freezer beside the porch door. Out came a frozen pie. Into the microwave it went. Through the endless awful droning that ensued, I discovered that the Hot Pockets were excellent and I decided if nothing else to fill my tank.
But then—
ding!
—there
was
something else. “So I hear tell,” Rita Crowe said, “that the sheriff has something going with Dane Tucker.”
“I’ve been around three weeks. I wouldn’t quite know.”
Russell brought the pie to the table. He tried a knife on it. Rock hard.
“But why?” I said. “Do you have some reason to think so?”
Her stream of smoke just cleared the top of Russell’s head as he probed unsuccessfully with the knife. “I’ve been around a long time. I have reason to think a lot of things. Lately he goes out alone. He sends his deputies off to the far corners of the county and has Ms. Park-Ford keep him appraised of the GPS readings on their cruisers. Then he takes off for hours.”
Russell, defeated, dropped the knife and said sulkily, “So Ma came up with an idea.”
“Put the pie on the counter, Russell. You can eat it when you come back from work.”
He looked at her warily. Her smile opened like my wing window, narrow and stuck at the wrong angle, but Russell looked as though he had been baptized in the breath of life.
“Yes!” he celebrated.
“Put it on the counter, Russell.”
“Which counter, Ma?’
“Left of the sink. No, Russell.
Left
of the sink.”
“Got it.”
Now a phone began to ring from the wall at the other side of the kitchen. You don’t much see phones like that anymore, beige slimlines, hard wired. Rita Crowe said, “Excuse me” and carried the handpiece away to the end of a long and kinky cord that placed her in the living room, out of earshot.
“It was a good idea.” Russell was rejuvenated. He hunkered toward me, speaking in a low voice. “It basically would have worked. My mom followed me out to Ringling where I was supposed to pull a dead horse off the road. There was no horse. There never was. So Ma stays with the cruiser like it’s me on speed patrol. I drive her truck back to town. I get there in time to catch the sheriff heading south on 89 and then up by Tucker’s place. He stops by the side of the road and just sits there. Then these other vehicles show up and I’m waiting to see what the sheriff does, and then—”
He stretched away to take a look at her. She had the TV on, was listening on the phone and looking for something through the channels.
“Must be a George Clooney sighting,” Russell said. “Ma’s fan network has been alerted.” He gave me a real-looking grin. “So I’m waiting there by Tucker’s place to see what the sheriff does, and then some drunk guy—”
He double-checked the living room. “Huh,” he said. “There’s Dane Tucker right there. That’s
Force Down.
I guess it came up on dish. And Ma’s watching, so there must be some early George Clooney in there somewhere.”
Russell rolled his eyes a bit. “Sorry about the pie.”
“It’s all right.”
“Some drunk guy comes along 294 at about eighty miles an hour using both lanes. And guess what she does? She turns on the siren and takes off after him. She puts the damn cruiser in the ditch at the 89 intersection. Ms. Park-Ford picks it up from her screen and radios the sheriff. The sheriff heads for the scene. Now I have to race him in my mother’s pickup and get back there before he does.”
Russell paused. This was thin ice, this story. In the living room, Rita Crowe murmured into the phone while a buff and sweaty Dane Tucker rappelled from a helicopter into some foreign embassy compound. The knife in Tucker’s stunning teeth turning out to be just the ticket to cut the bonds from the wrists and ankles of some dark-skinned beauty who then spat in Tucker’s face. No George Clooney that I could make out. Rita Crowe advanced one more channel to a talk show. White boys, ugly ones with shaved heads and jackboots,
But then—
ding!
—there
was
something else. “So I hear tell,” Rita Crowe said, “that the sheriff has something going with Dane Tucker.”
“I’ve been around three weeks. I wouldn’t quite know.”
Russell brought the pie to the table. He tried a knife on it. Rock hard.
“But why?” I said. “Do you have some reason to think so?”
Her stream of smoke just cleared the top of Russell’s head as he probed unsuccessfully with the knife. “I’ve been around a long time. I have reason to think a lot of things. Lately he goes out alone. He sends his deputies off to the far corners of the county and has Ms. Park-Ford keep him appraised of the GPS readings on their cruisers. Then he takes off for hours.”
Russell, defeated, dropped the knife and said sulkily, “So Ma came up with an idea.”
“Put the pie on the counter, Russell. You can eat it when you come back from work.”
He looked at her warily. Her smile opened like my wing window, narrow and stuck at the wrong angle, but Russell looked as though he had been baptized in the breath of life.
“Yes!” he celebrated.
“Put it on the counter, Russell.”
“Which counter, Ma?’
“Left of the sink. No, Russell.
Left
of the sink.”
“Got it.”
Now a phone began to ring from the wall at the other side of the kitchen. You don’t much see phones like that anymore, beige slimlines, hard wired. Rita Crowe said, “Excuse me” and carried the handpiece away to the end of a long and kinky cord that placed her in the living room, out of earshot.
“It was a good idea.” Russell was rejuvenated. He hunkered toward me, speaking in a low voice. “It basically would have worked. My mom followed me out to Ringling where I was supposed to pull a dead horse off the road. There was no horse. There never was. So Ma stays with the cruiser like it’s me on speed patrol. I drive her truck back to town. I get there in time to catch the sheriff heading south on 89 and then up by Tucker’s place. He stops by the side of the road and just sits there. Then these other vehicles show up and I’m waiting to see what the sheriff does, and then—”
He stretched away to take a look at her. She had the TV on, was listening on the phone and looking for something through the channels.
“Must be a George Clooney sighting,” Russell said. “Ma’s fan network has been alerted.” He gave me a real-looking grin. “So I’m waiting there by Tucker’s place to see what the sheriff does, and then some drunk guy—”
He double-checked the living room. “Huh,” he said. “There’s Dane Tucker right there. That’s
Force Down.
I guess it came up on dish. And Ma’s watching, so there must be some early George Clooney in there somewhere.”
Russell rolled his eyes a bit. “Sorry about the pie.”
“It’s all right.”
“Some drunk guy comes along 294 at about eighty miles an hour using both lanes. And guess what she does? She turns on the siren and takes off after him. She puts the damn cruiser in the ditch at the 89 intersection. Ms. Park-Ford picks it up from her screen and radios the sheriff. The sheriff heads for the scene. Now I have to race him in my mother’s pickup and get back there before he does.”
Russell paused. This was thin ice, this story. In the living room, Rita Crowe murmured into the phone while a buff and sweaty Dane Tucker rappelled from a helicopter into some foreign embassy compound. The knife in Tucker’s stunning teeth turning out to be just the ticket to cut the bonds from the wrists and ankles of some dark-skinned beauty who then spat in Tucker’s face. No George Clooney that I could make out. Rita Crowe advanced one more channel to a talk show. White boys, ugly ones with shaved heads and jackboots,
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