“Some choice,” I said.
“That’s how life is,” she said. “The hard choices are between the bad and the worse, not the good and the better.”
4
Forty-five minutes later, I walked into the rec center’s locker room. I’d used up every bit of reserve, and even after wolfing down three coffees and a box of nutrition bars, I was so wrung out, I felt almost liquid. The whole time I was in the shower, was afraid I might go down the drain with the water.
Every muscle in my body hurt, all of them. Fighting fires was a huge adrenaline rush, especially when it was your own property. How had the fire started? Lamar thought the source was a bad light socket in the loft, but I had to wonder about the timing.
Maybe it was an electrical fire.
Maybe not.
I came out of the shower sopping wet, head bent low and moaning, and groped around for the towel I left hanging on a hook.
“Looking for this?” Ronnie said, holding up the towel. It was dirty and wrinkled like he had rubbed it all over floor.
Just what I needed. Wet, naked, and ragged out with a ticked off redneck holding my towel.
“Whitey tighties?” Donnie stepped into the shower area, holding up my underwear. “It figures a sailor would be wearing man panties.”
“You like them?” I said. “Keep them. As a souvenir.”
I shook like a wet dog, flinging water out of my hair and all over the place. As the twins ducked, I walked past them to the lockers and started getting dressed.
Ronnie tried to pop me with the dirty towel.
I grabbed the end of the towel and jerked it free. “What do you morons want?” I tossed the towel into the locker and pulled on my shirt. “All the oil is sold out, amigos.”
Donnie slammed me against the lockers. “Who you calling a moron?”
“Let go of me,” I said, my voice calm and unwavering.
It was a warning, not a request.
“Or what? Get your slant-eyed friend to use kung fu on us?”
“I said, let go of me.” My voice took on the hard edge of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “Last time I’m going to say it, before you end up in the hospital.”
This seemed to confuse Donnie. He looked back at Ronnie, who was busy dumping my book bag on the floor. Textbooks, notes, and pencils fell on the tiled floor, along with the newspaper article about Mrs. Vega.
Ronnie picked up the newspaper. “You wanna know what we want?” he said, his face getting redder every second. “We want this shit to cease.”
“What shit?” I said and pushed Donnie away.
“This dead Mexican shit. Yesterday, somebody filed a complaint against Eugene. Now, he’s suspended while the captain investigates. That complaint needs to disappear. You got it?” He tossed the paper into the bowl and flushed it. “If that complaint don’t disappear, that’s going to be your head going around the bowl and down the hole. Got that, liberal?”
“Liberal?” I said, “Why do y’all keep calling me that? It doesn’t hurt my feelings, you know.”
“Because you ain’t got sense to know when you’re insulted. Come on, Don. We got other fish to fry.”
“I bet you do!” I yelled after them. “Probably a couple of barns, too!”
They used the side door, which led to the emergency exit near the parking lot. I heard the alarm sound. After they left, I picked up all my stuff and shoved it into my backpack.
Stupid ass rednecks. If they thought threatening me would change anything, they were dumber than they looked.
I heard the sound of tennis shoes squeaking.
“Turn around,” Dewayne Loach said. “Childress, I’m talking to you.”
“The twins just left.” I faced Dewayne. “So what are you, the B-team?”
“Your friend, the Japanese kid. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. I made the boys lay off after I recognized him.”
“You just confessed to a felony,” I said. “I’m calling the sheriff, and you’re going to jail.”
“Your word against mine, Childress. Like the cops would believe you anyhow. You think they don’t know what’s been going on?”
“Spare me.” Hoyt would never look the other way on an assault. Or would he? Maybe I didn’t know Hoyt as well as I thought I did. “She was Guatemalan.”
“Who?”
“The woman who died. Mrs. Vega. Turns out she wasn’t Mexican. She was from Guatemala.”
“What difference does that make?”
“The way I see it, if you’re going to let somebody die for being Mexican, you should at least make sure they’re from Mexico. Or do they all look alike to Eugene and you?”
Dewayne balled up a fist. He swung hard, and I ducked, but Dewayne wasn’t aiming for me.
His fist slammed into a locker and left a dent.
A trickle of blood ran between his fingers.
I decided to push my luck. “You say you’re sorry, Dewayne. Prove it. Come with me to the Sheriff’s office and tell him what your boys did to Luigi. Tell him about the boys terrorizing the Latinos.”
Dewayne shook his head. “You must want me in the graveyard, because that’s where I’d be if Eugene found out.”
“The sheriff can—“
“Eugene’s the only kin I got left. My whole family was firefighters. My granddaddy and daddy both died trying in the line of duty. There ain’t nothing like seeing the fire marshal’s white car pull into your driveway, instead of your daddy’s truck. You think you got it all figured out, Childress, but it ain’t so easy to be a hero.”
5
After my morning class, my cell rang. I answered, expecting it to be Cedar. I was disappointed when my grandfather’s voice came through the speaker.
“Meet me at the jail,” he said.
“Thought you were out of jail.”
“I’m going back for a visit.”
“I have a test at noon.”
“You studied for it?”
“For three hours.”
“Then meet me at the jail. It won’t take but a few minutes, and you’re the only one he’ll talk to.”
“Who?”
“Stumpy Meeks.”
Twenty minutes later, Abner led me to the visitors’ area of the county jail. There was a bank of windows, complete with dark green phones for talking to the prisoners. The prisoner in this case was Stumpy, who looked like he’d been put through the wringer.
As Abner pulled heavy metal chairs in front of the glass, I was stunned by how the man had changed. Stumpy had never been a model of good grooming. Now, he looked like a man who had gone feral and spent his time wallowing in the mud. His hair was thick and matted, his head caked with black dirt, and there were red welts on his forehead and neck. The blindingly orange inmate jumpsuit he wore didn’t help, either. Nor did the fact that it fit him like an oversized tent.
Abner yelled through a vent in the glass. “You look like death warmed over. Good god, man. Didn’t they bathe you?”
Stumpy blinked slowly. “Do I know you, old man?”
“He’s my grandfather, Abner Zickafoose. He’s here to help.”
Abner leaned down to the vent. “You got a lawyer yet? You didn’t talk to the cops, did you?”
“Sure, I did,” Stumpy said. “I told them to kiss my ass and get Mr. Childress here.”
“Why me?” I asked.
“Cause you’re the only one who believes I didn’t burn that house.”
“Of course, you didn’t.” Abner said. “Anybody with any sense would know that. The thing is, there’s not a lick of sense to be had in this county. So you need an attorney.”
“Like I got the money for a lawyer. Ain’t got two cents to my name.”
“The court will appoint one for you,” I said. “He can petition the court to lower your bail.”
“You actually believe that?” Stumpy laughed. “Shoot, they’re going to let me rot under the jail.”
It was hard to argue with a man wearing swamp mud for makeup. “At least give it a try.”
Abner took the phone. He spoke softly, so that the jailer couldn’t hear. “Why did you take the chemicals out of the school storeroom?”