And the great bonus turned out to be his new tutor, Carrie McKay, one of the good kids and also one of the cool kids, maybe now the coolest since Dawn Halley was no longer in the running. In any event, Chris had always thought that Carrie was way out of his league. He couldn’t believe how obvious and easy geometry turned out to be when the person tutoring him actually got it herself. Things made sense. A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared.
Cake.
He wound up with a B+ and the week after Thanksgiving, he started at defensive safety — six tackles and two interceptions, thank you.
Also, Carrie was an amazing kisser.
Tonic
D. P. Lyle
“What you think he does with them?” Eddie Whitt asked his cousin.
Floyd Robinson rode shotgun in Eddie’s old ’49 Ford, black, dented, primer-coated left front fender, a jagged crack across the windshield. The tires weren’t none too good neither. He twisted in his seat. “You ask me that ever time.”
They had parked beneath a large oak tree, middle of a grassy field, protected by a small hillock from McFee Road, a rutted, asphalt ribbon that wound through trees and rich farmland. Far enough from the town of Pine Creek to avoid any unwanted attention. It was just past midnight, the sky black, dotted with stars, the moon a sliver, like a fingernail clipping.
Eddie’s hands rested on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead, cigarette dangling from his lip. It bobbed as he spoke. “And you never have no thoughts on the subject,” he said.
“’Cause I don’t care.” Floyd gave him a glance. “Long as he pays, I don’t give a big old hoo-ha what he does.”
“Don’t get all pissy. I was just wondering.”
“Maybe you should wonder about something else. Like what he’s going to say when he sees this one.”
Eddie took a final drag from his cigarette and crushed the butt in the ashtray. “Won’t be happy.”
“Nope.”
“And I bet we don’t get two-fifty for it,” Eddie said.
A pulse of light flashed over the tree. Then another. Eddie glanced over his shoulder. A pair of headlight beams bounced across the crest of the hillock and wound down toward them.
“Here he comes,” Eddie said.
They climbed out as a brand new 1954 Chevy Bel Air jerked to a stop behind the Ford. Cream colored with a dark green top, white wall tires. Classy. The kind that told the world the driver had a wad of cash in his pocket.
Antoine Briscoe stepped out. Tall, lanky, black pants, white shirt, long black duster, what he always wore. “What you got for me?” His voice deep, smooth, almost lazy. A twinge of annoyance buried in there. Like he had better things to do. Or maybe didn’t care too much for Eddie and Floyd. Which was true. Hell, a rickety, old, blind coon dog could see that.
Eddie popped the trunk. Antoine reached inside and pulled back the canvas. He tugged a flashlight from his duster’s pocket, flicked it on, and aimed it inside. He shook his head, his long dark hair swaying just above his shoulders. “This ain’t fresh.”
“It’s the best we could come up with,” Eddie said.
Antoine flapped the covering back in place. “Won’t do.” He looked from Eddie to Floyd. “Won’t do at all.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Eddie said.
Antoine smiled. Not friendly, more a grimace. “And who might that be?”
“You know we don’t know,” Floyd said.
“And you never will.” He nodded toward the trunk. “A hundred bucks.”
Eddie twisted his neck, trying to work out a gathering crick. “Our agreement was two-fifty.”
“Our agreement was for fresh product. Not this shit.”
Eddie saw Floyd’s jaw flex. Knew the sign. His cousin had a temper and when it started to rise, his jaw muscles would pump up. Get all big like a squirrel with a mess of hickory nuts stuffed in its cheeks. He laid a hand on Floyd’s arm. “That’ll do.”
Antoine smiled. “Thought it might.” He reached in his pants’ pocket and pulled out a thick fold of bills, gripped by a silver clip. He tugged them free, peeled off a pair of fifties, and handed them over. He returned the clipped money to his pocket and walked to the rear of the Chevy, his duster flapping with each step.
He opened the trunk. And waited. Offering no help. As if it was beneath him. Or, as Eddie suspected, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.
The cousins awkwardly transported the bundle from one trunk to the other and folded it inside.
“There you go,” Floyd said.
“Can I ask you something?” Eddie said.
Antoine offered a smirk. “You can ask.”
“What’s he do with them?”
“Don’t see that that’s any of your concern.” He took a step forward, looking down on the cousins. “Who he is and what he does is not for you to know.” He closed the trunk with a sharp click. “When can we expect another one?”
“When we get the opportunity,” Eddie said. “Ain’t like they grow on trees.”
Antoine stared at him. “Make it soon. Demand is up and we’re running low.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe expand your search area.”
“We’ll look into that,” Floyd said.
“Do. Otherwise we’ll have to find another source.” Antoine walked to the driver’s side door, pulled it open. “And make it fresh.” He climbed in, cranked the engine, wheeled a U-turn, and drove away. A faintly visible dust trail blurred his taillights as he disappeared over the hill.
“I don’t like him,” Floyd said.
“He don’t seem to like us much neither.”
“What the heck does ‘messed with’ mean?” Sheriff Amos Dugan asked Travis Sutton, his best officer. Dugan glanced at the bedside clock. Five a.m.
Amos Dugan was the sheriff of Lee County. A pretty easy job most days since his jurisdiction was small, consisting of assorted farms and two small towns; Pine Creek, the county seat where his office was located, and Pine Valley, eight miles east over a few wrinkles in the farmland. That was it. Unless you wanted to count Harper’s Crossroads, which he didn’t. Not as a bona fide town. Only sixteen folks lived over there on old man Harper’s land. Each resident a direct descendant. Except for the two boys who’d married Harper’s daughters and gave him a passel of grandkids.
But, this day wasn’t kicking off all that well. Not just Travis’s call but last night’s dinner over at Clay’s Diner. It had seemed greasier than usual and he’d eaten too much, and too fast, his stomach now complaining. Had most of the night, making his sleep fitful at best.
Travis laid it out. “Just that. Someone messed with a grave over at the cemetery. Carl called me this morning. Maybe an hour ago. You know how he’s always up before dawn and hankering to get to work. Anyway, he got over to the cemetery right early, even for him, and found someone had been digging around at Wilbert Fleming’s grave. I drove over and had a look-see.”
“And?”
“Sure enough. Looked like the soil had been disturbed.”
“Of course it was disturbed. He was just buried yesterday.”
“Yeah, but Carl said it’d been messed with.”
“There you go again. Did someone just root around or did they dig up Wilbert? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, nothing like that. Didn’t seem so anyway. Just looked like the dirt mound wasn’t like it should be.”
“According to who?”
“Carl. He should know. He’s the one what dug the grave after all.”
“Maybe dogs or something like that?” Dugan asked.
“I suspect it coulda been but it didn’t really look that way. Carl wondered if he should dig it up and see if Wilbert’s missing.”