Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

wanted a good job.”
    “What are you talking about?” Goat asked, perplexed.
    “Northerner socialists down here trying to get the miners unionized,” the second old man explained. “Agitators.”
    “The mine owners want the unions stopped?” Goat asked.
    There was a snort. “They want it nipped in the bud.”
    The three cops were on a direct course for the barbershop.
    “Shame about them boys,” Clarence repeated, taking the last of the shaving cream off Goat’s face with a flourish of his razor.
    “It is a shame,” Goat said, pointedly nodding toward the approaching cops. “Think they’ll find out who did it?”
    There was another snort from one of the old men.
    Clarence took a warm towel and patted Goat’s face. “Everyone knows who had them boys killed.” He looked to the approaching cops. “Even they know.”
    One of the men said, “Everyone knew that old man was making shine and not paying his due. If we knew, Cassidy knew.”
    Cassidy Lane.
    The three cops stopped at the square as a farm truck rolled by. Two of them were state troopers in their gray uniforms and Smokey Bear hats. The last man, in a tan uniform, was Aaron Grubbs, chief deputy under the Bell County sheriff.
    “You think Cassidy had them killed?” Goat asked.
    “There any doubt?” Clarence asked just before the bell above the door jingled.
    What Clarence didn’t say but every man in the room knew was that Aaron Grubbs ran protection for Cassidy Lane. If Grubbs was involved in the investigation, there would never be any arrests in the murders on the mountain.
    Raising his voice, the barber said, “Afternoon, Officers.” He pulled the warm towel from Goat’s face, threw it over his shoulder.
    “How long a wait for a haircut?” the tall blond trooper said.
    “We’re all done here,” Clarence said, spinning Goat’s chair so he could see the haircut and shave in the mirror. Goat nodded before he stood.
    “I told you Clarence would take care of you,” Chief Deputy Grubbs said. Shifting his attention to Goat, he asked, “Is that your hot rod out front there?”
    “Yes, sir,” Goat answered, standing.
    “One of those ’65 Pontiacs?” Grubbs asked. His voice was thin and reedy. He rested his left hand on the butt of the big old Smith & Wesson holstered at his hip.
    “It’s a ’66,” Goat replied. The blond trooper removed his hat and took a seat in the barber’s chair.
    “Don’t look like she’s got much wear,” Grubbs said. “But then I’ve not seen you around. Heard the judge sent you to Vietnam.”
    “He did,” Goat replied as he paid the barber. “Now I’m back.”
    “Weren’t you running shine for that old man that got himself killed?”
    “No, sir,” Goat lied, forcing a smile. “I’m making up for lost time, chasing girls and driving my hot rod.”
    “That a fact?” Grubbs said, like he didn’t believe Goat.
    “That’s a fact,” Goat replied, staring the older man dead in the eye.
    Clarence produced a fresh sheet and wrapped it around the blond trooper with a flourish. The second trooper hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, watching the exchange.
    “We found a load of whiskey abandoned halfway down that hill,” Grubbs said. “Word going around is that you were driving for the old man.”
    “Is that a fact?” Goat asked, still smiling.
    “That’s a fact,” Grubbs said. “Why would someone leave whiskey?”
    “Don’t know,” Goat responded, letting an edge creep into his voice. “You should ask Cassidy Lane.”
    Chief Deputy Grubbs’s eyes narrowed, and his lips set into a hard thin line.
    “Is that a fact?” the standing trooper said with an amused look.
    “That’s a goddamn fact,” Goat said as he strode past the law-men toward the door.
    Chapter 5
    Goat was scared. He had definitely stirred things up at Clarence’s barbershop, and now he was going to shove a stick in the hornet’s nest. He knew it was insane, and he could think of only one person crazy enough to go along with his idea.
    Goat idled the GTO to a stop. A road sign hung by a single nail from a pole. Copperhead Road. The road wasn’t more than twin ruts leading up a lonesome holler. Along the way were a few abandoned houses, falling down, left to the weeds and animals. Goat powered the Pontiac all the way to the flat top of a ridge where a simple house with a rusty tin roof sat. All the windows in the house were open, and the Doors’ “L.A. Woman” rattled the window frames.
    Goat killed the