counter.
“What kind of gas have you got in that pump out there?” He let the screen door slam behind him.
“Irving regular is what it says. The tanker filled it just this morning, ” Lauchlin said. “Should be fresh.” He had been prepared to apologize, but now he stiffened. He had met Clement’s milling partner only once and hadn’t cared for his strange aloofness, standing away from you, taking you in.
“Fresh diesel, sure. What are you pulling here? Eight gallons of that sitting in my tank and I’m to get over the mountain home?”
There was some odd thing about his eyes, Lauchlin would tell his mother later, there’s no life in them, like a cod’s on ice. Shane had slipped quietly through the door and stood by the stove.
“You’re sure it’s the fuel?” Lauchlin said, placing his hands flat on the counter. He still had that instinct for sizing a man up, how his build might be neutralized, used against him if he had no boxing skills, just height and weight, if there were latent speed in how he moved or stood, because even if he swung with a loaded fist, he’d have to hit you square or you could counter him, come back on him quick and hard. Malcolm was inconspicuously straightening himself up in his chair. “Maybe your timing’s off. Bad plugs.”
“Listen,” he said, his voice tight but calm. “That truck’s new and I want clean gas in it. I paid the kid cash, he pumped it in.”
“Maybe he thought you said diesel.”
“Are you being cute? It came out of your goddamn gas pump.”
“Should we call the Mounties? I mean, if you’re sure I sold you diesel for gas, intentionally, on purpose.”
He took a step back as if to see Lauchlin more clearly. His eyes moved deliberately over Lauchlin’s face, down to his hands, then to the shelves behind him as if he were assessing, appraising not just him but the setting. He did not raise his voice. “What kind of game are you playing here?”
“I’m just a storekeeper. No games.” There had been the odd time in the store when he’d had to set a man straight, a customer who didn’t know him and took in only his scant hair and his quiet demeanour, having never seen him crouched behind a pair of gloves. And yet he’d been almost willing to let that side of him slide from view, the real fighting that his body had failed him at. Should he not be subdued, cautious, prudent? Who would expect him to step into a donnybrook now? Lauchlin of the Bad Heart. But still it was in his wiring, certain movements would make him flinch, not enough to notice, the barest beginning, a tensing, a tightening, his hands closing inconspicuously into fists. And here was this man, whose name Lauchlin had just remembered. Cooper. Ged Cooper. They stared at each other and something came into Cooper’s expression, a slight squint as his eyes rose from Lauchlin to the small framed photo of a boxer on the wall. Cooper smiled thinly, a man proud of never being fooled.
“Is that your mug up there?” he said.
No, Lauchlin might have said, that’s Blair Richardson’s, a man who would have made ten of you. Me, I’m hanging in the backroom behind the heavy bag, along with the rest of them, though I don’t belong with them really, they were champions, and it’s a young me, my hair thick and short, my face framed between raised gloves, resolute, barely marked, Be confident in your skills, my trainer told me, let the other fella strut, acting up saps your energy. “My mug’s right here in front of you. That will have to do.”
He nodded. Lauchlin could tell that he had shifted slightly in Cooper’s mind.
“I used to box,” Cooper said, matter-of-factly, as if this were a neutral statement that might, for that moment, put them on common ground.
“Is that right? Any good?”
“Good enough. Light heavy.” He seemed on the verge of pursuing this subject, it tapped something in him.
“Amateur? Pro?”
“Seven pro. Mostly amateur. Not here.
“What kind of gas have you got in that pump out there?” He let the screen door slam behind him.
“Irving regular is what it says. The tanker filled it just this morning, ” Lauchlin said. “Should be fresh.” He had been prepared to apologize, but now he stiffened. He had met Clement’s milling partner only once and hadn’t cared for his strange aloofness, standing away from you, taking you in.
“Fresh diesel, sure. What are you pulling here? Eight gallons of that sitting in my tank and I’m to get over the mountain home?”
There was some odd thing about his eyes, Lauchlin would tell his mother later, there’s no life in them, like a cod’s on ice. Shane had slipped quietly through the door and stood by the stove.
“You’re sure it’s the fuel?” Lauchlin said, placing his hands flat on the counter. He still had that instinct for sizing a man up, how his build might be neutralized, used against him if he had no boxing skills, just height and weight, if there were latent speed in how he moved or stood, because even if he swung with a loaded fist, he’d have to hit you square or you could counter him, come back on him quick and hard. Malcolm was inconspicuously straightening himself up in his chair. “Maybe your timing’s off. Bad plugs.”
“Listen,” he said, his voice tight but calm. “That truck’s new and I want clean gas in it. I paid the kid cash, he pumped it in.”
“Maybe he thought you said diesel.”
“Are you being cute? It came out of your goddamn gas pump.”
“Should we call the Mounties? I mean, if you’re sure I sold you diesel for gas, intentionally, on purpose.”
He took a step back as if to see Lauchlin more clearly. His eyes moved deliberately over Lauchlin’s face, down to his hands, then to the shelves behind him as if he were assessing, appraising not just him but the setting. He did not raise his voice. “What kind of game are you playing here?”
“I’m just a storekeeper. No games.” There had been the odd time in the store when he’d had to set a man straight, a customer who didn’t know him and took in only his scant hair and his quiet demeanour, having never seen him crouched behind a pair of gloves. And yet he’d been almost willing to let that side of him slide from view, the real fighting that his body had failed him at. Should he not be subdued, cautious, prudent? Who would expect him to step into a donnybrook now? Lauchlin of the Bad Heart. But still it was in his wiring, certain movements would make him flinch, not enough to notice, the barest beginning, a tensing, a tightening, his hands closing inconspicuously into fists. And here was this man, whose name Lauchlin had just remembered. Cooper. Ged Cooper. They stared at each other and something came into Cooper’s expression, a slight squint as his eyes rose from Lauchlin to the small framed photo of a boxer on the wall. Cooper smiled thinly, a man proud of never being fooled.
“Is that your mug up there?” he said.
No, Lauchlin might have said, that’s Blair Richardson’s, a man who would have made ten of you. Me, I’m hanging in the backroom behind the heavy bag, along with the rest of them, though I don’t belong with them really, they were champions, and it’s a young me, my hair thick and short, my face framed between raised gloves, resolute, barely marked, Be confident in your skills, my trainer told me, let the other fella strut, acting up saps your energy. “My mug’s right here in front of you. That will have to do.”
He nodded. Lauchlin could tell that he had shifted slightly in Cooper’s mind.
“I used to box,” Cooper said, matter-of-factly, as if this were a neutral statement that might, for that moment, put them on common ground.
“Is that right? Any good?”
“Good enough. Light heavy.” He seemed on the verge of pursuing this subject, it tapped something in him.
“Amateur? Pro?”
“Seven pro. Mostly amateur. Not here.
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