Ten miles away on the dark side of Hillsborough, Sheriff Jock Shaw, half-uncle of Tommy Roy Foster and president of Madmax Enterprises, has been up for hours, plotting the final stages of a corporate takeover. It’s not another shopping mall he’s after, not this time. It’s not another school board either. Been there, done that. No, this time Jock Shaw is making his biggest power play yet. He's taking control of the state supreme court. The election is Tuesday.
“God damn it.” Shaw yells into thin air, a Bluetooth headset planted in his fleshy bald head. At six-four and two-eighty, he’s a big man with a big temper and a big stinky cigar stuck between his teeth. “Just tell me where the hell we stand.” His voice echoes though the cavernous kitchen of Shawmoor as he looks out across acres of manicured lawn. Near the south fence, a whitetail buck grazes on hydrangeas his wife planted last spring. His ex-wife.
“We stand exactly where we should be standing,” soothes the familiar voice of Tommy Roy Foster. The uncle and nephew are partners in politics, business and crime – one and the same thing to their way of thinking. “Ye'll win again, Uncle Jock. Tis a matter of fact.”
“Ye canna be sure. Not this time.”
“Ye’ve outspent them and ye've outsmarted them. We're ready to file fraud complaints anywhere the count is close. It’s check and mate, Uncle Jock. Ye've done it.”
“The darkies, Tommy Roy. They’ll be out in force.”
“Nay, Uncle Jock. They’ll no be turnin’ out.”
Frowned with skepticism, Shaw takes his Browning deer rifle from the closet and walks to the back deck. He can barely make out the shape of the buck in the drizzly dawn, but barely is good enough for Jock Shaw. The rifle’s blast shocks damp air as he watches through the scope, watches the animal hobble thirty yards with a shattered shoulder, then collapse. He fires again and misses.
“Bloody breeders,” he says, tossing his cigar at the yard.
On the other end of the phone Tommy Roy takes the shooting in stride. He’s still in bed, porn surfing on his laptop. It’s a familiar sideshow, these gunshots, a regular feature of their morning briefings.
Back inside, Shaw watches through binoculars, watches the buck struggle and fail to stand. He pours another cup of coffee, his third this morning, stirring in a splash of Glenkinchie single-malt.
Tommy Roy waits, always waits.
“What about that goddamn TV reporter?”
“Which one?”
“The faggot.”
“Which one?”
“That one from Raleigh.”
“No worries, Uncle Jock. That story is under control,” says Tommy Roy in his surest voice.
Shaw finds himself wishing his wife hadn’t left him alone in this cold stone house. He shouldn’t have hit her, no matter how uppity she got. She may have been only half his size, but that woman knew how to handle reporters. She used to be one.
“Yer too smart for yer own damn good, Tommy Roy Foster," says Shaw.
Tommy Roy bites his tongue. He’s smart alright, smarter than Jock Shaw will ever be. Besides, his uncle’s starting to lose it, anyone can see that. The same downward spiral he witnessed in his own pathetic father, Jock’s half brother. Vascular dementia laced with scotch. Memory loss. Mood swings. Confusion. Violence. Rage.
“I may verra well be too smart for me own damn good, Uncle Jock, but I tell ye this for a fact. The story will run on the evening news tonight. I’ve seen the rough cut.”
“And?”
“And ye’ll be pleased.”
Shaw ends the call without saying goodbye. He cinches his tartan bathrobe as he watches the buck surrender to death. Satisfied, he turns to the newspaper on the kitchen table, where there’s a front-page story about him trying to buy the state supreme court. Bloody hell. He’s not even spending five million dollars. He’s only doing god’s will. Fucking faggots. They can’t stop him.
He flips to the weather page, studying the five-day outlook. Clearing skies for the next five days, including Tuesday, election day. God damn it. Bad weather is what keeps the darkies from voting. Everybody knows that.
But maybe it won’t matter this time. Tommy Roy said he’s going to win. Again.
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