Graveyard Fields
Page 28
“Don’t worry, Junebug. I hear you loud and clear.”
After a long moment Junebug lowered his knife and went back to his dinner. The conversation then turned from graveyards and threats to women.
“Got me a date with Daiquiri this Saturday,” Dale said. “I told ya she’d come around.”
“I’m not sure if I fully trust her,” I said.
Dale scoffed. “It ain’t her trust I’m after.”
* * *
I didn’t have any interest in staying to watch Thanksgiving Day football, so after the meal I tried to convince Dale to give me a growler of his pale ale to take home. It would have been easier to convince him to donate a kidney. I thanked Junebug and then limped out to my car. Dale followed me and told me to hold up when I reached the Mercedes.
“Here,” he said as he dug around in his pants pocket.
“Don’t say here to me while you fiddle with your dick.”
Dale pulled a prescription bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to me. I looked at the label. It was my Xanax bottle.
“Did you take this from the bathroom?”
“Yeah, I saw it in there when I was drying my shirt after you puked all over it.”
“Why’d you take it?”
Dale shrugged. “I don’t know. I was so fuckin’ pissed off with you that night, thinking you had something to do with that hippie up at Graveyard Fields. I figured maybe you was strung out on them pills, so I took ’em.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Aw, I think you care about me.”
Dale took a step back. “The fuck I do. You’re dumb as shit, and your taste in women sucks. You know what you need?”
“No. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You need to get your ticket punched. That’d fix your anxiety. You oughta call Tanya; we could double date.”
“Yeah, I’ll give that some thought. And by the way, I’m not dumb as shit. Do I have to remind you I solved this mystery? I’m the one who realized Skeeter was involved in the whole thing.”
Dale grunted and dug out his tin of tobacco.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you sure let that skinny piece of ass pull one over on you.”
“You mean Beth?”
“Fuck you,” Dale said with a grin.
I had to admit Dale was right. Byrd seemed to think Diana was innocent, but I wasn’t so sure. I was going to have to wait and see if the brewery suddenly became property of the bank. If not, then somewhere, somehow, Diana would have found $250,000. Maybe a loan from a rich relative? A refinancing agreement with the bank? A few more chests buried near the parkway?
“We’ll never know what was really in her safe,” I said.
Dale laughed. “Well, it weren’t gold. Shit, I told you there was nothin’ to that from the very beginning.”
“So did Junebug and Byrd,” I said. “Seems like anyone with any sense knows that gold is just another one of Ol’ Gerald Johnson’s lies.”
I climbed in the Mercedes and shut the door. When Dale came over to the window, I rolled it down.
“You ever gonna write that book?” he said.
“Maybe. But first I’m going to write an email to an attorney in Charleston. I think there might be a settlement check on the other end of that.”
Dale grinned. “Now you’re talking. You get that, you can afford to rent my cabin for another six months.”
“I might just do that.”
“I’ll have to go up on the rent, since it’ll be summer, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
I pushed the car’s ignition button and plugged my phone into the stereo jack. Dale waited by the window to see what I was going to play. When “Flying High Again” started, Dale’s face illuminated in a way that endeared him to me more than I’m comfortable admitting.
“That’s your theme song, buddy.”
“Indeed it is. See you around, big man.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Dale said. “I’m still in the dark about something.”
I turned the stereo down, and Dale leaned in close. “How does this fuckin’ thing start without no key?”
I shook my head. “Haven’t we had enough conversations about keys?”
* * *
I drove down the gravel driveway, then glanced in my rearview mirror and saw Dale walk back into the house. Dale was good people, I had to admit it. Most of the time I wanted to punch him in his pudgy face, but I knew that if I were ever in trouble, I could call him anytime, night or day, and he’d show up full of fire and fury. That’s a good friend to have.
When I reached the Johnson family graveyard, I stopped and stared at the tombstones. I wasn’t about to get out of the car for a closer look. I didn’t doubt that Junebug was telling the truth when he’d said he’d shoot me if he found me there.
Like most graveyards, this one was full of things that were better off left undisturbed. No reason to go messin’ around in there was what Junebug had said, and I knew he was right. Sheriff Byrd had been right too, when he said you never know what’s out there waiting for you. For that matter, Floppy had been right when he said that a woman getting her nipple pierced was as stupid as a man putting a nail through his dick. Maybe Dale had been right too when he’d told me I needed to get my ticket punched. Maybe I’d call Tanya or Joanne. Or maybe not.
I’d encountered some pretty heavy wisdom since coming to Cruso. I wondered what else I’d learn if I decided to stick around for a while.
I looked again in my rearview mirror and saw Junebug standing just outside the front door of the house. He was watching me and I knew why. I turned back to the graveyard and stared at the unmarked tombstone, a smooth column of weathered cement. I didn’t know if Ol’ Gerald Johnson was buried under that stone or not, but I had a pretty good idea what was.
Author Biography
Steven Tingle was born and raised in western North Carolina. Before becoming a writer he was a golf resort manager, real estate developer, and restauranteur. As a journalist specializing in travel, style, and food and drink his work has appeared in Robb Report, Modern Luxury, Town, Tempus, and Discovery. He lives in upstate South Carolina with his wife Jess.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Steven Tingle
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-686-5
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-687-2
Cover design by Nicole Lecht
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
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First Edition: August 2021
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