Free A Thousand Lies by Sharon Sala Page A

eating and laughing, maybe laughing at him.
    He took the next turn and headed home, eating as he drove. But when he got to the turn-off leading to Wisteria Hill, he drove past and farther up the road. The workers would go on without him for a while. He had more pressing matters to which he needed to attend.
     
    ****
     
    Voltaire LeDeux lived as far off the beaten path as a man could live, which was just far enough for strangers to get their asses lost and suffer the consequences. He was, for all intents and purposes, anonymous. He had no birth certificate, because his mama had birthed him all by herself in the bed in which he now slept. He’d never been to a public school in his life, and the one time someone had come to insist his mother was breaking the law by keeping him at home, she’d run him off the property with a shotgun. He got the message he weren’t welcome and never went back.
    As a result, he’d never been listed on a census. He didn’t have a social security number because he’d never worked. He existed entirely from the food he hunted or grew.
    His clothes came in trade for his services, and while there wasn’t a woman living who’d been willing to live such a meager existence, Voltaire did not do without sex when he wanted it. He did favors for people who did favors for him. That’s how it worked. And that’s why, when he saw Anson Poe pull up in his yard, he got up from the bench on what passed for his porch, and waited for his approach.
    “Hey, Voltaire, long time-no see,” Anson said and handed him a small package. “For when you’re in the mood.”
    Voltaire took the marijuana, laid it on the bench and then walked over to a small bucket sitting in the shade.
    “You got a bucket in that truck?” Voltaire asked.
    Anson went back to the truck, got a small plastic bucket out of the truck bed and handed it to Voltaire, who dumped the contents into Anson’s bucket.
    “Crawfish. I thank you, Voltaire. That’ll be good eating.”
    Voltaire nodded and only then pocketed his weed. He would accept a gift, but he had to give one in return. He lived his life by never being beholden to another man.
    “I have business,” Anson said, carefully eyeing the leather-faced man with the small, black eyes.
    Although Voltaire looked innocent enough, he knew the man was always armed, most usually a hunting knife he used for skinning gators.
    “Take a seat,” Voltaire said, indicating the bench he’d just vacated.
    Anson set his bucket aside and pulled out the wad of cash he was carrying. “What I need will require payment to others to make it happen.”
    Voltaire leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He knew all there was and more about Anson Poe. He didn’t want him for an enemy, but he wasn’t afraid of him either.
    “Tell me what you need, and I will tell you how much it will cost,” he said.
    “Payback,” Anson said.
    Voltaire nodded once. “Revenge is costly. Kindly elaborate.”
    “I want two fires set.”
    “Name the places.”
    “Frenchie’s.”
    Voltaire’s eyes widened slightly. It was his only reaction to setting fire to what his mama had called a house of ill repute.
    “And the other?”
    “The Black Garter on a Saturday night.”
    Voltaire stood. “Entering into a war with Grayson March will end badly.”
    Anson unfolded his six-foot plus height as a muscle jerked at the corner of one eye. “Do you want the job or not?”
    “This will cost much money.”
    Anson opened his fist, revealing the wad of one hundred dollar bills. “There’s five thousand dollars here. If you need more, I’ll get it.”
    “It will suffice,” Voltaire said, and held out his hand.
    “Within the week,” Anson added.
    Voltaire nodded once, then went into his house and shut the door.
    Anson picked up his crawfish, got back in his truck, and headed home. Back on the main road, he caught a glimpse of a vehicle he didn’t recognize parked back up in the woods. Grayson March thought he