Weed stood tall and proud. He did a few toe lifts to loosen up.
'Left foot out and point flex and point flex and really stretch it,' he recited.
Jameson looked at him with disdain.
'Left heel two inches off ground while ball and toe remain touching the ground.' Weed practiced a low mark time with a quick, snappy motion. 'Ankle touches knee on end of each beat, toe pointed straight down the leg, feet flat.' He executed a perfect high mark. 'Push down on beat on left foot, then mark time.'
'Hey, cut it out,' Jameson said.
'No,' Weed retorted.
He used to be intimidated by Jameson. But after being arrested, getting locked up in detention, mouthing off to a defense attorney and striking a deal with a judge, Weed wasn't scared of anyone.
'Three, four, halt. To left, right, foot crosses over, mark time hut, and one, two, three, four, weight on toes.' His crab step was flawless.
'I told you to fucking cut it out,' Jameson whispered.
'Make me.'
'I'll beat your ass.'
'Hope you beat it better than you do that drum,' Weed said.
'TO THE READY!' the drum major shouted from the front.
Weed came to attention. One thing about his cymbals, they sure got heavy.
'BAND, TEN-HUT!'
He strained to see what the color guard was doing way ahead. When the woodwinds started forward marching, he knew he was next.
There was nothing random about Smoke's decision to steal the black nylon Stanley tool belt when he broke into Bubba's workshop. Its extra deep pockets were perfect and he had known it at the time, because Smoke had been planning for a while.
He was dressed in worn-out, soiled jeans, a filthy tee shirt and dirty scuffed Red Wing boots. A paint-spattered baseball cap was low over his eyes. He wore Oakleys and hadn't shaved in days. No one paid any attention to him as he walked across yards, trying to see the parade like everybody else.
Smoke had conducted a thorough surveillance in the George Wythe parking lot while the parade was lining up.
He knew where everyone was. He had spotted Weed. Smoke had walked right past the police chief and the two cops who had spoken in Godwin's auditorium. It was hilarious. Smoke's nerves were humming. He was pumping adrenaline and almost manic.
Concealed inside the pouches around his waist were the stolen Beretta and four ten-round clips and two fifteen-round clips and his Glock with three seventeen-round clips. That made a grand total of one hundred and twenty-one Winchester 115 grain Silvertip high-power cartridges.
He watched antique Jaguars and Chryslers cruise by, then the Corvette Club. People were waving and clapping, the weather great, everybody in a good mood. He spotted a sloping lawn that was a little higher above the street than those around it. Some jerk and a mousy woman were having a picnic on a red-checked tablecloth. Smoke had found the perfect spot. He walked right up to them, crossed his arms and looked out as the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Red Cross rolled by.
Bubba recognized the Stanley tool belt immediately. Some construction guy was wearing it. The big black belt with its deep pouches was exactly like the one missing from Bubba's garage. Bubba focused the binoculars a little more, zooming in on the guy's face.
He looked about fifteen or sixteen, kind of puny and pale. The pouches were bulging and looked heavy. He had the padded yellow belt pulled as tight as it would go, the entire rig huge on him because it was an extra-large and the kid couldn't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Bubba didn't see a single tool, no tape measure, no nails, nothing in the hammer holder, not so much as a handle protruding.
'That's my belt,' Bubba said as his heart picked up speed. 'I know it is!'
Pigeon looked where Bubba was looking, squinting as he smoked another Merit Ultima that Bubba had been pleased to give him.
'How do you know?' Pigeon inquired.
'I see a little white mark on the quick-release belt buckle. It might be my initials. I paint my initials in white on all my tools, on everything, to make sure when Smudge borrows something he can't turn around and say it's his!'
'Who's Smudge?' Pigeon asked, tapping an ash.
The last of some band in black and white was marching by, playing 'Take the "A" Train.' The drum major of the Godwin band was right behind it. Bubba stared through the binoculars, blood rushing to his head, his heart beating faster than a snare drum as he focused on the dark blue convertible carrying Hammer, West and Brazil. They were one band behind Godwin.
The guy wearing Bubba's tool belt seemed, tense. His right hand was twitching. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone. He was searching the ranks of the Godwin band, then looking straight at Chief Hammer. Bubba was sure of it.
Godwin started in on the theme from Titanic. The construction guy looked left and right and slipped his right hand into a pouch and kept it there. Bubba's stolen guns flashed in his head. He ran out into the street as the woodwinds were going by. He wanted to pull out his new Browning but thought better of it.
'Stop him!' he yelled at the top of his lungs.
The fat man Smoke had met at Muskrat's Auto Rescue and soon after burglarized was pointing right at Smoke and yelling. Smoke was cool. He looked around and shrugged.
'What a wacko,' he said to the man and woman picnicking next to him.
Cops were running out. One galloped up on a horse. They were trying to calm the fat man and get him out of the street. Smoke smiled. This was going to be better than he thought. He zoomed in on Weed. The little retard was crashing and flashing his cymbals, the dude to the left trying to outdo him on the snare drum. Smoke took his time. He didn't want to slip his hand into the pouch again until the fat man quit pointing at him.
'Somebody do something!' the fat man was screaming as two cops grabbed his arms. 'Get him, not me! The kid up there in the Stanley tool belt!'
Pigeon was concerned. He walked out on the street as Bubba struggled with the cops and continued to yell. 'Look, he's with me,' Pigeon told the cop on the horse.
'Stand back!' the cop yelled at Pigeon.
'It's his tool belt. You can see the white initials on the buckle. I mean with binoculars you can.' Pigeon wasn't to be deterred. 'The kid stole it.'
Bubba's binoculars flew off. A pistol fell out of somewhere and clattered to the street. This seemed to upset the cops quite a lot. All of them snatched handcuffs and red pepper spray off their belts. The Godwin band quit playing and froze as some little kid suddenly broke out of formation and rolled his cymbal down the street. Pigeon realized it was Weed.
Chief Hammer had no idea what was going on. The parade halted as what sounded like a huge bronze hubcap rolled toward her car.
'What's happening?' Hammer asked, standing up in the back seat, trying to see.
West stopped the car.
'GET DOWN!' Brazil yelled as he pushed Hammer to the floor and band members jumped out of the way and the cymbal hit a little dip in the road and picked up speed, flying past loudly, scattering the Mason clowns, sending Sergeant Santa scurrying, almost running the mayor's car into the crowd. The Florettes dropped their batons.
Jed saw the cymbal coming before Lelia Ehrhart did, and he suddenly threw the red Cadillac into reverse.
Azalea bushes jumped off the back seat, clay pots breaking, bees darting out of harm's way, dirt flying everywhere as streamers of blue ribbons changed direction and flew in Ehrhart's face.