folded inside the crowd. “If the poor slobs only knew the truth.”
The stranger was thinking out loud, and Jerry didn’t like it. You shouldn’t be inside someone else’s head.
“ Dick Leigh,” the stranger said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“ Jerry Nearing.”
Dick raised his chin. “The pitchfork man?”
It took a moment for Jerry to realize what Dick meant. He recalled the ordeal on the farm during the spring and the awful snapshots in the newspapers. The reporters had smuggled photographs off his property, and the papers mocked him up as a millionaire farmer gone mad—the pitchfork man. “I guess you heard about that.”
“ I saw it in the news like everyone else.”
“ It was embarrassing.”
“ It was great for morale.”
Jerry saw Dick’s eyes. The fine lines beneath them were smiling.
“ We need more of that take charge kind of attitude,” Dick said.
“ The newspaper almost pressed charges.”
“ But they used your story instead.”
“ Right.”
“ That’s what they wanted from the beginning.”
“ Everyone wants something.” Jerry shrugged, wondering what Dick wanted.
“ Welcome to the club.” Dick shook Jerry’s hand. His grip was as intense as his stare. He used it to draw closer to Jerry. “From here on out, hold onto your wallet.”
“ So it’s like that for you too?”
“ I have a buffer.” Dick looked past Jerry’s shoulder. “You have to be careful. You don’t want to end up like him.”
Jerry turned and recognized one of the celebrity guests. He was a former NY Yankee who was arrested so many times for cocaine possession that his convictions became a spectator’s sport of its own. He was bald now but retained a fresh athletic look, regardless of the endless urine test failures and rehab stints. He was a walking poster child for genetics and strange luck.
“ I never use drugs,” Jerry said.
“ Not him. The chubby man with the dark curly hair coming this way.”
Jerry refocused his sights. “I don’t know him.”
“ Tom Veris, a friend of mine. Seven million completely down the drain. One stupid business decision after another.”
“ I can’t imagine that.”
“ It happens.”
“ Is he broke?”
“ More or less.”
Tom arrived holding a vodka tonic and a foaming beer in a tall fluted glass.
Dick snatched both glasses from Tom’s grasp. “Do you like beer?”
“ Sometimes,” Jerry said.
“ Do you want something else?”
“ This is fine.” Jerry accepted the foaming glass, obliging with a sip.
“ Wait a minute.” Tom’s voice was higher than Jerry expected.
Jerry pulled the glass away from his lips. “Is this yours?”
“ Why don’t you get yourself another?” Dick said.
Tom frowned and retreated to the bar.
“ Does Tom work for you?” Jerry asked.
A young man with broad shoulders stood several feet away. His ears curved from the side of his head like satellite dishes. He was listening, snickering at Jerry’s questions.
“ That’s Tucker,” Dick said, “my bodyguard.”
Tucker nodded to Jerry and then panned a disinterested gaze on the party. He plugged his ears with headphones from a portable stereo. He looked like a Secret Service agent in need of a President.
“ Bodyguard?” Jerry asked.
“ He’s Australian, the best, rugged people. You might think about one for yourself.”
“ I can handle things.”
“ That’s right. You have that pitchfork.”
Jerry wanted to switch the subject. He saw Dick’s friend at the bar. “What did Tom do for a living?”
“ That’s not really discussed here.”
“ Why not?” You just told me he blew seven million.
“ If you must know, he owned a bakery.”
“ What’s so secret about that? Isn’t it appropriate to know where people come from?”
“ We try to forget the past, and you should too. You cashed it in with your first lottery check.”
Jerry filed the comment away. Chelsea was forgetting the past. She buried it deeper with each surgical
The stranger was thinking out loud, and Jerry didn’t like it. You shouldn’t be inside someone else’s head.
“ Dick Leigh,” the stranger said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“ Jerry Nearing.”
Dick raised his chin. “The pitchfork man?”
It took a moment for Jerry to realize what Dick meant. He recalled the ordeal on the farm during the spring and the awful snapshots in the newspapers. The reporters had smuggled photographs off his property, and the papers mocked him up as a millionaire farmer gone mad—the pitchfork man. “I guess you heard about that.”
“ I saw it in the news like everyone else.”
“ It was embarrassing.”
“ It was great for morale.”
Jerry saw Dick’s eyes. The fine lines beneath them were smiling.
“ We need more of that take charge kind of attitude,” Dick said.
“ The newspaper almost pressed charges.”
“ But they used your story instead.”
“ Right.”
“ That’s what they wanted from the beginning.”
“ Everyone wants something.” Jerry shrugged, wondering what Dick wanted.
“ Welcome to the club.” Dick shook Jerry’s hand. His grip was as intense as his stare. He used it to draw closer to Jerry. “From here on out, hold onto your wallet.”
“ So it’s like that for you too?”
“ I have a buffer.” Dick looked past Jerry’s shoulder. “You have to be careful. You don’t want to end up like him.”
Jerry turned and recognized one of the celebrity guests. He was a former NY Yankee who was arrested so many times for cocaine possession that his convictions became a spectator’s sport of its own. He was bald now but retained a fresh athletic look, regardless of the endless urine test failures and rehab stints. He was a walking poster child for genetics and strange luck.
“ I never use drugs,” Jerry said.
“ Not him. The chubby man with the dark curly hair coming this way.”
Jerry refocused his sights. “I don’t know him.”
“ Tom Veris, a friend of mine. Seven million completely down the drain. One stupid business decision after another.”
“ I can’t imagine that.”
“ It happens.”
“ Is he broke?”
“ More or less.”
Tom arrived holding a vodka tonic and a foaming beer in a tall fluted glass.
Dick snatched both glasses from Tom’s grasp. “Do you like beer?”
“ Sometimes,” Jerry said.
“ Do you want something else?”
“ This is fine.” Jerry accepted the foaming glass, obliging with a sip.
“ Wait a minute.” Tom’s voice was higher than Jerry expected.
Jerry pulled the glass away from his lips. “Is this yours?”
“ Why don’t you get yourself another?” Dick said.
Tom frowned and retreated to the bar.
“ Does Tom work for you?” Jerry asked.
A young man with broad shoulders stood several feet away. His ears curved from the side of his head like satellite dishes. He was listening, snickering at Jerry’s questions.
“ That’s Tucker,” Dick said, “my bodyguard.”
Tucker nodded to Jerry and then panned a disinterested gaze on the party. He plugged his ears with headphones from a portable stereo. He looked like a Secret Service agent in need of a President.
“ Bodyguard?” Jerry asked.
“ He’s Australian, the best, rugged people. You might think about one for yourself.”
“ I can handle things.”
“ That’s right. You have that pitchfork.”
Jerry wanted to switch the subject. He saw Dick’s friend at the bar. “What did Tom do for a living?”
“ That’s not really discussed here.”
“ Why not?” You just told me he blew seven million.
“ If you must know, he owned a bakery.”
“ What’s so secret about that? Isn’t it appropriate to know where people come from?”
“ We try to forget the past, and you should too. You cashed it in with your first lottery check.”
Jerry filed the comment away. Chelsea was forgetting the past. She buried it deeper with each surgical
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