Page 39 of Everything You Hate
“His wife Eleanor’s money?—”
“Stolenmoney?—”
They’re shouting over each other now, all four certain, none yielding, and I sit with my pen frozen above the page.
Nobody in this town agrees on what happened. But none of them believe Malcolm.
“Ask Gus,” Fish says.
The table goes quiet.
“Gus Pemberton,” Donna says from behind the counter, not looking up. “Saltbox Hardware, end of Harbor Street.”
“He won’t talk to her,” the bearded man says.
“He’ll talk to her.” Fish turns another page. “He talks to anybody who asks right.”
“What’s asking right?”
Fish doesn’t answer that, and neither does anyone else.
Mimi drains her coffee and stands. “You’re on your own for that one, honey. Gus doesn’t like me much.”
“Why not?”
“Long story involving a table saw and a misunderstanding about whose table saw it was.” She pulls her keys out of her jacket and scoops Sprocket off the floor. “You’ll do better without me. Clear your afternoon.”
I make it four blocks up Harbor Street before the rain finds me. Fine, needling stuff that only seems to happen in the Pacific Northwest. It soaks through my jacket before I’ve decided whether to run for it.
A truck slows on the street beside me.
I know the truck.
Dean leans across and pushes the passenger door open. “Get in.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re soaked.”
“I’mfine.”
He doesn’t argue. He also doesn’t drive away, and I stand there in the rain with my notebook going soft in my hands, and a woman across the street has stopped to watch us, and there are exactly two ways this ends.
I get in.
The cab is warm and smells like diesel and dog. Doug is not here, which means Dean is not on his way to or from anything.
“Where am I taking you?”
“Saltbox Hardware.”
His jaw tightens. He pulls out. The wipers slap. The heater roars.
Neither of us says anything for a block and a half.
“You were at the historical society this morning,” I say.
“Tidal maps.”
