Chat - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Archer Mayor (Chapter 9) #9

Chapter 9

"Oh, please. Parole and Probation? You have got to be shitting me."

Sammie Martens sat back in her chair and studied the ceiling without response, well used to her colleague's harangues, which, for him, passed for humor.

"Those guys are such cowboys. Not even cops, for Chrissakes."

Willy Kunkle looked across the small office they all shared, to see what effect he might be having. "Run around like they own the place," he added for good measure.

She didn't move, refusing his bait despite the temptation he was clearly counting on.

"Not to mention there's not a rule they don't break."

He saw her face crinkle in pain, as she absorbed this last crack. She straightened, put her elbows on her desk, and studied him as if he'd just emerged from a test tube. "What did you just say?" she asked, caving in at last.

He smiled at her innocently. "Not that I have a problem with any of that. When do we leave?"

She groaned and got to her feet. "Now." She pointed at his withered left arm, an appendage he usually kept anchored to his side by shoving its hand into his pants pocket. "Why didn't you join them after you lost that thing, instead of coming back to the cops?"

He rose, too, and joined her at the coatrack near the door. "You and I weren't an item back then," he explained. "I had to come back to irritate you."

"And that's changed now that we are?"

He patted her butt on his way to grabbing his parka. "Yeah. 'Cause now you love it."

She headed out the door. "You are such a jerk."

He laughed and followed her into the overheated second-floor hallway of Brattleboro's municipal building, where the VBI had a one-room office for its four regional agents. "So, what's the deal?"

"With P and P?" she asked. "We gotta interview Dave Snyder about one of their ex-parolees-someone named Andy Griffis."

"Griffis?" Willy commented, following her toward the stairs. "He's dead. What do we care?"

She half turned to respond, "How did you know that?"

He poked her in the small of the back. "You gotta keep up, girl. Plug into the gossip."

Say what you might about Willy Kunkle-that he was irascible, disrespectful, impolitic, and prone to cutting corners-he was still a cop's cop and made an art form of knowing everything about everybody who'd ever had a run-in with the law. He had an encyclopedia in his head about the people you'd never want to invite home.

As if to prove the point, he added, as they headed down the stairwell, "He was Gunther's case from when we all used to work downstairs. He hung himself."

Downstairs meant the Brattleboro Police Department, where Willy had also once been a detective. Of their squad, only Spinney had come from outside.

"Hanged himself," Sam corrected.

"Whatever, and you didn't answer the question."

"Joe asked me to look into Griffis because of the car crash that put Leo and his mom in the hospital."

Willy reached out and grabbed her arm to slow her down. "Whoa. I thought that was an accident."

"It is on paper," she answered, still walking toward the door to the parking lot.

"Meaning what?"

She shrugged. "Not sure. He didn't go into details. Just asked us to get what we could on Griffis."

Which vagueness, of course, only appealed to Willy's sense of balance. "Cool," he said as they stepped outside.

In the town of Brattleboro, Parole and Probation was housed in what used to be a bright pink chocolate factory, adjacent to both a popular restaurant and a stunning view of the confluence of the West and Connecticut Rivers. It was wrapped in greenery and appointed with enough small architectural details to make it look like an Italian villa designed by someone who had never traveled overseas.

To many observers-and many in law enforcement-the setting and history of this halfway house for the unfortunate was apt for both the town and the state in general, given Brattleboro's and Vermont's reputation for being less than draconian in their treatment of the legally wayward.

That said, the facility's interior was pretty standard office building, and nothing about its layout or the attitude of its occupants implied any coddling of the clientele. This was immediately demonstrated by the receptionist behind the bullet-resistant window when Sam and Willy walked in-especially after she caught sight of the latter and leaped to a reasonable conclusion.

"Sign in and have a seat."

Sam smiled brightly and flashed her badge. "Understandable mistake. We're here to see Dave Snyder."

The receptionist reacted with a deadpan "Don't sign in and have a seat."

Snyder, when he appeared a couple of minutes later, was a small, intense man with a hard handshake and a ready smile, who ushered them down a tangle of narrow hallways, up a half flight of stairs, and finally into a truly minute office with not even an air vent for circulation, much less a window. So much for the Italian villa.

The three of them conducted a facsimile minuet getting seated without bumping into each other, after which Willy, with his usual grace, opened up with a small conversational ice breaker.

"Christ. Either somebody really hates you or you need lessons on sucking up."

Snyder laughed. "I spend about an hour a day in here. It's actually kind of restful. And nobody ever bothers me."

Even the walls were blank, completely free of pictures, calendars, or a bulletin board.

"Go figure," Willy agreed.

Snyder fired up the computer monitor on his desk and addressed Sam. "You wanted to know about Andy Griffis?"

"Yeah," she told him. "He was arrested by the Brattleboro PD, but then we let him drop off the radar-until we heard he'd committed suicide, of course," she added quickly, addressing Snyder's look of surprise.

He nodded. "I was going to ask if you knew." He waved a hand at the screen. "Well, I don't know. To be honest, the guy who actually handled this case is gone, so I'm pretty much the tour guide here. I never met Griffis. What're you after?"

Sam took pity on the man, since she was in much the same boat, given Joe's vagueness. "Tell us the overall first, then maybe we can get more specific."

Snyder slowly began scrolling down and reading, highlighting his findings in a descriptive monologue. "Okay. Let's see. Wow. Talk about no luck-first-time offender and he goes straight to jail. Oh, okay. I get it, kind of. Proprietor gets hurt during a burglary, and she's an old lady to boot. Media must've been all over that. Still, tough for him. Got five to ten with all but three suspended. Bet he wasn't expecting that."

He hit a few more commands and moved elsewhere within his database. "Started out jail in Springfield," he resumed, "then got moved to St. Albans. Indicators are he was generally compliant and cooperative. In her notes, the prison case worker mentions a depressive period toward the end, basically lasting till he was released. Don't know what that was about. Probably just bummed. Our interactions with him afterward were routine. He got a job working up north first, around Thetford. His family has a bunch of businesses there. Says here he was a mechanic. Wasn't long before he headed back to Brattleboro, though, which is how we wound up with him. According to this, he said things weren't working out in Thetford. That happens often enough, where the family shakes out after one of them comes back from inside. Maybe that's what happened here."

He started reading more carefully, his own interest growing. "We picked up his check-ins," he resumed, "which he seems to have met. His conditions weren't too onerous-pretty much the usual. Oh, I was wrong; he did miss a check-in, right at the end. After that, nothing. He was found hanging from the crossbar in his apartment closet after he failed to show up at work two days in a row."

"He leave a note?" Willy asked.

"Doesn't say here, but that's no surprise. We get notification of a parolee's death, but the local PD and the ME's office have the actual details. You'll have to ask them."

"Any mention of close friends?" Sam asked.

"There's a Beth Ann Agostini," Snyder read. "Her name pops up in the last few months. Lives on Canal." He quickly scribbled her address down on a pad, adding, "Or used to. These folks move around a lot."

"That's it?" Willy asked incredulously.

Snyder was almost apologetic. "Yeah. Griffis wasn't adjusting all that well after he got out, but he kept within our guidelines." He sat back and studied them. "He was a probationer, not a parolee. That would've put him on a tighter leash. But on probation, as long as you check in and don't get caught doing anything foolish, you're part of a big pool of people. It's easy to fall through the cracks."

He passed his hand through his hair abruptly, his frustration showing, and added, "We get a lot of flack for trying to keep people out of prison, or letting them out on conditions too soon and too easily. But, believe me, it ain't high school, and some of these younger guys get really screwed up. Always drives me nuts when people go on and on about more jail cells and tougher sentences when they have no clue what they're talking about."

Sam and Willy didn't respond, both of them just staring back at him.

Snyder smiled awkwardly. "Sorry. Guess that was a little overboard. No offense, I hope."

Willy dragged out his response, making a mockery of it. "Naaaah."

Sam pulled out a subpoena she'd secured just to be on the safe side. "Any chance we could have a printout of the case notes?"

As if defeated by some inner debate, Dave Snyder merely placed the subpoena on his desk and set to work at the keyboard.

Leo remained in the ICU, looking increasingly reduced by his standing retinue of monitors and IV hangers clustered around like skeletal mourners. And now he spent all his time asleep.

"I thought he was getting better," his mother said softly, sitting in the waiting room, her shoulders slumped.

Leo's primary physician crouched down before her wheelchair to better make eye contact, a gesture Joe appreciated. His name was Karl Weisenbeck, and so far, he'd been attentive, honest, and compassionate, seeking them out more often than they'd asked for him over the previous few days.

For Joe, the man's soothing presence was doubly welcome. Not only had Leo's downturn come as a surprise, but so had Gail's unannounced return. In fact, Dr. Weisenbeck had been talking to her alone upon their entrance, creating in Joe's mind an awkward jarring, as if he'd accidentally walked in on something inappropriate. Given the multiple emotions he was then balancing, the addition of this unusually loaded one had been a shock.

Not that her being here was a bad idea. The greeting between the two women had made that clear, reminding him of a loving daughter and mother after a long separation. Now, especially given Weisenbeck's announcement of Leo's reversal, Joe had to concede that his mother's coping ability was strengthened by Gail's presence. Over the years, these women had become close friends, driving home Joe's occasional sensation of being the odd man out.

None of which mattered at the moment, he forced himself to remember as he leaned forward to hear the doctor's explanation.

"It's a delicate time for your son," Weisenbeck was saying. "As you know, he suffered initially from a collapsed lung and flail chest, which is a breaking away of an independent part of the rib cage. The lung issue we resolved pretty easily, but the combination is what made it so difficult for him to breathe, and why we were helping him out with the nasal cannula at first. Unfortunately, the extent of his injuries has now led to what we call shock lung, or more technically, post-traumatic respiratory distress."

There was a small, almost indistinguishable intake of breath by his elderly listener, which prompted the doctor to take her hand in his own before continuing.

"Leo was no longer able to oxygenate his blood on his own, Mrs. Gunther," Weisenbeck said. "Which meant that we had to put him on a respirator."

She nodded slightly. "I understand."

But he wasn't done. "I wish that were the extent of it, but I'm afraid there's more. As a result of the multiple bone fragmentation, Leo's also suffering from fat embolization. This has affected his brain function, among other things, which is why he's asleep for the moment."

She began to ask a question, but he gently held up a finger in order to keep going. "I know-for how long? Right?"

She nodded silently.

"I'm not sure," he answered. "We are treating him with blood thinners and steroids and time, and we are monitoring him every second of every day. I came to work at this hospital because of its level of patient care, Mrs. Gunther, and I've never been disappointed with my decision. I will do everything in my power to make sure that will be true for your son as well. Leo is a strong, resilient, middle-aged man. That is a huge plus in his favor."

There was a long, painful lull in the conversation before her voice rose quietly into the silence. "Will he be okay?"

Weisenbeck leaned forward and squeezed her fingers again. "He's resting. You will hear the word coma. That's true, also, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. Our bodies are much more intuitive than we doctors in knowing what to do and when. You went through much the same thing when you came to us, remember? Your body needed rest, and so it went to sleep for a while. Better than what any of us could have ordered."

Joe's mother took it in like the psychological medicine it was meant to be, but then asked pointedly, "What dangers is he facing?"

He hesitated, gauging his best approach while looking her straight in the eyes. There seemed to be no breathing in the room.

"He is walking right at the edge. He is susceptible to stroke, pneumonia, and pulmonary embolus, as well as catheter-induced sepsis and several other threats. I will not pretend that it's not a long list." Here he added emphasis to his voice and intensified his gaze. "But I must stress with the same honesty that my optimism outweighs my fears.

"In the end, though," he added, slowly standing back up, "we all just have to wait and keep our hopes up." He smiled as he concluded, "While we watch him like the proverbial hawk. Okay? When he begins to come around-and I stress when, not if-the initial first signs will be neurological. He will most likely first respond to pain stimuli. His breathing will also improve as the ribs begin to knit, increasing his body's oxygen saturation, and that, in turn, will help clear out the fat emboli and allow him to emerge from the coma."

By now he was looking at them all, as if addressing a class. They all instinctively nodded.

"Great," he said. "Now. Would you like to come in and spend a little time with him? I'll have one of the nurses help you out." He glanced regretfully at Gail and Joe. "I'm afraid we're only letting one person in at a time for the moment, mostly just because it gets so crowded otherwise."

Joe was already holding his hand up. "Not a problem. We knew about that. We'll be right here, Mom," he added, patting her on her narrow shoulder.

She looked around and up at him, her smile belying her concern. "I won't be long."

"Take your time."

They watched her through the window overlooking the ICU as a nurse helped drape her in a gown and fit a sterile mask over her face in preparation for the visit. In the distance, Leo remained as still as a mummy, white-clad and corralled.

"God. What a nightmare," Gail murmured.

"Could be better," Joe agreed.

She glanced at him. "You believe him?"

He kept staring through the window. "What's not to believe? He said Leo's walking on the edge of a cliff."

After a momentary silence, Gail said, "I've been trading e-mails with your mom. She says you're looking into the crash."

He pressed his lips together, considering how to respond. There was a time when his reaction would have been immediate and open.

Gail instantly interpreted the hesitation. She'd always read people well. "That probably wasn't something she should have told me," she said quickly.

"No, no," he then said. "It's not like it's a secret. Sure as hell the people we're asking know about it. I just wondered why a relatively new car would fall apart like that. That's really all it is for now. The sheriff's department is helping me out. I'm not even officially involved."

She nodded. "I thought maybe he'd just hit some ice."

It was a leading question, but this time Joe played along. "A tie rod nut worked loose. Without it, the wheel pretty much does what it wants. It happens. I just want to make sure that it happened by accident."

"How do you do that?" she asked.

That felt like pressing, and he resisted her, his reasons at once professional and very personal. "Well, like I said, I'm trying to keep my nose clean. The deputy handling it owes me a call on that very subject. He's pretty good around cars, it turns out."

He still hadn't made eye contact with her, instead studying his mother being wheeled up to his brother's bed. But he was also consciously aware of Gail staring at him from the side, in search of some reaction.

"How're you doing?" she finally asked softly.

He glanced at her quickly and then nodded toward the scene before them, using it to dodge the true meaning of her question. "I've been thinking about the old lady lately, wondering what'll happen after she dies-Leo, the farm, all the rest. I never saw this coming."

This time Gail was the one who remained silent, prompting Joe to seek out her reflection in the glass. She was no longer looking at him, but her sadness radiated like heat.

Damn, he thought. This is too hard.

He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of the sheriff," he said, his voice loud and bluff in his ears, "I ought to hook up with him. Find out what he's got new, if anything. Could you handle Mom? Drive her back home, maybe?"

"Sure," Gail said softly, still not turning. "Happy to."

Joe patted her shoulder once and left the room, relieved and frustrated, both.

He found them out on Route 5, standing like a line of bird hunters at a shoot, except that they were all standing in a snowbank, looking down instead of skyward, and dressed alike in dark blue pseudo uniforms decorated with glaring white sheriff's patches. Barring a couple, they were all boys, mostly thin and gawky, sporting hair that looked painfully short in the cold weather. Slightly back of them was Rob Barrows, watching for traffic as much as giving guidance to the two of his teenage Explorers who were actually manning the metal detectors.

Joe pulled over by the side of the road and got out of his car.

"Any luck yet?" he asked.

There was a shout from the most distant detector handler.

Barrows smiled at the timing. "Guess we'll find out." They began walking together down the line. "We'd be due," he added. "We've been out here almost three hours, finding enough scrap metal to open a business. Slow going."

They reached the young woman who'd shouted out.

"What've you got, Explorer Ferris?" Rob asked in a clipped tone.

The girl stiffened slightly as she barked out, "A signal, sir. Pretty strong."

"Show me."

With her companions looking on from both sides, Ferris swept her instrument across the top of the snow by the edge of the road. They were about a half mile away from where Leo had gone off.

The detector began signaling loudly as she hovered over a marked defect in the white crust at their feet.

"Does look like something went in there," Barrows commented quietly. He turned to another of the Explorers. "Drury, get in there and carefully open up a channel going to the bottom of that hole. Take your time."

They watched as this second teenager got to his knees and slowly began digging into the snow, removing great handfuls in his gloves and dropping them behind him onto the roadway.

"Matthews," Barrows ordered, "you and Johnson go through what Drury's dumping there. Run the detector over it. Make sure there's nothing hidden inside."

Joe watched the deputy gradually engage more and more of his team until almost everyone had a job and felt useful in some fashion.

Fifteen minutes later, one of the kids helping Drury held up his gloved hand. "Got something, sir."

Barrows took it from him and showed it to Joe. It was a nut.

Joe looked up at the eager faces crowded around him, discipline having caved in to enthusiasm. He showed them the small piece of metal and spoke in a loud voice.

"You've done some great work here today. I thank you, and the Bureau thanks you. When I get back to the office, I'll make sure you all get officially recognized for your efforts. This is a terrific example of how some police work, maybe a little dull at first, pays off big-time in the end. Thumbs-up to all of you."

He poked his own thumb into the air, feeling only slightly foolish, comforted by the obvious pride and pleasure he saw in their faces.

Leaving the Explorers to pack up the equipment and trade excited one-liners, Rob and Joe walked back to the vehicles. Barrows held the nut out in front of him as they went.

"You can definitely see tool marks on it."

"You sure that's it?" Joe asked, hoping not to sound too doubtful.

Barrows gave his signature easy smile. "No. It's not like Subaru stamps every nut it uses. But what're the odds? It even has fresh grease on it. I'd bet that alone might connect it to your brother's car. Amazing what forensics can do these days."

He carefully dropped it into a small evidence bag he'd extracted from his coat pocket. "In any case," he added, "I am sure it's enough to get into Steve's Garage with a warrant."

Willy Kunkle pulled out his cell phone and responded in his standard professional manner.

"Yeah?"

"It's Scott." To Willy's total lack of response, the caller added hesitantly, "McCarty. You know…"

He did. McCarty was one of his many snitches. "So what?"

"Well, so I got something for you."

Willy stopped in mid-stride at the edge of the parking lot behind the municipal building. "Oh, right," he said scornfully. "Like I'm going to waste more time with you."

"No, no," Scott pleaded. "Don't hang up. It's about the guy you're looking for, one of the ones in the paper-'Do You Know Either of These Men?' Well, I do. I mean, I don't, but I know who does."

"Who?"

There was a telling pause on the other end of the line. Willy's grip tightened on the phone. "Listen, you little asshole-"

"Okay, okay," Scott interrupted him. "Meet me at the town garage in an hour. I'll have my man there and we'll do business."

"Business? After all the crap you put me through last time? That officially made you one of the worst informants I got," Willy blew up. "You owe me this as a freebie."

But Scott demurred, taking his time before answering, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Detective, especially since this is such a big deal-two dead men, big mystery, police at a standstill. Be a shame if you don't know what I know."

Willy scowled. Like it or not, he had to take a closer look at this. "And how much is what you know gonna cost me?"

The answer was instantaneous. "Hundred bucks."

As was Willy's. "Fuck you." He hung up.

He stayed where he was, phone in hand. It rang a minute later.

"Seventy-five," Scott said. "I gotta split it with-"

Willy hung up again without a word.

This time, it took three minutes for the phone to ring again.

"Fifty," Scott said in a flat voice. "After that, I don't give a shit."

Willy believed him. "See you in an hour."

In fact, Willy drove to the meeting place immediately, to stake it out. Brattleboro's town garage was on Fairgrounds Road, just beyond the sprawling rebuilt high school. The road was on the edge of town, not heavily traveled, not overly well lighted, and the "garage" itself was actually an assemblage of buildings-storage sheds, equipment units, repair bays, and the like, all affording a wide choice of shadowy hiding places.

Just to be on the safe side, Willy was going to make sure he was the first to take advantage of that.

Brattleboro is not the kind of town that harbors ambushes. There are no drive-by shootings, few muggings; murders crop up once every few years on average. The police largely respond to calls involving people they've come to know personally over time.

None of which mattered to Willy Kunkle.

Willy was not a Brattleboro native, or a Vermonter, or easily influenced by peaceful precedent. He was a recovering alcoholic, a recovering Vietnam-era sniper, an ex-NYPD cop, and a man whose crippled arm-the ironic gift of another sniper-stood as more of a symbol than an actual disability, since it certainly didn't slow him down on the job. He was hard-bitten, paranoid, short-tempered, and intolerant.

Of course, as Joe Gunther-his defender against every law enforcement bureaucracy so far-might have put it, he was also insightful, intuitive, hardworking, driven to perfection, honorable, and faithful. And a total pain in the neck.

He was also a born survivor, convinced by everything he'd experienced so far in life that you could never be too suspicious of, or too careful about, people.

As an example of this, he parked his vehicle unobtrusively in the high school parking lot and walked almost invisibly toward the town garage complex, eventually blending into its crosshatching of shadows until he could no longer be seen.

And there he waited.

As it turned out, he waited for quite a while, since Scott McCarty, not atypical of his ilk, was only vaguely aware of time. Nevertheless, he finally drove up in an exhausted Toyota sedan, slithering to a stop on worn summer tires, and killed the engine in the middle of the complex's dooryard, leaving his headlights on to play across the mashed and rutted landscape of ice and dirty snow created by countless truck tires.

He had someone sitting beside him.

As Scott pushed at his door to get out, he found that it only opened a foot. Through the gap, a cold and muscular hand reached in and grabbed him by the neck.

"You're late, you little shit." Still jamming the door with his leg, Willy called out to the passenger, "You, beside him-move a single muscle and you're dead. Ask Scott."

Scott nodded nervously. "He's not kidding, Benny."

"What's your name?" Willy demanded of the passenger.

"Benny Grosbeak."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"It's true. My parents were hippies and changed their last name."

"Why're you here, Benny?" Willy asked.

Benny opened his mouth, but Scott spoke up first. "That's what I-"

Willy tightened his grip, making him gasp. "Shut up."

Benny hesitated. "Scott told me about some money."

"How much?"

"Twenty bucks."

Willy laughed. "What do you know, Benny?"

Again the pause, followed by "I saw that man."

"The one in the paper?"

He nodded.

"Which one?"

"The bald guy." That was the floater, found in the stream.

"Where?"

Now Benny was freer to talk, the truth being out. "At the motel where I work. I'm the night clerk."

Without prompting, he gave Willy the name of the place, on Brattleboro's Putney Road, about a mile from where the other John Doe had been found at a far better motel. Willy liked the coincidence. He opened Scott's door wide with his knee and leaned into the car, so he was face-to-face with the occupants. "Benny and I are going to step outside," he said. "You are going to stay here, waiting for your money, right?"

Scott nodded again. It was only then that Willy unlocked his fingers from his informant's throat.

Willy glanced over at Benny, his voice almost gentle. "Okay, Ben, why don't you climb out and stretch your legs a bit? I want to ask you a couple of more questions."

Benny complied and Willy circled the car to join him, escorting him until he was beyond earshot of the car. He then positioned the young man with his back to the vehicle, so Willy could see, over his shoulder, Scott's pale face through the windshield.

"Sorry about the rough stuff," Willy began. "Scott and I have a history. I gotta pretend to be the tough guy."

"You do a nice job."

Willy laughed. "That's good. I like that." He reached into his pocket and extracted a twenty-dollar bill, using Benny's body to hide the gesture from Scott. "This is something extra for your efforts. Scott'll give you what he owes, so you might want to keep this between us."

Benny palmed it and slipped it into his pocket. "Thanks."

"No sweat. You help me; I help you. Tell me about the bald man."

"Not much to tell. He came in one night about a week ago and paid cash for a room. One night."

"Any car or luggage?"

"An overnight bag. Small. He told me he came in on the bus, so no car."

"How many key cards did he ask for?"

Benny smiled slightly. "Two. That happens a lot."

"Did you ever see the other party?"

Benny shook his head. "Nope. And that was it. I took the money, had him fill out the form, and gave him the keys. Never saw him again till that picture was in the paper."

"What was his name?"

"I don't remember." His eyes widened at Willy's instantaneous reaction. "Honest," he added urgently.

Willy softened his expression again. "He say where that bus came from?"

"No."

Willy kept his voice conversational. "Why didn't you call us?"

Benny looked embarrassed. "I was going to. That's what I told Scott when he said we could get paid for it."

"You know he's a schmuck, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry."

Willy shook it off. "Don't worry about it. Tell me your full name, your date of birth, where you live, and your phone number."

Benny did as he was told, Willy listened intently, memorizing the details until he could write them down later-a trick he'd developed from not always having a free hand.

"Okay. You wait here while I have a few words with Scott. You did good, by the way. Next time come to me direct. You can still get paid and you don't have to get fouled up. Right?"

"Yes, sir."

Willy left him there and tramped back to the car, leaning once more into Scott's face. "Twenty out of the fifty you're screwin' me for?"

Scott grimaced. "I'm just trying to make ends meet."

"And he's not?"

"He's got a job," Scott complained.

Willy pulled the money out of his pocket and dropped it on the other man's lap. "Fifty-fifty. Be a man. I take care of you for doing nothing. You take care of him for making you twenty-five bucks. Plus, I don't tell him you were about to fuck him over."

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Willy silenced him with a quickly raised hand. "You did tell him you'd split even money, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Scott admitted sullenly.

Willy straightened, still looking down at him. "Then do the right thing, like I said. For once in your life."

Scott nodded, already leafing through the bills, dividing them.

Willy whistled at Benny and gestured him over. "We'll probably be back in touch, Mr. Grosbeak. Don't go on any trips without letting me know, okay?"

Benny nodded and got back into the car.

Willy stepped back, his hand still holding Scott's door open. "Twenty-five bucks for each of you-not too bad. Don't forget your seat belts."

Scott gave him a sour look as he started the engine. "Yeah-whatever." Willy laughed and let them drive off.

CanadaBoi: so who's all home with you right now?

Becky: younger step brother

CanadaBoi: oh wheres ur parents?

Becky: working