customer base. He’s come to realize that some of the classes he skipped, his bypassed vocational opportunities at local colleges, could have made a diff.
But his one lucky break, hearing a year ago the fate of an old girlfriend, one of his many, had mobilized him. He’s ready to score big. Confident he’s prepared, Chet Porterfield turns the big car toward the secluded house.
Clay hears the crunch of tires, ignores it. Whoever it is will find his shop, a newly-constructed metal shell on a smooth concrete pad across from the house. The Grant kids had told Clay yah, you can build it, after he signed a five-year lease on the property. Their eyebrows didn’t lift too much when they learned of his plans. Rumor about Clay was he’d received a false-imprisonment settlement from the County. Grant kids didn’t ask questions, happy to take his money while the old place settles year by year into the landscape.
At the workbench near his old monoplane, Clay looks out the wide doors toward the house. He doesn’t recognize the black SUV parked there. He’s more focused at poking keys on his beater laptop. He’s annoyed. All he wants to do is set the calendar to the correct day, but the pointer will not respond. Let the damn thing believe it’s three days in the past . He doesn’t have time for this. Turning to the airplane, he picks up a tool.
Movement outside. A tall man exits the SUV, sheaf of papers at his paunch, strides up the steps, knocks on the door. Clay manipulates a wrench, intent on the tension of a control cable in the wing. Tharcia is inside, no idea if she’s up yet, although it’s past noon. Man knocks again. Clay steps into sunlight.
“Help you?”
Porterfield turns, sees across the dirt clearing a blond man in the wide doorway of a metal building, knows who it is. Not his first choice, although he admitted the possibility. He’d hoped to speak to the girl.
“Here to see Tharcia Harrison,” he calls out, walking across the space. He’s sure he knows who it is, that wimp from the grades his mates called ‘Sissy.’ Cicero Sissy Clay. This will be easy. Steps closer, stops a couple feet from the shorter man who looks fit, stands relaxed, dark-stained hands, blue work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
“Hey, Sissy, long time,” Porterfield says with a smirk.
The voice. Now Clay remembers. Hasn’t seen this cocksure dude in 20 years. Guy had been the bane of his existence senior year. Football captain, always trailing a posse of sycophant jocks with jaws like toilet bowls. They had jumped him once. Now the guy has a beer gut, not in shape, light color hair in that comb-over style many men go with before they admit the inevitable, climbing forty. Same arrogant grin.
Sissy. Red mist swallows reason. Clay drives his knuckles hard into the man’s solar plexus, where sternum meets beer belly. Smug grin vanishes in contortion of pain as the dude goes down. Clay stands over the man curled tight around his agony. Having a hard time getting air.
Thing Clay had learned in three years of prison, you react to the slightest provocation with total aggression. Escalate right away, whatever the cost. Only way to keep the next guy from trying you. Dude watches him warily from the ground, anticipating the kick he’s sure will come. What Porterfield himself had always done.
Clay sighs, knowing he’s overdone it. Low-impulse alert. But he knows who this is. Porterfield. And knows the guy is still an idiot, dissing him with that nickname after so long. Cicero, his dad’s gift, curse on his life.
“It’s Clay. Don’t forget that.”
Porterfield on his knees holding his middle, nods. Wheezes a scrap of breath, “Clay.”
Clay doesn’t help him up, no chance of a handshake. Once a jerk, always a jerk.
“What you here for, Chester?”
On his feet, Porterfield winces at the name, damn near as bad in his view as Cicero, regrets his lame opening. The Devil made me do it .
“Sorry,” Porterfield has
But his one lucky break, hearing a year ago the fate of an old girlfriend, one of his many, had mobilized him. He’s ready to score big. Confident he’s prepared, Chet Porterfield turns the big car toward the secluded house.
Clay hears the crunch of tires, ignores it. Whoever it is will find his shop, a newly-constructed metal shell on a smooth concrete pad across from the house. The Grant kids had told Clay yah, you can build it, after he signed a five-year lease on the property. Their eyebrows didn’t lift too much when they learned of his plans. Rumor about Clay was he’d received a false-imprisonment settlement from the County. Grant kids didn’t ask questions, happy to take his money while the old place settles year by year into the landscape.
At the workbench near his old monoplane, Clay looks out the wide doors toward the house. He doesn’t recognize the black SUV parked there. He’s more focused at poking keys on his beater laptop. He’s annoyed. All he wants to do is set the calendar to the correct day, but the pointer will not respond. Let the damn thing believe it’s three days in the past . He doesn’t have time for this. Turning to the airplane, he picks up a tool.
Movement outside. A tall man exits the SUV, sheaf of papers at his paunch, strides up the steps, knocks on the door. Clay manipulates a wrench, intent on the tension of a control cable in the wing. Tharcia is inside, no idea if she’s up yet, although it’s past noon. Man knocks again. Clay steps into sunlight.
“Help you?”
Porterfield turns, sees across the dirt clearing a blond man in the wide doorway of a metal building, knows who it is. Not his first choice, although he admitted the possibility. He’d hoped to speak to the girl.
“Here to see Tharcia Harrison,” he calls out, walking across the space. He’s sure he knows who it is, that wimp from the grades his mates called ‘Sissy.’ Cicero Sissy Clay. This will be easy. Steps closer, stops a couple feet from the shorter man who looks fit, stands relaxed, dark-stained hands, blue work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
“Hey, Sissy, long time,” Porterfield says with a smirk.
The voice. Now Clay remembers. Hasn’t seen this cocksure dude in 20 years. Guy had been the bane of his existence senior year. Football captain, always trailing a posse of sycophant jocks with jaws like toilet bowls. They had jumped him once. Now the guy has a beer gut, not in shape, light color hair in that comb-over style many men go with before they admit the inevitable, climbing forty. Same arrogant grin.
Sissy. Red mist swallows reason. Clay drives his knuckles hard into the man’s solar plexus, where sternum meets beer belly. Smug grin vanishes in contortion of pain as the dude goes down. Clay stands over the man curled tight around his agony. Having a hard time getting air.
Thing Clay had learned in three years of prison, you react to the slightest provocation with total aggression. Escalate right away, whatever the cost. Only way to keep the next guy from trying you. Dude watches him warily from the ground, anticipating the kick he’s sure will come. What Porterfield himself had always done.
Clay sighs, knowing he’s overdone it. Low-impulse alert. But he knows who this is. Porterfield. And knows the guy is still an idiot, dissing him with that nickname after so long. Cicero, his dad’s gift, curse on his life.
“It’s Clay. Don’t forget that.”
Porterfield on his knees holding his middle, nods. Wheezes a scrap of breath, “Clay.”
Clay doesn’t help him up, no chance of a handshake. Once a jerk, always a jerk.
“What you here for, Chester?”
On his feet, Porterfield winces at the name, damn near as bad in his view as Cicero, regrets his lame opening. The Devil made me do it .
“Sorry,” Porterfield has
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