“You’re thinking about the war, aren’t you, Pat? How in the war the enemy was the wooly-heads, but back here at home the enemy is me.”
“Enough horseshit, Ted. Let’s go home. We’ve got ten more hay bales to pick up and a whole lot of pole pickers to oil and sharpen.”
“You think we’re ever really going to need them again? Those pole pickers for avocados?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. I’m just going to be ready if some of the burnt trees live. Or if Dad can get a Farm Bank loan and there’s any planter stock left on the market. And if the rain comes.”
“I don’t think Dad believes any of it is going to happen. He’s already given up. He’s just going through the motions because it’s all he knows how to do. It makes him mad. And he enjoys being mad.”
“That’s his kind of faith, Ted.”
“I brought a bat to take Edgar to the next level but I never landed a blow. We both got a hold of it and tried to get it away from the other. We were up close and our eyes were about level and it was me against him. We’re big guys. And when I called on all my strength it came to me, and I was able to move him back. Then Jessica stabbed me and Trevor butted in. But I had that guy. I had the whole thing going my way.”
“It’s the last time you see those people. The last time you go to Pride.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say. That’s right, Pat. The last.”
Patrick and Ted sharpened picker blades until 8:00 A.M., then Patrick sent his brother downtown to get the hay bales. He told Ted the feed and tack store men would load them in. After Ted’s truck vanished around the bend Patrick waited a few minutes then drove to Pride Auto Repair.
He’d been here as a boy with his dad, though not often, because his parents didn’t care for Jed Magnus’s race hate. He wondered how long it had been. Twelve, fifteen years? Outside it looked the same, with the racy neon Model T sign up again, and the windows cleaned. Inside was also like he remembered it, except for seeming smaller, with the same high ceilings and brick walls and the pool table, jukebox, counter, and stools. The counter was the same scarred oak, and the framed Vintage Car Show posters looked just like the ones from his boyhood, only with more recent dates. The lobby had been made to look old when he was a boy and it looked even older now. But now the man behind the counter was Cade and not his father.
“Patrick Norris! Good morning.”
Patrick walked to the counter and Cade offered his hand. Patrick took it, yanked hard, grabbed Magnus by the collar with his other hand, and pulled him face-first onto the countertop. He put his back and legs into it, dragging the man the length of the counter before launching him to the floor. Magnus crashed hard in a storm of pens, flyers, business cards, complimentary calendars, and candy. “Leave my brother alone. Don’t look at him or talk to him again. Ever.”
A muscular young man came from the repair bay through the double doors, holding a red shop rag in one hand. He stopped and the rag dropped to the floor. Magnus was already up in a shooter’s stance, a handgun leveled at Patrick’s chest. “I could shoot you right now, Patrick, and be within my rights. You’ve assaulted me on my property without reason. I’ve got a witness.”
“You won’t shoot me. And you won’t call the sheriffs. I’ll tell them about Trevor’s adventure last night with Ted. I take it you’re Trevor.”
The big man looked at his boss, who lowered his gun then and put it behind his back from where it had come. He brushed off the front of his blue work shirt, making sure the “Cade” patch was clean. “You’re an asshole, Norris. You come into my place of business on a nice Friday morning. You break my pen jar and mess up my ‘Take Back Main Street’ display. You dump my customer-appreciation candy on the floor. And it’s not cheap drugstore stuff — it’s real avocado fudge made here in Fallbrook. You throw me around and accuse my employee of who knows what. All because of your dumbass brother? Let me tell you something — we can hardly keep him out of here. He just slinks back again and again like a whipped dog. So, if you don’t like the company he keeps, take it up with him. But I own this place. When I’m in it, I look at who I want to look at, and I talk to who I want to talk to. My country has a Constitution that protects people like me from people like you. It protects your brother, too. So get lost, jarhead, or I will blow a hole in you. You want a war to fight, fight America’s enemies. Until then, you’re just a trespasser.”
“Rogue Wolves.”
“That’s right.”
“The skinnies weigh half of what you do but they’re twice as heavy.” Patrick looked at each man in turn and walked back out.
Chapter twenty-four
Patrick and his father and mother walked the realtor through the family home. The revised offer had come one day after the fire. It was afternoon and the light came through the windows in pleasant autumn angles and Patrick tried to see the place with fresh eyes. The realtor’s name was Scott Dormand and he had worked with Archie and Caroline for twenty-plus years. He had a sad face and depleted hair, dyed blond and combed over. Patrick could tell that Dormand was concerned with an as-is sale, noting the wear on the hardwood floors, the unpopularity of the wallpaper below the chair rails, the unusual “sea foam” color of the tile in the master bath.
“The son of a bitch doctor can do what he wants with it,” said Archie.
“Very true,” said Dormand. “Very true.”
“We won’t take a million three for something worth three million.”
“I know you won’t, Arch. I just wanted to see it again before we make the counter. There’s a lot here to love — the location is magnificent, the home has terrific bones, the kitchen has been remodeled and the plumbing and electric are sound. You’ve got double-pane windows, and the gorgeous old fireplace. On the other hand, we don’t want to scare them off.”
“By asking them to pay what it’s worth?” asked Caroline.
“Before the fire, his offer of two million was low, according to the comps. Asking three million, you were high. But I presented his new offer of one million three to you because that’s my job. And, well, the buyer looks at the ranch and sees the same house he made an offer on before the fire. But he also sees eighty burnt acres of avos that may not come back. He wants those trees. He wants to be a grower.”