I've found that that happens quite a bit in life. Every time I thought I knew a person just from looking them up and down, I discovered how wrong I was once I'd sat through a cup of coffee with them.
“Thirty percent,” Eddie said.
Griffin Shaw laughed. A big hearty laugh like Santa might put out. He looked around at the lot of us, like he wanted one of us to laugh along with him. No one did, of course.
“I think you're one sandwich short of a picnic,” he said. “Thirty percent? What for?”
Eddie put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip, then placed the whole shuh-bang right up to his nose and took a deep breath through his hands. Then he slid them down over his chin.
“Thirty percent buys a lot,” he said. “Cops on the payroll. Greased skids. I always pictured West Virginia as a dirt hill of inbred Goobers with guns and motorcycles. Maybe I was right.”
You could see flames in Griffin's eyes, but he stayed calm.
“Twenty,” he said. “And that's only 'cause I'm in a good mood.”
“Twenty-five,” Eddie said. “That's bargain-basement prices.”
Barney the pug, always napping on a blue blanket near Eddie's desk, stood up, pushed out his front legs, and yawned. He shook his head and his tags jingled. He walked over to Griffin Shaw and sat at his feet, and Griffin petted him.
“He likes you,” Eddie said.
“I got a way with dogs,” Griffin said.
The meeting ended with a handshake and a cigar, but their business partnership didn't stay cordial for long. That younger kid, the one with the holes in his ears and the piercing through his eyebrow—that kid was trouble. He was the kind of punk kid who thinks they're tough just because they've been around tough people. Every time we stopped by that house to grab our envelope, Clayton Shaw gave us attitude.
And his beef with Moe was for real. Clayton Shaw wouldn't shake Moe's hand or even talk to him, just because he was black. That wasn't good for business. Moe worked a lot of ground for us, and now that Clayton was supplying his goods we had to see that the two of them could at least coordinate. I went over there a dozen times with Moe, just trying to make it work. But Clayton had joined up with a VolksFront chapter back in West Virginia. He even had an “88” tattoo on his neck. He was a racist dummy, so dumb that it never crossed his mind he was wearing tribal style African earrings.
I don't have a beef with any one race. Take any guy—White, Black, Mexican, Arab—I can almost guarantee that he's a dirty, sneaky, greedy rat. Seven billion dirty rats shredding up this one beautiful planet. Sure, you get your occasional Gandhi or Mother Teresa, but what good can they do against the rest of us, driving our gas-guzzlers and eating Chicken McNuggets? You're the problem, buddy. So am I.
Moe hated going over to that house, but Eddie told him to stick with it.
“He'll come around,” Eddie said. “You'll win him over. He's just a dumb kid who got in with the wrong crowd.”
“Nah,” said Moe. “I'll deal with that Wade. He's cool. But I ain't settin' foot in that house if that skinny fool is home. You tell Wade that I deal with him, and only him.”
Eddie set it up so Moe could pick up the stuff on Sunday nights. He told Wade Shaw to make sure his younger brother was always gone on Sunday night between eight and ten. And for a good few months, through the rest of that winter and spring and summer, it all ran as smooth as a well-oiled watch.
Then that awful Sunday night happened.
It was ten thirty, and I was cleaning the fifty-five gallon aquarium with my tiger oscar, Vern. My arms were sopping wet when my phone rang. And rang and rang. I knew it was something bad. Only Eddie will keep dialing like that, over and over again.
I dried off my arms and ran to the phone.
“Hey Champ,” Eddie said, “I need a favor.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ricky Cervetti rolled up in his Buick and we sped off toward the side of town where the West
“Thirty percent,” Eddie said.
Griffin Shaw laughed. A big hearty laugh like Santa might put out. He looked around at the lot of us, like he wanted one of us to laugh along with him. No one did, of course.
“I think you're one sandwich short of a picnic,” he said. “Thirty percent? What for?”
Eddie put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip, then placed the whole shuh-bang right up to his nose and took a deep breath through his hands. Then he slid them down over his chin.
“Thirty percent buys a lot,” he said. “Cops on the payroll. Greased skids. I always pictured West Virginia as a dirt hill of inbred Goobers with guns and motorcycles. Maybe I was right.”
You could see flames in Griffin's eyes, but he stayed calm.
“Twenty,” he said. “And that's only 'cause I'm in a good mood.”
“Twenty-five,” Eddie said. “That's bargain-basement prices.”
Barney the pug, always napping on a blue blanket near Eddie's desk, stood up, pushed out his front legs, and yawned. He shook his head and his tags jingled. He walked over to Griffin Shaw and sat at his feet, and Griffin petted him.
“He likes you,” Eddie said.
“I got a way with dogs,” Griffin said.
The meeting ended with a handshake and a cigar, but their business partnership didn't stay cordial for long. That younger kid, the one with the holes in his ears and the piercing through his eyebrow—that kid was trouble. He was the kind of punk kid who thinks they're tough just because they've been around tough people. Every time we stopped by that house to grab our envelope, Clayton Shaw gave us attitude.
And his beef with Moe was for real. Clayton Shaw wouldn't shake Moe's hand or even talk to him, just because he was black. That wasn't good for business. Moe worked a lot of ground for us, and now that Clayton was supplying his goods we had to see that the two of them could at least coordinate. I went over there a dozen times with Moe, just trying to make it work. But Clayton had joined up with a VolksFront chapter back in West Virginia. He even had an “88” tattoo on his neck. He was a racist dummy, so dumb that it never crossed his mind he was wearing tribal style African earrings.
I don't have a beef with any one race. Take any guy—White, Black, Mexican, Arab—I can almost guarantee that he's a dirty, sneaky, greedy rat. Seven billion dirty rats shredding up this one beautiful planet. Sure, you get your occasional Gandhi or Mother Teresa, but what good can they do against the rest of us, driving our gas-guzzlers and eating Chicken McNuggets? You're the problem, buddy. So am I.
Moe hated going over to that house, but Eddie told him to stick with it.
“He'll come around,” Eddie said. “You'll win him over. He's just a dumb kid who got in with the wrong crowd.”
“Nah,” said Moe. “I'll deal with that Wade. He's cool. But I ain't settin' foot in that house if that skinny fool is home. You tell Wade that I deal with him, and only him.”
Eddie set it up so Moe could pick up the stuff on Sunday nights. He told Wade Shaw to make sure his younger brother was always gone on Sunday night between eight and ten. And for a good few months, through the rest of that winter and spring and summer, it all ran as smooth as a well-oiled watch.
Then that awful Sunday night happened.
It was ten thirty, and I was cleaning the fifty-five gallon aquarium with my tiger oscar, Vern. My arms were sopping wet when my phone rang. And rang and rang. I knew it was something bad. Only Eddie will keep dialing like that, over and over again.
I dried off my arms and ran to the phone.
“Hey Champ,” Eddie said, “I need a favor.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ricky Cervetti rolled up in his Buick and we sped off toward the side of town where the West
Similar Books
