“That’s not known to me.”

“He’s from the Kentucky-West Virginia border. He might not be alive, but he was five years ago.”

“Hmm, got an address?”

“No, but he’s from Pike County.”

“Alright, let’s see now.” His voice is a low drawl that bubbles like a stream. Through his drawl, there's a thick vein of finery, not unlike the perfectly fitted checked blue suit he wore the day I delivered his horse.

“I can pay you,” I say.

“You can pay in cash, or I can take out a favor on you,” he says. “But I need to make sure this isn’t against my best interests first. Ifnot, I’ll have one of my boys pay him a visit next time they’re in the area.”

“I’ll pay cash.”

“That’s alright by me,” Boyd says. “Now, what did this man do to you?’

I consider telling him the story, but only for a half second. My hand tightens on my phone. No, he needs it in plain language so he understands.

“He fucked my wife.”

“I see,” he says. “Well, I didn’t know you were married, so congratulations on that account. Let me look into this, and I’ll have one of my secretaries reach out with either an invoice or a denial.”

“Thanks, I appreciate this.”

“Oh, I don’t mind it at all,” he says. “And you tell Mr. Childress that the gentleman from Kentucky says hello. He still owes me a fucking horse.”

“I don’t see him much, but I will,” I say.

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