“I did.”
“He’ll be coming by here to get his truck in a few minutes and you can remind him.”
“I will.” Donnie looked over at his dead truck. “So, what will you give me for that piece of shit?”
“Give you? You owe me a dollar fifty.”
“The body must be worth something.”
Harold looked at the vehicle and then at Donnie. “Fifty.”
“Done.”
“No, fifty and I’ll get rid of it for you. I’m not paying a dime for that piece of junk.”
A 1976 white Chevy Malibu pulled into the yard. A tall, lanky man with a long dark braid unfolded from the passenger side. He walked toward the bay. The Malibu drove off.
“Keasey,” Harold greeted the man.
“All done?” Keasey asked.
“Yep.”
Donnie nodded. “Remember me?”
Keasey stared at Donnie and then shook his head. “You do look a little bit familiar.”
“St. Clair,” Donnie said.
“Oh, yeah. Danny, right?”
“Donnie. You remember me, don’t you? I’m the one that gave you your nickname.”
“What nickname is that?”
Donnie let out a confused, awkward chuckle and glanced at Harold. “Never-easy-Keasey.”
Keasey’s face grew hard. He looked away from Donnie toward his truck. “I always hated that name. So, that was you? Well, fuck you.”
Donnie took a deep breath. “I never knew it bothered you.”
Keasey’s face relaxed and he smiled. “I’m just fucking with you, dude.”
Donnie laughed.
“How much I owe you?” Keasey asked Harold.
“Thirty.”
“Good deal.”
“So, tell me, Keasey,” Donnie said. “What brings you back here?”
“I’m from here. My wife is having a baby and I want the kid born here, too. Why are you still here? That’s my question.”
Donnie shrugged. “I left for a while. Went to Iraq. I like here better than Iraq. It’s quieter.”
Keasey sneered. “Iraq is for pussies.”
“Fuck you,” Donnie said.
“Just messing with you again,” Keasey said and laughed.
Donnie tried to laugh.
Keasey looked at Donnie for few seconds. “I’m looking for a job. You know anybody in town that’s hiring?”
“They need some help up on a few of the ranches,” Harold said. He slammed shut the hood on Keasey’s truck.
“I don’t do ranch work,” Keasey said.
“What kind of work you want?” Harold asked.
“I ain’t choosy. I can work a register, a storeroom. I can make deliveries. I’ve worked in kitchens.”
“Can you do construction?” Harold asked. “There was a guy from Riverton in here, said he needs a framer. He left a card on the wall. He seemed all right. I heard he pays pretty good.”
“No good with tools,” Keasey said.
“What did you do in San Francisco?” Donnie asked.
“I was a model,” Keasey said.
Harold leaned against the truck. “Say what?”
“I was a model,” Keasey repeated.
“Yeah, right,” Donnie said. “Modeling what?”
“I was a hand model.”
“What’s that?” Harold asked.
“You know. In ads for watches and rings there are hands. I have good hands. I had good hands.”
“Had?” Harold asked.
Keasey held up his left hand, all four fingers of his left hand.
“What happened to the middle guy?” Donnie asked.
“Chopped off,” Keasey said.
“We can see that.” Donnie lit a cigarette. “How did you lose the damn thing? Flipping the wrong person the bird?”
“You want a soda?” Harold asked.
“What?”
“A soda, a drink. Donnie, you want one?”
“Yeah,” Donnie said.
“Sure, I’ll have a Dr Pepper,” Keasey said.
“Wouldn’t you like to be a pepper, too,” Donnie sang.
Harold stepped over and used his key to open the soda machine. “Tell us about the finger,” he said. “What happened?”
“Lost it in a bet.”
Harold and Donnie looked at each other.
“That happens,” Donnie said.
“All the time,” said Harold.
“Fuck both of you.” Keasey took a long pull on his Dr Pepper. “I bet a bunch of money on the Super Bowl. I didn’t have the money. Guy says he’ll take a finger. What could I say?”
“Could have offered him a toe,” Donnie said.
“He didn’t want a fucking toe.”
“I would have given him my little finger,” Donnie said.
Keasey gave Donnie an exasperated look. “He wanted the middle one, all right? Only consolation is that when I think about it I remember I gave him the fucking bird finger.”
“Not much consolation,” Harold said.
“At least I got workers’ comp out of it. Insurance, anyway.”
“How much does a finger go for these days?” Harold asked.
“A nice piece of change,” Keasey said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Harold raised his orange soda. “To fingers.”
They drank.
“Hey, you guys want to make a buck?” Keasey asked.
“Let you chop off our fingers?” Harold said and laughed.
“No, it’s a hell of a lot easier than that. I need somebody to pick up something down at the bus station in Laramie. As you know, my wife is pregnant, so I can’t go. I can’t go nowhere.”
“What is it?” Donnie asked.
“A box.”
“I figured that much. How big is the box? Is it heavy? And, most importantly, what’s in it?”
“It’s not big or heavy and it’s just got some personal stuff in it.” Keasey finished his Dr Pepper.
“Why didn’t you just have it mailed to you up here?” Harold asked.
“My idiot friend in San Francisco lost my address and thought Laramie would be just fine. He didn’t how far away we are from Laramie. So, it’s waiting at the station down there.”
“Can’t they send it up here?” Donnie asked. “That’s a long-ass drive all the way down to Laramie.”
“They won’t. Say they need to see my identification.”
“You must be able to do it online,” Harold said. “You can do everything online now.”
“Okay, okay,” Keasey said. “It’s not really a shipment. It’s something I left down there in a locker.”
Harold cleared his throat. “I can’t leave work. I’ve got cars backed up through the weekend.”
Keasey looked at Donnie. “What about you?
“No wheels. I fried my engine.”
“You can take my truck,” Keasey said. “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars. All you have to do is bring it back here.”
“I need to know what it is,” Donnie said.
“What a couple of pussies,” Keasey said. “It’s personal, I told you. You want to make five bills or not?”
Donnie looked at Harold. Harold turned and walked over to stand beneath an old Ford Ranchero on the lift.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Is it drugs?” Donnie asked.
“No drugs.”
“Counterfeit money?”
Keasey laughed. “No counterfeit money. Just some personal items, mine and my wife’s.”
Donnie looked again toward Harold, but his friend was at least pretending to work on the Ranchero’s transmission.
“Listen,” Keasey said, “I got to go pick up some things from the market for my wife. You think this over and tell me your answer when I get back.” He turned to Harold. “Here’s your thirty.” He held up three tens.
Harold walked over and took the money. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Keasey said. “I’ll be back in a few,” he said to Donnie. “You’ll still be here?”
Donnie nodded. He stepped over and stood beside Harold while Keasey got into his truck and drove away.
Harold went back to work on the Ranchero.
“What do you think is in the box?” Donnie asked.