Balls leaned over, to face the guy in the white shirt. "Hey, buddy? You seem to know a lot 'bout this kind'a stuff. Any idea why they do it?"
"They all have essentially the same answer," the guy said. "They do it because, to them, it's fun."
Balls leaned back down, thinking.
"Fun? Fuck all that shit, man." Dicky was growing ill at ease. "Eatin' folks, drillin' holes in their noggins—shee-it. Let's not talk 'bout it no more—it's givin' me the willies. Just let's us think about all that cash we'se gonna make when we's runnin' ‘shine in a big block 427 with a Rock Crusher trans."
"Yeah," Balls said, but he seemed preoccupied now.
"And weren't there somethin' you was gonna tell me tonight?" Dicky reminded.
"Huh?"
Dicky lowered his voice further. "You said you had some score next month."
"Aw, yeah. Early September, right." Balls shook out of his bizarre daze. "It's pretty righteous and a shore thing. In fact, it just might be so good that we won't have to run no ‘shine after that."
"The hail?"
"Dicky-Boy," Balls whispered. "This score could be so big that neither'a us'll have to worry 'bout cash again. Ever."
"I don't know, Balls."
"Bullshit, Dicky."
"A heist, ya mean?"
"Well, yeah, kind of. And it's risk-free, man. Now don't tell me you ain't in with me."
"Shee-it, Balls. It's your score. Ya don't have to cut me in."
Balls looked taken aback. "What'cha take me as? We'se partners. And we'se'll need yer ‘Mino to pull the U-Haul."
"You gotta U-Haul?"
"No, but I will once I steal me one. Only a fool'd pass this up. You wanna be a fool?"
Dicky hemmed a bit. "Risk-free, you say?"
"Damn straight... "
Dicky's shoulders lowered. "All right, tell me about it... "
They huddled closer, Balls whispering. "The score's about this old guy named Crafter, gotta old house ‘tween here'n Crick City, but it's like way out in the woods somewhere."
"Crafter," Dicky chewed on the name. "Ain't never heard of him."
"That's 'cos the guy's, like, a loner, don't go out much. And he's got a real fucked up first name, too," and then Balls took a slip of paper out of his wallet and read off it. "Ephriam Crafter. Ain't that somethin'? Ephriam? And he lives off some place called Governor's Bridge Road—"
"Oh, I heard me'a that road," Dicky said, kindled. "Used ta drink beer on the bridge'n throw the bottles off."
"Well that kicks ass, Dicky, that you know where the road is and, see, this guy Crafter? He's like a collector of ‘spensive stuff, like antiques'n old paintin's'n jewelry but, like, real old jewelry that we could fence in Pulaski or Roanoke. Big, big money in this house, Dicky."
Dicky hadn't been terribly enthused in the first place, but now he just frowned. "Some score, Balls. A fuckin' B&E? You'll git yourself caught, you will, or worse blowed away. Ever-body's got guns in this county, man."
Balls' eyes were glittering he was so torqued up. "No, man, 'cos, see, the guy won't be home, and he's got no wife or kids or anyone else in the house. Beginnin' of every September, he goes out'a town fer a coupla weeks—Spain, he goes to, wherever that is. So's the house is empty. All we gots to do is knock the place over'n fence the haul ‘fore he can git back ta report it missin'."
Dicky gave a strained expression. "I don't know, Balls. Ya could still git caught a mite easy. If this guy Crafter tolt ya he goes out'a town ever September, then he'll know it's you who done the job."
Balls was nearly giddy in excitation. "That's the best part, Dicky. I don't know the guy from Adam. Never met him, never talked to him."
"Then how you know so much 'bout him?"
"This guy tolt me, see?"
"This guy?"
Balls nodded. "'Bout a year ago this newbie con named Bud Tooler got dropped on our cellblock. Biggest, dumbest cracker you ever saw, and the poor rube got sent up twennie-five years on a rapo. Raped some gal in the back of a Good Humor truck, he did, after knockin' her out'n takin' the cash box, and the big cracker wouldn't'a even got caught ‘cept you know what he did? He went back to the truck a few minutes later and stole a box'a Tastee Pops."
"Shee-it!"
"The splittail were still unconscious but someone seed him takin' the fuckin' ice cream!"
"Fuckin'-A, man! That's dumber'n dogshit!"
"Yeah, man, fuckin' Bud Tooler, biggest dumbest rube you could ever meet'n yer life. Fucker's got dick fer brains."
Dicky joined Balls in some laughter, but then calmed down and squinted at a thought. "Hey, Balls? What's this rube Bud Tooler got to do with this old Crafter guy?"
"I'se tellin' ya, Dicky. See, Tooler had a job fer years, cuttin' this guy Crafter's lawn'n doin' his hedges'n shit, so's that's how he knowed that the guy goes away first week'a every September. And one time Crafter's sink got stopped up so's he let Tooler into the house ta fix it. Only time in all them years Tooler ever got asked in the house were that one time, but one were enough. He got a gander at all kinds'a ‘spensive shit in there. So's after that Tooler got ta thinkin' he'd knock the place over himself when Crafter went on his next trip but then he got busted on that Good Humor rapo last week'a July," and, of course, Balls pronounced July as "Joo-lie."
"Hmm," Dicky murmured.
"Yeah. Hmm, brother."
"Crafter, you say his name is?"
"Yeah, man. Crafter. Ephriam Crafter and he's got a million bucks'a shit in his house just waitin' ta be cleaned out. If'n we don't pull this job, we'd be dumber than Tooler fer goin' back fer that box'a Tastee-Pops, am I right?"
Dicky's mental gears spun as best they could. "Ya know, Balls? Just you might be right 'bout that."
"So's it's settled, partner. Tomorrow you git'cher new trannie. Then till the first week'a September we'se rake in some cash runnin' shine. And after that—" Balls raised his beer mug again—"we' git pig-shit rich when we knock over Ephriam Crafter's house on Governor's Bridge Road."
"I'se'll drink ta that!" Dicky celebrated and clinked mugs.
They split another pitcher as the tavern's din rose. All the pool tables were full, and there wasn't an empty seat in the house. Doreen was seen slipping out of the men's room—deftly replacing her dentures and wiping her mouth—and then a second later a man came out as well. Meanwhile, Cora Neller had seen fit to get up on a table and dance, but when she pulled up her top—showing death-camp breasts—she got booed down.
Balls remained excited about his new business propositions, especially Crafter's house, which he knew in his heart was a done deal. But something else, on the periphery of his psyche, was bothering him.