ever seen, seventy thousand-some dollars’ worth of stupid.
Every insult was fuel for the fire, though. That’s what he told himself day in and day out, what kept him here, putting cigarettes
out before he’d even had a chance to smoke them, saying yessir and nosir to that fat bastard Amos. It wouldn’t last forever.
You could bet your sweet ass on that. There’d come a day when he’d walk back into this shit-hole town and make ’em stir, swagger
into that casino and toss a few thousand on the table, look bored when he won and amused when he lost, have the crowd hanging
on it.
You had to be ambitious. Josiah figured that out early, knew even when he dropped out of high school that he would rise above
all this crap. He didn’t
need
high school, that was all. Had all As and Bs except for a C in chemistry when he quit. But what was he going to do, earn
a scholarship, go up to IU or Purdue and get some bullshit degree that landed him a four-bedroom house with a thirty-year
mortgage and a leased Volvo? Please.What he had his sights on was a good deal bigger than that, and you didn’t need the schooling to get it. What you needed was
the hunger. And Josiah Bradford had that in spades.
Fire in the belly,
his old man had called it just before tying one on up in Bedford and wrapping his Trans Am around a tree on US 50, killing
himself before Josiah had the pleasure.
Better believe it was a fire. Burned hotter every day, but Josiah was no idiot, knew that it required a touch of patience,
required waiting for the right opportunity.
The puttering sound of the Gator’s little motor broke him out of his reverie, and he bowed his head and extended the weed
eater again, let the sun scorch on his back as he began to make the slow trip back up the brick drive to the hotel.
The Bradford name had meant something in this town once.
It would again.
7
T HERE WAS A COCKTAIL waitress at the bar who reminded Eric of Claire, the same willowy build and glossy dark hair and easy laugh, so he decided
not to linger over that drink so long after all. He settled for one beer again and then went up to the room and took his shoes
off and lay on the bed, thinking he’d rest for a few minutes. Evidently the drive and the beer were enough to coax sleep along,
because when he opened his eyes again the bedside clock showed that he’d slept for nearly two hours. It was past five now.
Time to get into action.
He sat up with a grunt, still feeling foggy with sleep, and swung his feet to the floor and went to get his briefcase. There
was a legal pad in it on which he’d sketched a rough outline of what he wanted to get done first. All he had scheduled for
today was an evening meeting with that graduate student who’d posted about Campbell on the Internet, but he’d like to get
some film done, too, get things rolling as much as possible.
Inside the briefcase he found the legal pad and the bottle of Pluto Water, which reminded him that he needed to check on that,
get an accurate date if possible.
When he took the bottle out of the briefcase, he could’ve sworn it was even colder than when he’d last touched it in Chicago.
It had always been unnaturally cool, but now it felt as if it had just come out of a refrigerator. It was hard to believe,
considering his last experience with it, but somehow the bottle looked almost tempting today. Almost refreshing.
“No way,” he said, thinking about another taste. He couldn’t ever stomach that again. Who knew what was wrong with it. Stuff
would probably kill you.
All the same, he loosened the cap again. Lowered his nose to it and took a quick sniff, bracing for that noxious, stomach-turning
scent.
He didn’t get it. A trace, maybe, but nothing so foul as last time. In fact, it smelled mild now, almost sweet. That was odd.
Must have released the worst of the smell as soon as it was opened. Maybe that’s how they did it in the old days, let the
Every insult was fuel for the fire, though. That’s what he told himself day in and day out, what kept him here, putting cigarettes
out before he’d even had a chance to smoke them, saying yessir and nosir to that fat bastard Amos. It wouldn’t last forever.
You could bet your sweet ass on that. There’d come a day when he’d walk back into this shit-hole town and make ’em stir, swagger
into that casino and toss a few thousand on the table, look bored when he won and amused when he lost, have the crowd hanging
on it.
You had to be ambitious. Josiah figured that out early, knew even when he dropped out of high school that he would rise above
all this crap. He didn’t
need
high school, that was all. Had all As and Bs except for a C in chemistry when he quit. But what was he going to do, earn
a scholarship, go up to IU or Purdue and get some bullshit degree that landed him a four-bedroom house with a thirty-year
mortgage and a leased Volvo? Please.What he had his sights on was a good deal bigger than that, and you didn’t need the schooling to get it. What you needed was
the hunger. And Josiah Bradford had that in spades.
Fire in the belly,
his old man had called it just before tying one on up in Bedford and wrapping his Trans Am around a tree on US 50, killing
himself before Josiah had the pleasure.
Better believe it was a fire. Burned hotter every day, but Josiah was no idiot, knew that it required a touch of patience,
required waiting for the right opportunity.
The puttering sound of the Gator’s little motor broke him out of his reverie, and he bowed his head and extended the weed
eater again, let the sun scorch on his back as he began to make the slow trip back up the brick drive to the hotel.
The Bradford name had meant something in this town once.
It would again.
7
T HERE WAS A COCKTAIL waitress at the bar who reminded Eric of Claire, the same willowy build and glossy dark hair and easy laugh, so he decided
not to linger over that drink so long after all. He settled for one beer again and then went up to the room and took his shoes
off and lay on the bed, thinking he’d rest for a few minutes. Evidently the drive and the beer were enough to coax sleep along,
because when he opened his eyes again the bedside clock showed that he’d slept for nearly two hours. It was past five now.
Time to get into action.
He sat up with a grunt, still feeling foggy with sleep, and swung his feet to the floor and went to get his briefcase. There
was a legal pad in it on which he’d sketched a rough outline of what he wanted to get done first. All he had scheduled for
today was an evening meeting with that graduate student who’d posted about Campbell on the Internet, but he’d like to get
some film done, too, get things rolling as much as possible.
Inside the briefcase he found the legal pad and the bottle of Pluto Water, which reminded him that he needed to check on that,
get an accurate date if possible.
When he took the bottle out of the briefcase, he could’ve sworn it was even colder than when he’d last touched it in Chicago.
It had always been unnaturally cool, but now it felt as if it had just come out of a refrigerator. It was hard to believe,
considering his last experience with it, but somehow the bottle looked almost tempting today. Almost refreshing.
“No way,” he said, thinking about another taste. He couldn’t ever stomach that again. Who knew what was wrong with it. Stuff
would probably kill you.
All the same, he loosened the cap again. Lowered his nose to it and took a quick sniff, bracing for that noxious, stomach-turning
scent.
He didn’t get it. A trace, maybe, but nothing so foul as last time. In fact, it smelled mild now, almost sweet. That was odd.
Must have released the worst of the smell as soon as it was opened. Maybe that’s how they did it in the old days, let the
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