Portrait of a Dead Guy by Larissa Reinhart Page A

with the chicken? I’m starving.”
    “You’re always starving. You got Gam’s house, and I know it has a kitchen. Why don’t you learn to cook for yourself?” She stretched from her seat with deliberate indolence, our squabble already forgotten.
    “Why should I when you do it so much better? Who wants to eat ramen noodles when I can eat this?”
    “As I was saying,” Grandpa cleared his throat. “Now, the papers read that Dustin was dealing drugs out the back of the tire shop. Witnesses saw people going in and out that back door late at night from time to time. He could’ve been dealing drugs, wouldn’t put it past him, but I know something else that goes on there.”
    “What?” Casey and I responded together. She laid a plate of reheated butter rolls, fried okra, and green beans before me. My eyes dilated. I shoveled Casey’s cooking into my mouth, chewing quickly to hear Grandpa’s reply.
    “Sam McGill’s poker group. Got ’em going on all over town.”
    I swallowed a half-chewed bit of roll and swished it down with tea. “If there was a poker game, wouldn’t someone have seen him dead and reported it?”
    “It weren’t there that night. Will says it was at the Tan-N-Go a few nights before. But if folks were seeing people at odd hours at the garage, had to be poker. If it was drugs, they would’ve been sneakier. Maybe Dustin would’ve hid the drugs with the tires. You think that would work? Maybe on the wheel under the hubcap?” Grandpa leaned back, imagining the clandestine workings of a hubcap drug ring.
    “Why don’t they play poker in their houses like normal people? Why travel around to their jobs? I think you’d be more comfortable in your house.” Casey plopped into her chair with a bottle of florescent orange polish. She opened the bottle and spread one hand on the table.
    “Because of the wives, of course. That’s how it started anyway. Sam’s wife didn’t want him playing poker, and his friends’ wives would’ve told her if he played at their houses. Sam don’t have that wife any more, but they still play in the businesses for the hell of it.”
    “Who’s involved in those games?” I asked.
    “Not the crowd I’d hang out with, I’ll tell you that. Can’t see Dustin or his group playing with them neither.”
    “Who else works at the tire shop?”
    Grandpa rubbed the short whiskers of his chin with one hand. “Can’t say. Don’t get my tires there. I go to the Walmart in Line Creek.”
    “Any younger guys in that poker group?”
    “Wondering about anyone in particular? You ain’t seeing drummer boy again? I never understood your fascination with that one. He’s got less sense than Cody. And a gambling problem to boot.”
    Casey laughed. “Todd may be dumb, but he’s awfully pretty, Grandpa. There’s your fascination. And he worships Cherry.”
    “That shows you how dumb he is,” said Grandpa.
    “Thanks. You and Casey do wonders for my self-esteem.”
    “Speaking of awful pretty, Luke Harper’s back in town for the funeral. You seen him yet?” Casey glanced up from her nails to see my scowl. “Which do we need to lock up? You or Daddy’s gun?”
    “That was a long time ago. And I was young.”
    Grandpa grimaced. “What are you talking about? Are you in trouble, Cherry? You girls are going to be the death of me.”
    “Everything’s fine, Grandpa. Cody will be the death of you, not me.”
    “Cody’s not the one that tried to run away and get married.”
    “I didn’t run away to get married. Todd won a contest to go to Vegas, and I went along for fun. The wedding was annulled before anything happened, thank you, Lord. It was a momentary lapse in judgment.”
    “Call it what you want. Should’ve locked you up then, too,” remarked Casey.
    “You’re one to talk!”
    “That’s my own business.”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    Grandpa shoved his chair back and stood up. He placed his hands on the table, flexing the gnarled muscles in his thin