(II)
The hand reached out
in tranquil dark. He liked to sit in
the dark. The colors of dusk were filtering into the
room.
He picked up the
phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s all fucked-up
like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What are you talking
about? I saw a dozen Squatters pulling up stakes today, packing.
They’re beginning to leave town. It’s working beautifully, and
faster than I thought.”
“No, no, you don’t
know the rest. It just happened a few hours ago. Junior’s
dead.”
A pause drew out
along the line. “How?”
“Don’t know. There’s
no wounds, there’s no—”
“He probably had a
heart attack. He was a fat slob.”
“No, no, see, Ricky’s
in lockup.”
“What? What for? He
didn’t—”
“No, he didn’t
squeal. But he says it was Everd Stanherd who killed Junior, says
he saw the guy in his house last night. He wanted to be locked up
for his own protection, but Sutter wouldn’t do it. So then he
trashed the place. But he’s talking crazy shit. And . . . and . . .
and . . .”
“And
what?”
“I’m scared, and
Sutter was looking at me funny earlier today when I left the
office. I’m about to shit my pants worrying what Ricky might
say.”
“Ricky’s in as deep
as us.”
“He don’t care! He
thinks the Squatters killed Junior with some sorta
hocus-pocus!”
“In other words, you
think Ricky might be a liability now?”
“Damn right. He
starts running his mouth to save his ass, you and I’re both gonna
be neck-deep in shit.”
Another pause. The
solution was obvious, though he would’ve preferred not to clarify
it over a phone line. “Rectify the problem, for both our sakes. Use
your position to your advantage. It’ll be easy once you think about
it. . . . Am I clear?”
“It’ll
cost.”
“I’ll pay. Rectify
the problem. Do it quickly.”
He hung
up.
His hand retreated
back into the dark.