Cold in July

7

A few people who had heard about the killing came into the shop, and at least one of them was nothing more than a morbid curiosity seeker. He didn’t even try to pretend he had business there, he just wanted to know about last night. I told him all I felt like telling him, then went to the bathroom in the back and stayed there until James and Valerie got rid of him.

Rest of the day I worked on frames by myself and had James and Valerie stay up front. There wasn’t that much work for them up there, and I really could have used one of them on the frames, but I wanted to be left alone and I wanted to stay away from bullshit conversation. Talk about the weather and the Dallas Cowboys wasn’t going to cut it today. It would only remind me I was putting up a veneer against the real concerns, and that would be worse.

About four-thirty, I was working on a limited-edition print, putting 100 percent rag matt around it, when the phone rang. James answered and said it was for me.

It was Price.

“There may be a problem,” he said.

“What kind of problem?”

“Ben Russel. Freddy’s father. He got out of Huntsville yesterday. He knows his son is dead, knows he was killed in a burglary, and word is he’s coming to the funeral. He could be dangerous. Don’t go to the funeral.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Stay away from Ben Russel, Mr. Dane. He’s dangerous. You being at his son’s funeral would just make matters worse. You stay home and maybe he’ll just let things be and move on. He probably doesn’t care one way or a another about the boy. His type is vengeful. Just looking for an excuse.”

“Thanks for the advice, Price.”

“Heed it, Dane. Trust me on this.”

I hung up and went back to my matting. I backed the print and got a piece of no-glare glass for it, but found I couldn’t make it fit the frame. My hands didn’t work right.

I had James finish it. I drank a cup of coffee I didn’t need, then went to the bathroom to think. I tried to picture Ben Russel and imagined him long and lean with a crew cut and a scar on the side of his face. I figured he had a gravelly voice and was the kind of guy that had killed a fellow inmate in prison with a spoon he had sharpened in metal shop. I could imagine the warden talking to him when they let him out, telling him, “Go straight, Russel,” And I could imagine Russel thinking, “Yeah, soon as I finish a little job in LaBorde.”

I washed my face and went home early.