sweatshirt, pink flannel PJ pants with the silhouette of a black cat and the phrase BAD KITTY repeated on them, and pink plaid sneakers.
“Hey,” she protested at the delay.
The cashier held a hand up, the register’s phone to her ear. “I don’t know what it pays,” she said into it in tones of strained patience. “You’ll need to work that out with her.”
The woman in the pink PJ pants tapped her wrist impatiently with an index finger, then seemed to notice Lizzie.
“Terrible service in here,” she confided. “I can remember when it was much better.”
The cashier hung up. “Christ on a crutch, Cynthia, you’re so old you can remember the animals lining up two by two.”
She thrust change at the woman, who hurried out with her purchases. Then the cashier turned back to Lizzie. “Okay, my kid’s coming down here to work for you.”
And before Lizzie could protest that she’d meant an adult who had some skills and experience, someone who could do painting and carpet laying and maybe even a few repairs, the woman added:
“He’s smart.” She said this like it was something Lizzie was going to have to make allowances for.
“But he’s big, he can lift stuff, and he’s got nothing on his record, not even any points on his driver’s license.”
“I just need him for chores, not to be a getaway driver,” Lizzie joked. But humor wasn’t the cashier’s strong point.
“Whatever. I’m just telling you he’s honest, mostly. You won’t have to worry about him ripping you off or anything.”
On that ringing endorsement, Lizzie agreed to at least talk to the kid, who flew up on his bike out in front of her office ten minutes later, and who turned out to be Tattoo Kid.
Or Spud, as he informed her that he was called.
“He was as surprised as I was,” said Lizzie a few hours later, following Cody Chevrier up a long dirt driveway.
It was just after noon, the pale blue shadows of the big old trees already beginning to lengthen and the tannic-scented air out here growing even colder.
“Yeah, well,” said Chevrier over his shoulder. Ahead of him a huge black and tan hound that the sheriff had brought with him ambled along, sniffing. The dog had long, glossy ears and great big black-toenailed paws. Drool hung gleaming from its lips.
“Spud’s different. Kind of a misfit, all that stuff stuck in him, the jewelry and piercings, and the tattoos. Feel sorry for the kid, tellyou the truth. I think he’s got a brain in that big head of his, somewhere.”
Chevrier paused, considering. “Old man’s a prick, I can tell you that much. But Spud’s never given anybody any serious trouble that I ever heard. You could do worse.”
The dog scrambled up onto the screened porch of the mobile home at the top of the drive, nosing the screen door open as if he’d done it before and slipping eagerly inside.
“I hear you had some excitement in town last night,” said Chevrier.
Area 51, he meant. She still had the little gun. “Yeah. Is there a problem?” They followed the dog in to where a bentwood rocker and a wicker chair faced a table with magazines on it.
“Nope. Henry’s pretty ticked off, I saw him in the diner this morning. And his knee hurts, I had to talk him out of visiting you about it.”
Missy had predicted as much. “Yeah, well, he’s lucky it’s just his knee. But seriously, do I need to …”
Hey, a citizen had been injured, Chevrier could very well be getting flak from somewhere about it.
But he shook his head. “You’re fine. Missy Brantwell’s a good friend to have. Her dad’s an important guy around here, has a big farm and he keeps a lot of people employed on it.”
She absorbed this without comment. For one thing, she wasn’t sure Missy felt the least bit friendly. And anyway:
“Do me a favor. Next time, don’t talk Henry out of visiting me, all right? He’s got a quarrel with me, I’ll deal with it.”
She pulled Henry’s little gun out of her bag.
“Hey,” she protested at the delay.
The cashier held a hand up, the register’s phone to her ear. “I don’t know what it pays,” she said into it in tones of strained patience. “You’ll need to work that out with her.”
The woman in the pink PJ pants tapped her wrist impatiently with an index finger, then seemed to notice Lizzie.
“Terrible service in here,” she confided. “I can remember when it was much better.”
The cashier hung up. “Christ on a crutch, Cynthia, you’re so old you can remember the animals lining up two by two.”
She thrust change at the woman, who hurried out with her purchases. Then the cashier turned back to Lizzie. “Okay, my kid’s coming down here to work for you.”
And before Lizzie could protest that she’d meant an adult who had some skills and experience, someone who could do painting and carpet laying and maybe even a few repairs, the woman added:
“He’s smart.” She said this like it was something Lizzie was going to have to make allowances for.
“But he’s big, he can lift stuff, and he’s got nothing on his record, not even any points on his driver’s license.”
“I just need him for chores, not to be a getaway driver,” Lizzie joked. But humor wasn’t the cashier’s strong point.
“Whatever. I’m just telling you he’s honest, mostly. You won’t have to worry about him ripping you off or anything.”
On that ringing endorsement, Lizzie agreed to at least talk to the kid, who flew up on his bike out in front of her office ten minutes later, and who turned out to be Tattoo Kid.
Or Spud, as he informed her that he was called.
“He was as surprised as I was,” said Lizzie a few hours later, following Cody Chevrier up a long dirt driveway.
It was just after noon, the pale blue shadows of the big old trees already beginning to lengthen and the tannic-scented air out here growing even colder.
“Yeah, well,” said Chevrier over his shoulder. Ahead of him a huge black and tan hound that the sheriff had brought with him ambled along, sniffing. The dog had long, glossy ears and great big black-toenailed paws. Drool hung gleaming from its lips.
“Spud’s different. Kind of a misfit, all that stuff stuck in him, the jewelry and piercings, and the tattoos. Feel sorry for the kid, tellyou the truth. I think he’s got a brain in that big head of his, somewhere.”
Chevrier paused, considering. “Old man’s a prick, I can tell you that much. But Spud’s never given anybody any serious trouble that I ever heard. You could do worse.”
The dog scrambled up onto the screened porch of the mobile home at the top of the drive, nosing the screen door open as if he’d done it before and slipping eagerly inside.
“I hear you had some excitement in town last night,” said Chevrier.
Area 51, he meant. She still had the little gun. “Yeah. Is there a problem?” They followed the dog in to where a bentwood rocker and a wicker chair faced a table with magazines on it.
“Nope. Henry’s pretty ticked off, I saw him in the diner this morning. And his knee hurts, I had to talk him out of visiting you about it.”
Missy had predicted as much. “Yeah, well, he’s lucky it’s just his knee. But seriously, do I need to …”
Hey, a citizen had been injured, Chevrier could very well be getting flak from somewhere about it.
But he shook his head. “You’re fine. Missy Brantwell’s a good friend to have. Her dad’s an important guy around here, has a big farm and he keeps a lot of people employed on it.”
She absorbed this without comment. For one thing, she wasn’t sure Missy felt the least bit friendly. And anyway:
“Do me a favor. Next time, don’t talk Henry out of visiting me, all right? He’s got a quarrel with me, I’ll deal with it.”
She pulled Henry’s little gun out of her bag.
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