by Jon McGoran
I moved the menu out of his way, and he sat, sipping his black coffee before putting it on the table. “Sorry about yesterday,” he said, taking another sip.
“Me, too.”
“You’re Frank Menlow’s kid. Doyle, right?”
Close enough, I thought, as I nodded.
“Sorry. Frank was good people. Meredith, too. Classy lady.”
“Thanks.”
He put out his hand. “I’m Bert Squires.”
“I thought maybe you were Branson,” I said, shaking it.
He laughed. “Branson died thirty years ago. But yeah, this is my place. I didn’t want you to think that what went on yesterday was normal behavior around here.”
“It isn’t? Didn’t seem like the first time that guy had pulled something like that.”
“Who, Dwight?” Squires laughed and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, Dwight Cooney is a piece of work, but he’s mostly harmless.”
Let him punch you in the head, I thought, then tell me he’s harmless. “He didn’t seem harmless when he grabbed the lady’s arm.”
“Yeah, well. He’s got it bad for her.”
“He’s got a strange way of showing it.”
He leaned forward, the wooden chair creaking under him. “I’m afraid Dwight never got past the pigtail-pulling phase of male-female relationships.”
It seemed like more than that to me, but the guy was making an effort, so I let it go.
“Anyway,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “What’ll you have?”
I went with the bacon. The food came out fast, and it was excellent: eggs a little runny, bacon crisp and even. When I was done, Squires came back and told me it was on the house.
“Thanks,” I said. “If I’d known ahead of time, I would have gotten the sausage, too.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
* * *
Stepping outside Branson’s, I practically bumped off of the heat. Nothing like a big fried breakfast to help you enjoy the summer weather. Still, the way the grease was sitting in my stomach, I figured a quick walk around town might help. The retail district was barely two blocks long, and I’d already walked half of it. I turned in the direction away from Bricker’s office and walked past a handful of shops and a bank before I came to a vacant hardware store and a rusty but operational gas station. That was it. I turned the corner and started heading back along the next street up, figuring I’d circle back to my car.
The street was more like an alley, a couple of fenced yards on the left, some Dumpsters and the backs of the stores on the right. Someone was leaning against a utility pole halfway up the block, smoking a cigarette. He was doing something with his hands, but I couldn’t figure out what.
He was big, maybe six-four. As I got closer, I saw sunlight reflecting off something shiny on his face and I recognized him as the guy from George Arnett’s Escalade. He looked like he recognized me, too, staring at me with that bored expression some people think is intimidating.
I looked back at him with a steely gaze that I thought was intimidating, but he looked away from me, uninterested, and went back to what he was doing with his hands.
As I got a little closer, I realized he was holding a pack of matches, and he was flicking them, lit, toward a row of fences. When I was twenty feet away, he put the cigarette to his lips and took a long pull, like there was more than one drag left in it, but he needed to finish. Then he flicked it onto the ground between us.
I watched it bounce on the cement. Then I looked up at him. “That’s littering,” I said.
He gave me that same bored stare and as he tore off another match, I heard a raspy mewing sound. Following both the direction of the sound and the trajectory of the matches, I looked down and saw a scruffy gray tabby backed into a corner where two sections of fence met. Its ears were flat against its head and its spine was arched. The ground in front of it was littered with matches, a few of them still lit.
The asshole leaning against the pole was pressing another match to the flint strip on the cover. Before I really thought about it, about how I was suspended and out of jurisdiction, I reached out and slapped the matches away from him.
Before they hit the ground, his hand shot out and smacked my face, enough to sting. I brought up my right, a tight fist with a little too much behind it.
One moment he was there, then suddenly he wasn’t.
One moment I felt his arm on my neck, then suddenly—well that was about it, really.
Technically, I wouldn’t call it a K.O., but the next thing I knew, I was horizontal on the sidewalk, and I was alone. The spent matches were less than a foot from my face. One of them was still lit, but it went out as I watched, releasing a thin thread of smoke that made little loops in the turbulence from my breath.
The cat was gone.
I sat up slowly and looked around, but the street was empty. My head felt like it was full of overcooked oatmeal. I checked myself for injuries and found no lumps, no bumps, nothing other than a tingle where he’d slapped my face, and a similar sensation on the left side of my neck. I’d heard of martial arts moves that could put a man out with a slap on the carotid artery, cause the blood pressure to go haywire. I’d read that they were frowned upon because while the victim usually woke up unharmed moments later, sometimes the victim didn’t wake up at all, having bled out from a torn carotid artery. I guess that was a chance my new friend was willing to take.
The world sloshed unpleasantly as I pushed myself up off the ground. I steadied myself on the utility pole and dusted off my shirt and pants, keeping my anger in check and directed at myself. Walking stiffly back toward my car, I thought about how much I hoped to run into that guy again, and how much that town was starting to seriously piss me off.
Halfway home, I came upon a figure walking along the side of the road, looking as pathetic as I felt—shoulders slumped, feet dragging, and a big wet spot in the middle of his back.
I pulled up next to him and lowered the window. “Moose.”
His skin was blotchy, and his face was dripping, like he’d been walking in the heat long enough to remember how much he’d had to drink the night before.
He walked around to the passenger side and got in. Without asking, he reached over and cranked up the air conditioning, moving the vent in his direction. “I feel like crap.”
“Mmm,” I said with a sarcastic smile. “Squish.”
Normally, I might have piled it on a little thicker, but having your ass handed to you is humbling, and I still felt a tiny bit woozy. He sank back in his seat and closed his eyes.
“So that’s your friend Carl?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t mention he was a junkie.”
“What?” He opened his eyes and sat up a little. “Squirrel’s not a junkie. Are you kidding? He’s like, Mr. Healthy Natural. That’s why he makes his own hooch. He doesn’t want to put chemicals into his body.”
“He wouldn’t be the first to make an exception for drugs.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s organic junk, but he’s using.”
“Dude, you are so wrong. You’re just thinking like a cop.”
I gave him a look. “His eyes were half-closed, his pupils were constricted, and his nose was runny.”
“That’s probably hay fever or something. Squirrel’s just high on life.”
“You don’t think he seemed stoned?”
Moose shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Maybe he was a little more high on life than usual, but that’s all.”
* * *
Moose was practically asleep by the time we got home. His head had left a smudge where it slid down the window.
I was feeling a little worse for wear myself, and after I stopped the car in the driveway and shut off the engine, I let my eyes rest for a moment.
When I opened them, I saw Nola Watkins charging up the driveway toward me with a look of murderous rage. My brain scrambled through everything I had said or done in the last tw
enty-four hours, but I couldn’t think of anything particularly egregious. That scared me even more, because usually it was the infractions you didn’t know about that got you in the most trouble.
I put the key in the ignition to start the car, but she walked around to the passenger side. That’s when I realized she wasn’t coming for me. She was coming for Moose.
16
“Uh, Moose…” I said, giving him just enough warning to open his eyes before she opened the door and he tumbled onto the ground.
“You idiot!” she shrieked.
Moose put up his hands like he thought she might actually hit him. “What?”
I climbed out of the car and hurried over in case I needed to get between them. Nola held up her left hand, and I saw that she was holding an ear of corn. “Look at this!”
Moose stared up at her, confused but too scared to ask her to clarify.
With an exasperated growl, she grabbed a handful of husk and silk and tore it away, exposing half the ear.
Moose squinted and tilted his head, screwing up his face as he stared at the ear of corn.
“Look at it!” she yelled at him. “It all looks like this!”
“What is that?” he asked.
The corn was mostly blue, but it was speckled with kernels that were a sickly gray color.
“Well, that’s a damn good question,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I … I…”
“I know,” she said. “You, you … You were supposed to take care of that plot. You said you knew heirloom corn, and I trusted you.” As quickly as it had erupted, her anger faded and her lip started to quiver. “I needed this client.”
She teetered for a second, like she was going to fall over, then she seemed to collapse inward instead. Moose got up and went to her, but she swatted him away, still too annoyed to take comfort from him.
That left me.
I didn’t want her to think I was taking advantage, but she was crying now, and she seemed like she needed a shoulder to do it on. I took a step closer and put my arm lightly around her, resting my hand on her upper arm.
She swayed into me. I could feel her warmth, and the slightness of her small frame. Even slack, though, her muscles felt strong and supple.
Her body shook once, a single deep, silent sob. She put her head against my chest and turned me toward the house. I felt like I was driving but she was steering.
Moose looked at me wide-eyed, shaking his head, his hands upraised, protesting his innocence as we walked past him. I shook my head back at him. Now was not the time to argue the point.
Nola’s effect on me had been strong since the first time I laid eyes on her, but as I walked her inside and we sat on the sofa, the effect was even stronger. Part of me wanted to make a move. Several parts, actually. But instead, I sat upright so she could lean against me. I smoothed her hair away from her face, and I waited until she was okay.
After ten minutes, she stiffened slightly and the pressure of her leaning against me lessened perceptibly. My back was cramping, but I didn’t want her to move any farther away, so I stayed where I was.
“Sorry,” she said in a whisper.
“It’s okay,” I whispered back.
I felt her head move against me, and when I looked down, she was looking up at me, her cheeks and the tip of her nose a soft pink. Even rimmed with red, her eyes were clear and strong.
The desire to kiss her was almost overwhelming, but she smiled self-consciously and gave me a pat on the cheek, then moved a few inches away. The air felt cold where her body was no longer touching mine.
* * *
“I put everything I had into this business,” she said, watching as I pulled a box of teabags out of the cabinet. The coffee was still out in the car. She had a crumpled tissue in her hand, occasionally dabbing her eyes, but she had regained her composure. “I just need to get to year three, get my organic cert, then I’ll be okay. It’s taken a while to get the crops growing right, get the business plan ironed out, get some steady customers. The restaurants are a good market, but this specialty catering thing—the high-end weddings and stuff—that’s what was going to keep me going until I got the certification. It’s all word of mouth, and a couple of jobs can make you or break you.”
The kettle started clearing its throat. Before it could start to sing, I turned off the burner and poured water into the two cups.
“It’s not just that I like working with the soil, out in the fresh air. There aren’t many jobs out there where you don’t have to worry about being exposed to some chemical or another. So far I’ve been lucky, my MCS isn’t real bad, and maybe I’m overly cautious, but I don’t want to push it and make it worse. I don’t want to end up being the crazy lady in the cubicle at the end who’s always asking people not to wear scented deodorant. This is a job where I know I can have a good life. A normal life. My last bit of operating capital went into that field of blue corn.” She shook her head. “Honest to God, chosen to match the bridesmaids’ gowns.”
I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the quart of milk, but immediately turned on the taps and emptied it down the drain. “Sorry,” I said, handing her one of the cups. “I hope you don’t take milk.”
She smiled. “It’s fine. I like it like this.” She held the cup with both hands, absorbing the warmth into her body.
“So what now?” I asked.
She shrugged, closing her eyes as she sipped her tea. “Who knows? I don’t even know what it is. It doesn’t look like smut or blight or wilt or any of the usual problems.”
She took another sip, so I did, too. It wasn’t coffee.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I know a horticulturist who works at the college out here.”
I smiled. “There’s a college out here?”
“Don’t be mean. Pine Crest Community has a very fine horticulture department.”
“So, when are you going to call her?”
“Him,” she said, looking at her watch. “He’s actually lecturing right now. It’s not far. It would probably be better if I just took the corn out there.” She paused again. “Any chance you feel like coming with me?”
“Um … sure.”
“It’s just that, well, I don’t want him to think there’s anything going on between you and me, but I definitely don’t want him to think there’s anything between him and me, either.”
I laughed ruefully. She wanted me to cock block for her.
“What?” she asked, reading my expression. “You don’t have to. It’s okay.”
“No, that’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Happy to help.”
* * *
Moose was sitting on the front steps, looking like a dog that had pooped on the rug. When we stepped out, he sprang to his feet.
“Nola, listen, I’m really sorry,” he said. “But I swear, I did everything you said, just the way you said. Everything.”
She put up a hand to silence him. “It’s okay, Moose. It’s all right.” She spoke calmly, but she didn’t look at him.
“Where are you going?”
She closed her eyes, like she didn’t want to answer him but she didn’t want to be rude. “We’re taking it to Jerry Simpkins,” she said, holding up the ear of corn in a big Ziploc bag.
“Nola, I’m really sorry.”
She put up her hand again. “Farming is like that.”
I got behind the wheel of my car without thinking about it. Nola got in the passenger side without a word. Guess I was driving, then.
“Make a right,” she said as I pulled out.
I looked back at Moose, sitting down on the steps. I felt bad for him, whether he had screwed up or not. I could see on his face that he felt terrible.
“Nice car,” she said as we drove away, looking at me with an amused expression.
She was right, it was a sporty little thing, a Nissan Z with more bells and whistles than I could really afford. She seemed to be waiting for an explanation. I didn
’t want to give her one, but I didn’t want her thinking I was compensating for anything other than the fact that I spend too much time in my car and have no life.
“It used to belong to a guy named Oscar Quezada,” I told her, “a coke dealer who liked to laugh at my Corolla. When Quezada was busted and his car was seized, I made sure I knew when it was coming up at the auction.”
I could feel her staring at me, trying to decide what to make of the story. I was still trying to figure that out myself.
“I probably bid more than it was worth,” I said, “but I made sure I got it. And I made sure he saw me driving it.”
17
Pine Crest College was twenty minutes away, just off the interstate. It had that college campus look, all stone walls and brick walkways, but if you looked closely, you could see it was all textured concrete.
We walked across a small quad, weaving between groups of students reading or talking, to a three-story stone building with “Markson Science Annex” etched across the top floor. We entered through a small glass atrium and went up half a flight of stairs to a long sunlit hallway with large windows along one side and double doors every thirty feet on the other side.
As we approached the first set of doors, Nola looked at her watch and said, “One-fifteen.”
The doors swung open, and a steady stream of students started filing through, the ambient sound in the hallway getting louder and louder with each additional voice.
Through the doors, I could see the professor, holding court over a cluster of female students. He had curly blond hair, just over his collar, but he was about my age, maybe older, and slightly thick around the middle. He had a sly smile, like he thought he was really something. The adoring gazes of his students said they thought so, too.
One by one, he was charming them, moving his gaze from one to the next like a rich kid shopping in his favorite candy store.
When he caught sight of Nola standing out in the hallway, however, his attention was on her and her alone. He swam through the students like a fish against a strong current, never taking his eyes off her.
“Nola Watkins, what a pleasant surprise,” he said with a flourish, giving her the same sly smile he’d used on the girls now standing dejectedly inside the lecture hall. “You’re looking very well.”
