“So at least you’re rich.” I pointed at the crooked house. “Go pay the man and get him out of here. Then look after the deputy.”
“I can handle them,” Garrett said. “It’s my damn brother who’s going to be a problem. We had the same mother, but she never could make us get along.”
I shrugged. “People tend to be less trouble when they get what they want. I overheard some of your conversation, and I gather he wants something called banda. So give him banda.” I turned away again. “But no fiberglass.”
Then I jogged across the driveway into the woods where I’d started the evening. This time, Garrett didn’t say anything to stop me, and it was a good thing. I’d had a stupid, altruistic impulse, and now I was pissed off about it.
I didn’t like the feeling. So I tried to convince myself that the whole mess had been worth the four hundred dollars I was walking away with.
But instead, I only managed to convince myself that being a nice guy is a big pain in the ass.
14. Old Friends in Need
I wasn’t in a hurry, and I took my time getting through the woods. After about fifteen minutes, I emerged onto the side road where I had parked my Toyota. It was hidden in a shallow ditch under the low canopy of a huge live oak, almost invisible. So at least I had done one thing right tonight.
“Hold up there, friend.”
The voice was behind me, and I recognized it.
I turned with my hands held out to my sides. Bobby Tone stood at the edge of the road. The barrel of the Judge gleamed even in the weak moonlight.
“I sure am glad I caught up with you,” Bobby said. “See, now that I’ve been paid, I need a ride. I didn’t want to bother the others on account of there turned out to be a deputy sheriff on the premises. So I thought it best to depart immediately.”
“I see,” I said. “And you knew I was here because—?”
“Oh, that band-teacher fellow mentioned you. And sure enough, here you are.” Bobby Tone took a step closer and peered at me. “My goodness, is that little Matty Marx? I ain’t seen you since your daddy and me moved our last load of East Texas Canna-Bliss. That’s been a few years.” He made a “tsk-tsk” sound. “I was sorry to hear he passed, by the way. I was a guest of the state at the time, or I would’ve gone to the funeral. Lord rest him, though, and your mama, too.”
I lowered my hands. “Thank you, Bobby.”
“And while we’re on the topic,” he said, “I want to say I was also sorry to hear about your baby girl. Terrible thing, that sudden infant syndrome business. No fault of yours or the missus, and nobody thinks it was. But it seems the loss took a toll on your marriage, and I was sorry to hear about that as well. I, for one, happen to approve of interracial unions.”
I looked at Bobby Tone’s eyes. I didn’t think I saw any compassion there. But I wanted to believe there was.
“I appreciate the condolences,” I said. “But you don’t mind my saying so, you could probably lower that big-ass hand cannon now.”
He took another step closer. “Well, if it’s all the same to you,” he said. “I’ll wait ’til you drop me off in town.”
Which was what I’d figured. “Let’s go,” I said.
As I started the Toyota’s engine and the lights came on, Bobby Tone waggled the barrel of the Judge at me.
“Son, I thought I was imagining things,” he said, “but you’ve got your face done up in black, haven’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
Bobby cleared his throat. “Well, it’s highly inappropriate, I’ll have you know. And since we’ll have a little time here as we drive, I’ll explain why. Then, once we’ve reached our destination, I’ll require a good-faith demonstration that you’ve received and accepted my message of understanding and tolerance.”
I looked at him. “How much?” I asked.
“Depends on how much you got,” Bobby Tone said. He faced forward and tapped the Judge on the Toyota’s windshield. “Come on now, son. I parked my new truck behind the propane dealership. I can’t wait for you to see it. It’s a big old silver Dodge Ram, and I’m just tickled to death with it.”
I pulled the Toyota onto the dirt road and began my drive back to empty pockets.
15. It’s the Music, Not the Instrument
Elizabeth didn’t call me to school for the rest of the week. But I went to the spring concert Friday evening, even though it was three bucks to get in. I was curious to see how the sousaphone gangsters were doing.
I don’t know what I expected. Marisa, Kaylee, and Jared were in their places along with the rest of the band, and they played well. As far as I could tell. The Kingman Rural High gymnasium had terrible acoustics, especially from my perch at the top of the bleachers. But David Garrett seemed pleased with his players, and so did the crowd of parents and grandparents. Many bows were taken, and there was even an encore: “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
I had the strong sense that it was a setup.
Marisa’s tuba solo was amazing, though. Even in the echoey gym. I don’t know how she made each whale-fart note sound better in there than it had in the band room. But she did.
When the encore was over and Garrett and the band had received their applause, Elizabeth stepped out from her seat in the front row and faced the crowd.
“Once more for the Cougar Band!” she cried, and everyone applauded and whooped again. “Now, for those of you who can stick around, the annual bake sale and barbecue dinner will take place in the faculty parking lot, just through the rear doors. And I’m told that some members of the band will have a surprise for us.”
I stayed where I was as the band packed up and everyone else filtered down from the bleachers. Almost all of them went out the back, so apparently the bake sale really was a big deal. But I wasn’t planning to stay. I was just waiting for everyone to clear out of my way so I could climb down and head for the front doors.
Then I noticed that the band kids were placing their packed-up instruments next to the folded bleachers on the far side of the gym. And standing next to the growing pile of instruments were Donny, Tyler, and Deputy Beeswax.
This, I had to check out.
As the last of the band kids dropped off their cases, I came down and crossed the gym. Ernest’s head moved ever so slightly in my direction.
“Attention, gentlemen,” Ernest said as I approached. The boys pressed their backs against the folded bleachers and stared at a point somewhere on the distant ceiling.
“Deputy,” I said, extending my hand as I came near. “Haven’t seen you since Monday morning, so I thought I’d say hello.”
Once again, Ernest did not acknowledge my hand. “Are you someone I should remember?”
I gave up on the handshake. “Probably not. I’m Matthew Marx. Both our names end in ‘x,’ which makes us alphabet buddies.”
Ernest tilted his head downward to give me a baleful stare over the top of his sunglasses. “No such thing,” he said. “Now, is there something I can help you with? I have a chore to attend to.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Did these boys volunteer to help the band with their equipment?”
Ernest nodded. “Indeed they did. And then they’re going to do anything else I ask them to do for the foreseeable future, including shine my shoes and execute a few automotive repairs. They have volunteered to perform these and other tasks to serve as shining examples to all young men in the Kingman community who wish to continue to breathe free and have a snowball’s chance of playing football next season. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
“Sir,” Donny and Tyler said in unison. “Yes, sir.”