knew Keith Landry. He was one of those most-likely-to-succeed guys, hotshot athlete, a bookworm, and popular enough so that guys like Cliff Baxter hated his guts.
Cliff remembered with some satisfaction that he’d jostled Landry in the halls a few times, and Landry never did a thing, except to say, “Excuse me,” like it was his fault. Cliff thought Landry was a pussy, but a few of Cliff’s friends had advised him to be careful with Landry. Without admitting it, Cliff knew they were right.
Cliff had been a year behind Landry in school, and he would have ignored the guy completely, except that Keith Landry was going out with Annie Prentis.
Cliff thought about this, about people like Landry in general who seemed to have all the right moves, who went out with the right girls, who made things look easy. And what was worse, Cliff thought, was that Landry was just a farmer’s son, a guy who shoveled barnyard shit on weekends, a guy whose folks would come to Baxter Motors and trade in one shit car for a newer piece of shit and finance the difference. This was a guy who didn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of, and who was supposed to shovel shit and bust sod all his life, but who went on to college on a bunch of scholarships from the church, the Rotary, the VFW, and some state money that the taxpayers, like the Baxters, got hit for. And then the son-of-a-bitch turned his nose up at the people he left behind. “Fuckhead.”
Cliff would have been glad to see the bastard leave, except that he left for college with Annie Prentis, and from what Cliff heard, they fucked up a storm at Bowling Green for four years before she dumped him.
Cliff suddenly slapped the dashboard hard. “Asshole!”
The thought of this prick who’d once fucked his wife being back in town was more than he could handle. “Cocksucker!”
Cliff drove aimlessly for a while, trying to figure out his next move. For sure, he thought, this guy had to go—one way or the other. This was Cliff Baxter’s town, and nobody, but nobody, in it gave him any shit—especially a guy who fucked his wife. “You’re history, mister.”
Even if Landry kept to himself, Cliff was enraged at the mere thought of him being so close to his wife, close enough so that they could run into each other in town or at some social thing. “How about
that?
How about being at some wedding or something, and in walks this asshole who fucked my wife, and he comes over to say hello to her with a smile on his fucking face?” Cliff shook his head as if to get the image out of his mind. “No way. No fucking way.”
He took a deep breath. “Goddamnit, he fucked my wife for four years, maybe five or six years, and the son-of-a-bitch shows up just like that, without a goddamn wife, sittin’ on his fuckin’ porch, not doin’ shit—” He slammed the dashboard again. “Damn it!”
Cliff felt his heart beating rapidly, and his mouth was sticky. He took a deep breath and opened the Orange Crush, took a swig, and felt the acid rise in his stomach. He flung the can out the window. “Goddamnit! God damned—”
The radio crackled, and Sergeant Blake came over the speaker. “Chief, about that license plate info—”
“You want the whole fuckin’ county to hear? Call on the damned phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone rang, and Cliff said, “Shoot.”
Sergeant Blake reported, “I faxed the Bureau of Motor Vehicles with the name Keith Landry, car make and model, and they got back to us with a negative.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Well, they said no such person.”
“Damn it, Blake, get the license plate number off the fuckin’ car and get back to them with that.”
“Where’s the car?”
“Old Landry farm, County Road 28. I want all the shit on his driver’s license, too, then I want you to call the local banks and see if he’s opened an account, and get his Social Security number and credit crap, then go from there—Army records, arrest
Cliff remembered with some satisfaction that he’d jostled Landry in the halls a few times, and Landry never did a thing, except to say, “Excuse me,” like it was his fault. Cliff thought Landry was a pussy, but a few of Cliff’s friends had advised him to be careful with Landry. Without admitting it, Cliff knew they were right.
Cliff had been a year behind Landry in school, and he would have ignored the guy completely, except that Keith Landry was going out with Annie Prentis.
Cliff thought about this, about people like Landry in general who seemed to have all the right moves, who went out with the right girls, who made things look easy. And what was worse, Cliff thought, was that Landry was just a farmer’s son, a guy who shoveled barnyard shit on weekends, a guy whose folks would come to Baxter Motors and trade in one shit car for a newer piece of shit and finance the difference. This was a guy who didn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of, and who was supposed to shovel shit and bust sod all his life, but who went on to college on a bunch of scholarships from the church, the Rotary, the VFW, and some state money that the taxpayers, like the Baxters, got hit for. And then the son-of-a-bitch turned his nose up at the people he left behind. “Fuckhead.”
Cliff would have been glad to see the bastard leave, except that he left for college with Annie Prentis, and from what Cliff heard, they fucked up a storm at Bowling Green for four years before she dumped him.
Cliff suddenly slapped the dashboard hard. “Asshole!”
The thought of this prick who’d once fucked his wife being back in town was more than he could handle. “Cocksucker!”
Cliff drove aimlessly for a while, trying to figure out his next move. For sure, he thought, this guy had to go—one way or the other. This was Cliff Baxter’s town, and nobody, but nobody, in it gave him any shit—especially a guy who fucked his wife. “You’re history, mister.”
Even if Landry kept to himself, Cliff was enraged at the mere thought of him being so close to his wife, close enough so that they could run into each other in town or at some social thing. “How about
that?
How about being at some wedding or something, and in walks this asshole who fucked my wife, and he comes over to say hello to her with a smile on his fucking face?” Cliff shook his head as if to get the image out of his mind. “No way. No fucking way.”
He took a deep breath. “Goddamnit, he fucked my wife for four years, maybe five or six years, and the son-of-a-bitch shows up just like that, without a goddamn wife, sittin’ on his fuckin’ porch, not doin’ shit—” He slammed the dashboard again. “Damn it!”
Cliff felt his heart beating rapidly, and his mouth was sticky. He took a deep breath and opened the Orange Crush, took a swig, and felt the acid rise in his stomach. He flung the can out the window. “Goddamnit! God damned—”
The radio crackled, and Sergeant Blake came over the speaker. “Chief, about that license plate info—”
“You want the whole fuckin’ county to hear? Call on the damned phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone rang, and Cliff said, “Shoot.”
Sergeant Blake reported, “I faxed the Bureau of Motor Vehicles with the name Keith Landry, car make and model, and they got back to us with a negative.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Well, they said no such person.”
“Damn it, Blake, get the license plate number off the fuckin’ car and get back to them with that.”
“Where’s the car?”
“Old Landry farm, County Road 28. I want all the shit on his driver’s license, too, then I want you to call the local banks and see if he’s opened an account, and get his Social Security number and credit crap, then go from there—Army records, arrest
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