the
C
moms will find something at Target and lie and say they bought it in Atlanta.”
Margaret smiled.
“Now get this,” he said. “The other day I saw a Suburban with four
C
stickers on her windshield. Four! Now what the hell would she need with four of them? What’s she trying to say? ‘Hey, I’m at the top of the food chain in this Cesspool of the South!’ … It’s like some African tribal branding thing, isn’t it?”
Randy’s cell phone rang, an electronic chiming of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which turned heads every time it went off. He retrieved it from his breast pocket, looked at the display window, and answered.
“What is it, Pearline?”
Buckner Meeks, a local oncologist and owner of several dilapidated inner-city houses, had caught wind that Randy’s new investigative reporter was researching an exposé on substandard housing. It turned out that Meeks, along with a dozen or so other wealthy, old-Selby families, moonlighted as slumlords who rented their decrepit properties to inner-city black families. Already the reporter had uncovered two cases in which people had been killed by antiquated wiring and a collapsed roof, and the families were paid ten thousand dollars to keep their mouths shut.
“I’ve got to take this one,” Randy said to Margaret. “I’ll be outside. Here.” He pulled his white-leather, Hugo Boss wallet from his pocket and tossed it to her from across the table. “Go ahead and pay.”
As Randy left, a young man on his way inside held the door open for him, watching Randy with a bemused smile on his face. He then walked in, looked at the counter and nodded in the manner of a cowboy at Margaret, politely staying back until she nodded and smiled in return.
Obviously off-duty now, he wore a tan, crew-neck T-shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans that were clean and pressed but faded at the knees. On his feet were square-toed, broken-in bootsthat were clean and polished, a brown the color of dark chocolate. A blond cowlick on the top of his forehead reminded Margaret of Dennis the Menace, yet he was a big man, with shoulders that could fill a doorway and hands that could conceal the identity of a can of Coke.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hello,” Margaret replied. “You were right. My cat came down when he wanted to.”
“How long was she up there?” he asked.
“Till that next day. I woke up and he was curled up like a shrimp on the front porch. I thought he was dead—he looked so skinny.”
“She gonna be all right?”
Margaret nodded.
“You keepin’ her inside now?”
“I try to,” Margaret said. “But he’s fast.”
“I thought she was a girl. I thought her name was Susan.”
“No, it’s a boy. It’s a long story, but it’s a boy.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Margaret.”
“Margaret.”
“Yes. Margaret.”
“Margaret what?”
“Margaret.”
He ran his hand through his short, thick hair, then pursed his lips and nodded as he looked out toward the parking lot. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “But I was fixin’ to ask you to a movie or somethin’, and I sure can’t call you if I don’t know your last name.”
“I’m not comfortable giving it out,” Margaret said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “Well, have a nice day.”
“Good-bye.”
He turned and headed for a booth where a uniformed firefighterawaited him. Margaret wondered if he walked this slowly all the time or if he was lingering as long as possible, hoping she would change her mind and call out to him. She noticed how the hair on the back of his head grew in a circular pattern with the cowlick at the very center, giving it the appearance of a blond hurricane.
Once more, he turned to her. “Don’t you even wanna know my name?” he asked. “It’s Dewayne.”
“Duane.”
“No, you say it Dee-wayne, like that.”
“Dee-wayne.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret stood and picked the bill up from the table. “Well,
C
moms will find something at Target and lie and say they bought it in Atlanta.”
Margaret smiled.
“Now get this,” he said. “The other day I saw a Suburban with four
C
stickers on her windshield. Four! Now what the hell would she need with four of them? What’s she trying to say? ‘Hey, I’m at the top of the food chain in this Cesspool of the South!’ … It’s like some African tribal branding thing, isn’t it?”
Randy’s cell phone rang, an electronic chiming of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” which turned heads every time it went off. He retrieved it from his breast pocket, looked at the display window, and answered.
“What is it, Pearline?”
Buckner Meeks, a local oncologist and owner of several dilapidated inner-city houses, had caught wind that Randy’s new investigative reporter was researching an exposé on substandard housing. It turned out that Meeks, along with a dozen or so other wealthy, old-Selby families, moonlighted as slumlords who rented their decrepit properties to inner-city black families. Already the reporter had uncovered two cases in which people had been killed by antiquated wiring and a collapsed roof, and the families were paid ten thousand dollars to keep their mouths shut.
“I’ve got to take this one,” Randy said to Margaret. “I’ll be outside. Here.” He pulled his white-leather, Hugo Boss wallet from his pocket and tossed it to her from across the table. “Go ahead and pay.”
As Randy left, a young man on his way inside held the door open for him, watching Randy with a bemused smile on his face. He then walked in, looked at the counter and nodded in the manner of a cowboy at Margaret, politely staying back until she nodded and smiled in return.
Obviously off-duty now, he wore a tan, crew-neck T-shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans that were clean and pressed but faded at the knees. On his feet were square-toed, broken-in bootsthat were clean and polished, a brown the color of dark chocolate. A blond cowlick on the top of his forehead reminded Margaret of Dennis the Menace, yet he was a big man, with shoulders that could fill a doorway and hands that could conceal the identity of a can of Coke.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hello,” Margaret replied. “You were right. My cat came down when he wanted to.”
“How long was she up there?” he asked.
“Till that next day. I woke up and he was curled up like a shrimp on the front porch. I thought he was dead—he looked so skinny.”
“She gonna be all right?”
Margaret nodded.
“You keepin’ her inside now?”
“I try to,” Margaret said. “But he’s fast.”
“I thought she was a girl. I thought her name was Susan.”
“No, it’s a boy. It’s a long story, but it’s a boy.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Margaret.”
“Margaret.”
“Yes. Margaret.”
“Margaret what?”
“Margaret.”
He ran his hand through his short, thick hair, then pursed his lips and nodded as he looked out toward the parking lot. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “But I was fixin’ to ask you to a movie or somethin’, and I sure can’t call you if I don’t know your last name.”
“I’m not comfortable giving it out,” Margaret said. “I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “Well, have a nice day.”
“Good-bye.”
He turned and headed for a booth where a uniformed firefighterawaited him. Margaret wondered if he walked this slowly all the time or if he was lingering as long as possible, hoping she would change her mind and call out to him. She noticed how the hair on the back of his head grew in a circular pattern with the cowlick at the very center, giving it the appearance of a blond hurricane.
Once more, he turned to her. “Don’t you even wanna know my name?” he asked. “It’s Dewayne.”
“Duane.”
“No, you say it Dee-wayne, like that.”
“Dee-wayne.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret stood and picked the bill up from the table. “Well,
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