right,” he said. “And you are?”
“Jack Brennan. I was hoping to talk to you about your neighbors, the FitzHenrys …”
The man squinted.
“What are you — police?”
“No, just trying to help them out with a little … vandalism … that’s occurred on their property.”
Pelham shook his head. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, Brennan. I’m not in the business of helping the FitzHenrys. Ever!”
Pelham walked past Jack and headed for the pickup.
“Sorry to hear that. Could be helpful if you had time to talk, Mr. Pelham.”
Jack watched the man pause at the vehicle.
“D’ya have ears? Why should I help those buffoons?”
“Don’t know. Though …”
Jack looked away, about to play a card he had played so many times before in the line of duty …
“– it certainly would be a good way to remove any suspicion that you might be involved.”
The man’s hand had been on the truck’s door. He looked as though he might yank the door right off it.
A man not used to being played with.
Jack watched Pelham consider his words. A nod, a shake of his head, then Pelham opened the passenger door of the Toyota pickup.
“All right. Hop in. You talk, I’ll drive.”
“I can follow you,” said Jack, nodding towards his Sprite.
Pelham laughed. “Not in that you can’t! I’m going to work, man.”
So Jack locked the Sprite and climbed into the battered old pickup.
Pelham crunched the gears and they roared off up the drive.
*
Jack held tight to the clutch bar on the pickup’s dash as they rocked and jolted over the rough ground.
No way could they have a conversation, bouncing around like this.
Pelham had turned off the tarmac drive and now headed south across the meadows, by-passing herds of cattle, and avoiding ditches at the last minute.
Guy wants to give me a lesson in farming, thought Jack. Well, if it makes him happy …
Eventually they crossed a muddy, pitted meadow and stopped at a small pen holding half a dozen cattle, next to a long fence which Jack could see disappearing for miles in either direction.
Pelham turned off the engine.
“Come on, then.”
He climbed out and headed round to the back of the truck. Jack opened his door and followed him. A harsh wind was blowing and Jack wished he’d brought his heavy jacket.
He watched the farmer drop the tailgate, pick up a bale and hoist it on his shoulder.
“You want to talk?” he said. “Then work.” The man grinned. “Deal?”
Jack laughed, nodded and hoisted a bale onto his own back. He liked this rough-edge, no-nonsense farmer.
He followed Pelham to the pen where the cattle were already waiting for their feed, and tipped the bale over the side.
“Getting them ready for market, huh?” said Jack on the second trip.
“Yup. Really good price right now,” said Pelham. “Just right for Christmas.”
When they’d done the bales, Jack nodded to two sacks in the back.
“Barley too?”
“Both sacks,” said Pelham. “Done this before then?”
“Brooklyn born and bred,” said Jack grabbing a sack. “City kid. But spent summers on my granddad’s farm upstate.”
He saw Pelham nod and, bent under the heavy sacks, they both went to the pen.
Jack tipped the barley into the feed tray, then watched Pelham check the water. Then they stepped out of the pen, leaving the cattle to eat.
Jack could see the sun beginning to set over the hill, a dull glow catching the underneath of gun-metal clouds.
Getting cold enough for snow, he thought.
“Thanks for the help, New Yawker … so, you wanted to talk about the FitzHenrys?” said Pelham. “Well, I’ll tell you about the FitzHenrys.”
Jack pulled his jacket tighter in the wind.
“See the fence?”
Jack nodded.
“All the land this side is Pelham land. And everything you see on the other side is FitzHenry land. The fence is theirs to maintain. But they never do, you see? So I pay for it and I maintain it.”
“From what I hear they’re short of
“Jack Brennan. I was hoping to talk to you about your neighbors, the FitzHenrys …”
The man squinted.
“What are you — police?”
“No, just trying to help them out with a little … vandalism … that’s occurred on their property.”
Pelham shook his head. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, Brennan. I’m not in the business of helping the FitzHenrys. Ever!”
Pelham walked past Jack and headed for the pickup.
“Sorry to hear that. Could be helpful if you had time to talk, Mr. Pelham.”
Jack watched the man pause at the vehicle.
“D’ya have ears? Why should I help those buffoons?”
“Don’t know. Though …”
Jack looked away, about to play a card he had played so many times before in the line of duty …
“– it certainly would be a good way to remove any suspicion that you might be involved.”
The man’s hand had been on the truck’s door. He looked as though he might yank the door right off it.
A man not used to being played with.
Jack watched Pelham consider his words. A nod, a shake of his head, then Pelham opened the passenger door of the Toyota pickup.
“All right. Hop in. You talk, I’ll drive.”
“I can follow you,” said Jack, nodding towards his Sprite.
Pelham laughed. “Not in that you can’t! I’m going to work, man.”
So Jack locked the Sprite and climbed into the battered old pickup.
Pelham crunched the gears and they roared off up the drive.
*
Jack held tight to the clutch bar on the pickup’s dash as they rocked and jolted over the rough ground.
No way could they have a conversation, bouncing around like this.
Pelham had turned off the tarmac drive and now headed south across the meadows, by-passing herds of cattle, and avoiding ditches at the last minute.
Guy wants to give me a lesson in farming, thought Jack. Well, if it makes him happy …
Eventually they crossed a muddy, pitted meadow and stopped at a small pen holding half a dozen cattle, next to a long fence which Jack could see disappearing for miles in either direction.
Pelham turned off the engine.
“Come on, then.”
He climbed out and headed round to the back of the truck. Jack opened his door and followed him. A harsh wind was blowing and Jack wished he’d brought his heavy jacket.
He watched the farmer drop the tailgate, pick up a bale and hoist it on his shoulder.
“You want to talk?” he said. “Then work.” The man grinned. “Deal?”
Jack laughed, nodded and hoisted a bale onto his own back. He liked this rough-edge, no-nonsense farmer.
He followed Pelham to the pen where the cattle were already waiting for their feed, and tipped the bale over the side.
“Getting them ready for market, huh?” said Jack on the second trip.
“Yup. Really good price right now,” said Pelham. “Just right for Christmas.”
When they’d done the bales, Jack nodded to two sacks in the back.
“Barley too?”
“Both sacks,” said Pelham. “Done this before then?”
“Brooklyn born and bred,” said Jack grabbing a sack. “City kid. But spent summers on my granddad’s farm upstate.”
He saw Pelham nod and, bent under the heavy sacks, they both went to the pen.
Jack tipped the barley into the feed tray, then watched Pelham check the water. Then they stepped out of the pen, leaving the cattle to eat.
Jack could see the sun beginning to set over the hill, a dull glow catching the underneath of gun-metal clouds.
Getting cold enough for snow, he thought.
“Thanks for the help, New Yawker … so, you wanted to talk about the FitzHenrys?” said Pelham. “Well, I’ll tell you about the FitzHenrys.”
Jack pulled his jacket tighter in the wind.
“See the fence?”
Jack nodded.
“All the land this side is Pelham land. And everything you see on the other side is FitzHenry land. The fence is theirs to maintain. But they never do, you see? So I pay for it and I maintain it.”
“From what I hear they’re short of
Similar Books
