“I told you I’ll pay you.” Worth felt his limbs trembling with anger. Jura, he was sure, was one of the bastards who had cut his traps.
Jura looked at him hard, his eyes narrow. “I hope you do.”
Worth brushed past him, and then, on impulse, gave him a little shove with his shoulder as he went by. Jura seized his collar and hauled him around, pushing his beefy face into Worth’s, breathing beer breath over him.
“Listen, punk. You lied when you bought that diesel, said you had the cash on you. So you pay me, cocksucker, or I’m gonna make a bow tie of your balls, hang them round your neck, and send you off to dancing school.” He pushed Worth away, turned his back, and said over his shoulder, “I want the money. Before noon tomorrow. You got that, Worthless?”
Worth reached in, hand closed around the grip of the RG. Keeping his back turned, Jura began working on one of the swivel lifts, hunching over it, unscrewing a bolt.
“Asshole,” Worth said.
Jura ignored him. Worth began to ease out the gun, then thought better of it. He would get Jura later. Now he had bigger fish to fry. And he needed more diesel, somewhere, somehow.
He walked down the pier to his truck parked in the lot, felt in his pocket for the keys. They’d already cut him off in New Harbor and Muscongus. To get fuel he’d have to drive his boat all the way to Boothbay and even then he probably wouldn’t get credit. He needed to get the diesel here, now, right away, if his plan was to succeed.
He shoved the key into the ignition and turned, the engine wheezing, grinding, and finally starting. He checked the gas gauge; enough to get him to Waldoboro.
Easing it into drive, he heard the clunk of the transmission as it shifted. He lurched out of the lot and took a right on Route 32, heading for Waldoboro.
The white clapboard house stood on the main road, porch sagging, paint peeling, dead car on blocks on the lawn. Dusk was falling and the lights were on in the attached barn. Worth parked in the driveway, got out, and went to the side barn door. He gave it a double rap. He felt a lot better since he’d smoked a little crank on the way over. That shaky feeling had left his legs and his mind felt clearer, stronger.
“Who is it?” came a voice.
“Worth.”
The sound of a lock being turned. The door opened and Devin Doyle stood there, in painter’s overalls, holding a beer and a cigarette. His hair stuck out, he hadn’t shaved; he was one of those thirty-year-olds who looked eighteen. And acted it.
“Hey, Randy, you fucking ape, whassup?”
Worth came in and Doyle shut the door behind him, turning all the locks. The back of the barn was piled high with stolen furniture, covered with dirty tarps.
“Beer?”
Worth grabbed a Bud Light and threw himself down on a ratty sofa. He took a long pull, draining half the can. He put it on the table and closed his eyes.
Doyle collapsed in a sofa chair. “Hey, Randy, you seen those new Britney photos with the shaved pussy? I got ’em on my computer, you won’t believe—”
“I’ve come for my cut,” said Worth.
“Hey, man, what’s this shit? Your cut?”
“You heard me.” He slowly opened his eyes and stared.
“I told you: when I get paid, you get paid.” Doyle sucked in a last lungful, blew it back out, stubbed the cigarette in a clamshell sitting by his chair. He hunted around with his hand for the beer, found it, picked it up.
“I boosted that crap off Ripp Island a week ago,” said Worth. “I took a risk. I did my job. Now I want my cut.” He could feel a muscle in his neck beginning to twitch.
“We don’t even know what your cut is until I move the shit. Antiques aren’t like flat-screens. I told you this would take time, and you agreed.”
Closing his eyes again, playing it cool, Worth said: “Sorry. Don’t got no stinkin’ time. I brought you a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of antiques and I want my money.” He popped open his eyes, dropped his booted leg to the floor. “Capisce?”
“Hey, Randy, don’t talk shit to me. I’ll be lucky to get ten—and you’ll get half, like we agreed. When I get paid. Okay?”
“Not okay, dickweed.”
Doyle fell silent. Randy picked up the beer, drained it, crushed the can in his hand, and