out. The guy I got the Rover from blew a wad of cash on it. Brush guards, steel-mesh headlight covers. Leather seats and a CD player, a phone, everything you could want. Bought it from some place in California that restores ’em to like new.”
“Does it have airbags? I’ve developed a real fondness for airbags.”
“Yeah, I think so. If you wanna keep it, I’ll let you have it for what the guy owed me in fees. Be a hell of a deal.”
As Joey trotted out toward Loutie’s car, I said, “You’re a prince.”
Joey yelled back, “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth.”
Loutie Blue—a gorgeous ex-stripper who for years had been Joey’s best operative—smiled and waved, and they were gone.
I glanced down at the key ring in my hand. It held two remotes, two sets of keys, and a gold disk about the size of a half-dollar. Each side of the medallion bore thelikeness of a cannabis leaf—and I thought I understood what kind of business Joey’s client had pursued before his unfortunate incarceration.
Bright blue skies belied near-freezing temperatures, but it felt good to get out of the house and drive through the countryside. After Joey and Loutie Blue left, I had piddled around, typed a few notes on my laptop, and made some lunch. By one o’clock, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Now I was heading north toward Bay Minette, the county seat, to talk with a friend at the courthouse. I knew that I was probably wasting my time, but I was out of the house. And I was doing
something
. Someone had tried to stop me. It was important to keep going.
I followed County Road 104 through Silverhill to Highway 59 and turned north. It was a workday, and I passed half a dozen log trucks and that many more refrigerated vans hauling seafood. Every few miles, an entrepreneur with a pickup truck had set up either a firewood or a Christmas-wreath stand by the side of the road. One old guy was selling both. I met two Volvos and one Jeep with Frazier firs roped to their roofs.
Around 2:30, I pulled Joey’s safari vehicle into a metered space next to the Bay Minette town square. Baldwin County long ago erected a gorgeous courthouse with character and architectural detail to burn; so, of course, they tore it down. Instead, I followed a concrete walkway to the side door of the kind of government building people build nowadays, which is to say square and ugly. Inside, I walked the familiar hallways of justice to the Office of the Clerk of the Court.
I had called ahead, and Janie—the clerk’s secretary—greeted me by name. “Tom! What in the world happened to you?”
I’d forgotten the spiderweb of shallow cuts on my forehead. Apparently, the air bag had protected most of my face during the collision, but the Jeep’s windshield had splattered my crown and forehead with tiny glass projectiles. I smiled. “I ran my Jeep into a horse trough.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But you’re right. It was a terrible idea, especially for the Jeep. Is Curtis in?”
Janie stood and walked back to a door and leaned inside. “Curtis? Tom McInnes is here to see you. You got a minute?”
A booming voice said, “Sure I do. Tell him to come on in.”
Curtis Krait is one of those men who continues to insist in middle age that he wears a forty-regular suit, because that’s what he wore in college. Every time I saw him around the courthouse, I cringed at the sight of starched cotton digging into his neck and expensive wool suits that pulled and puckered across his expanding vanity. But it was a harmless vanity, to everyone except Curtis.
As I stepped into his office, I saw that Curtis had shed his coat, and the only apparent discomforts were the contrasting and painful-looking cinches at his neck and waist. The county court clerk stood and held out a soft brown hand. And I had to smile. Everyone likes Curtis. You can’t help it. He’s one of those natural political animals who radiate likability,
“Does it have airbags? I’ve developed a real fondness for airbags.”
“Yeah, I think so. If you wanna keep it, I’ll let you have it for what the guy owed me in fees. Be a hell of a deal.”
As Joey trotted out toward Loutie’s car, I said, “You’re a prince.”
Joey yelled back, “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth.”
Loutie Blue—a gorgeous ex-stripper who for years had been Joey’s best operative—smiled and waved, and they were gone.
I glanced down at the key ring in my hand. It held two remotes, two sets of keys, and a gold disk about the size of a half-dollar. Each side of the medallion bore thelikeness of a cannabis leaf—and I thought I understood what kind of business Joey’s client had pursued before his unfortunate incarceration.
Bright blue skies belied near-freezing temperatures, but it felt good to get out of the house and drive through the countryside. After Joey and Loutie Blue left, I had piddled around, typed a few notes on my laptop, and made some lunch. By one o’clock, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Now I was heading north toward Bay Minette, the county seat, to talk with a friend at the courthouse. I knew that I was probably wasting my time, but I was out of the house. And I was doing
something
. Someone had tried to stop me. It was important to keep going.
I followed County Road 104 through Silverhill to Highway 59 and turned north. It was a workday, and I passed half a dozen log trucks and that many more refrigerated vans hauling seafood. Every few miles, an entrepreneur with a pickup truck had set up either a firewood or a Christmas-wreath stand by the side of the road. One old guy was selling both. I met two Volvos and one Jeep with Frazier firs roped to their roofs.
Around 2:30, I pulled Joey’s safari vehicle into a metered space next to the Bay Minette town square. Baldwin County long ago erected a gorgeous courthouse with character and architectural detail to burn; so, of course, they tore it down. Instead, I followed a concrete walkway to the side door of the kind of government building people build nowadays, which is to say square and ugly. Inside, I walked the familiar hallways of justice to the Office of the Clerk of the Court.
I had called ahead, and Janie—the clerk’s secretary—greeted me by name. “Tom! What in the world happened to you?”
I’d forgotten the spiderweb of shallow cuts on my forehead. Apparently, the air bag had protected most of my face during the collision, but the Jeep’s windshield had splattered my crown and forehead with tiny glass projectiles. I smiled. “I ran my Jeep into a horse trough.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But you’re right. It was a terrible idea, especially for the Jeep. Is Curtis in?”
Janie stood and walked back to a door and leaned inside. “Curtis? Tom McInnes is here to see you. You got a minute?”
A booming voice said, “Sure I do. Tell him to come on in.”
Curtis Krait is one of those men who continues to insist in middle age that he wears a forty-regular suit, because that’s what he wore in college. Every time I saw him around the courthouse, I cringed at the sight of starched cotton digging into his neck and expensive wool suits that pulled and puckered across his expanding vanity. But it was a harmless vanity, to everyone except Curtis.
As I stepped into his office, I saw that Curtis had shed his coat, and the only apparent discomforts were the contrasting and painful-looking cinches at his neck and waist. The county court clerk stood and held out a soft brown hand. And I had to smile. Everyone likes Curtis. You can’t help it. He’s one of those natural political animals who radiate likability,
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