When he was done he zipped himself up and almost started back toward the bench, but then he remembered the six dollar bills he had tucked in his wallet. He stopped next to a tree and took the wallet out of his pocket. He counted the bills over and over again several times and tucked them back in the wallet before he approached the vending machine again and studied the contents behind the Plexiglas. He scanned each row. Everything had chocolate on it. William hated chocolate. Arnie thought that was weird. “All kids like chocolate,” he’d say. William supposed his brother was right, but William wasn’t a kid. Why didn’t Arnie understand that? Why didn’t anyone understand that? When William spotted the row of Paydays six rows down and nine rows over, he smiled. Paydays were the best. They were like Baby Ruths without all the chocolate to ruin them. He immediately pulled the neatly creased fold of money from out of the wallet again and counted the bills a few more times. Other than those six one-dollar bills, the wallet was completely empty, so he tossed it in the huge plastic trash can on the other side of the vending machine. It served no purpose now, so why keep it?
He straightened out the bills as best he could, and one by one he fed all six of them into the slot on the machine. In between each bill he lined up and checked—and double-checked—the correct number, before mashing the button—“F nine,” he whispered out loud every time he hit it. By the time he was done, the machine had dispensed six Paydays into the collection container at the bottom of the machine. William pushed back the plastic cover and grabbed them all, stuffing them into the front pocket of his hoodie. He wanted to eat them right there, he was so hungry. He wanted to shove them all into his mouth, but he knew he’d already taken enough time for himself. He needed to get back. Arnie might already be there. He was being selfish. William pulled his hood over his head, tucked his hands into the pocket full of candy, and took the same darkened route under the trees back to the bench. He’d made a promise to stay put and he’d broken it. Arnie wasn’t there. Maybe he’d come and gone. Maybe since William didn’t do what he said he’d do, Arnie left him there. No, William knew Arnie would’ve yelled or screamed. He would have heard him. He wasn’t that far away—but he wasn’t sure. William sat back down and started to cry. “I’m sorry, Arnie,” he said into the darkness. “I’m still here. I won’t get up again.” William didn’t eat a single one of the candy bars in his pocket. He could wait. Arnie would be there soon. Everything would be okay. They would go to the city with all the lights and water and everything would be okay. Just like Arnie said. He wiped at the tears on his face with the back of his sleeve. Arnie was coming. He just knew it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Winston Waymore Bell and his wife of forty-one years were lifetime residents of McFalls County. The main township at the foot of Bull Mountain had been named after his grandfather, James Waymore Bell, and the family owned just about every business in town. They started by opening the county’s first and only bookstore back in the early sixties, just a few blocks over from the municipal building that at the time housed the sheriff’s office, the jail, City Hall, the clerk of court, and the fire department. Over the next several years, the Bells invested in several other businesses around the small downtown area, and most of them were still owned and operated by the surviving members of the Bell family themselves. Some opened Waymore Valley’s first and only coffee shop, adjacent to the old bookstore. Suzanna Bell, the couple’s youngest daughter, ran a children’s clothing consignment shop and a rustic-styled bakery and sandwich shop that boasted the best blackberry cobbler in the state. Burnside Bell, Suzanna’s younger brother, once told Dane that the secret to his sister’s award-winning cobbler wasn’t in the locally farmed berries, but in the hefty dose of fresh butter that he churned himself every morning before sunup. The question of cobbler credit was always a hot point of contention between the siblings.
Although the sandwich shop was the most popular attraction McFalls County had to offer for travelers and tourists of the Blue Ridge foothills, by far the most lucrative Bell-owned operation was one they ran from behind the scenes. Lucky’s Diner was the only bar in the county, and the Bells had made an arrangement with a couple of brothers from New York—looking for, let’s say, a less frantic life in the Georgia foothills—to run it for them. A bar was something the Bell family believed didn’t suit their family-friendly reputation, but the money those two Yankee brothers generated from it on a nightly basis seemed to suit them just fine, so they remained silent partners and allowed Harold and Harvey Polanski, along with Harold’s daughter Nicole, to be the public face for Lucky’s, while the Bells put all that unsavory money into other ventures.
Burnside and Cynthia Bell’s son, Keith, had worked at Lucky’s as a barback almost every night since he was eighteen, and in return, his parents paid his bills, kept his bank account flush, and allowed him to live rent-free in the spacious loft directly above the diner. The Bells were rich and thought themselves to be of a higher stature then most of the residents of McFalls County, but they were still good people—good country people—especially Keith. He and Dane had known each other their whole lives. They’d grown up together. Same hospital. Same school. Same trouble. Same blues. They had one of those friendships that didn’t need constant nurturing to maintain. Five days or five years might pass since they’d seen each other, and they could pick up a conversation from where it left off. Dane also knew if there was one place he could show up unannounced with a federal agent from Florida and a malnourished Ned Lemon in need of a hot shower and some clothes—it was Keith’s. Dane also knew Keith was a creature of habit, so at this time of the morning, Keith would be home.
Keith finally woke up after the third knock, and he opened the door wearing only a pair of buffalo-plaid boxers. Keith was about six foot one and fit, outside of the small lump of belly that alcohol had built on his midriff. No expression at all crossed his boyish, handsome face when he saw Dane standing on the flimsy wrought-iron landing between the short, put-together build of Roselita and the tall, lanky frame of Ned. Keith just scratched at something behind his ear. No words passed. He rubbed the crumble of sleep from his eyes, then moved aside to make way for them all to come in.
“Sup, Dane,” Keith said under a yawn as they entered the loft.
“Sup, Keith. Sorry to wake you.”
“No, you’re not. But it’s cool. I’ll make some coffee as soon as I put some pants on.” The itch behind Keith’s ear had moved to his ass, and he worked at it under his boxers as he disappeared behind an accordion-style divider wall that separated where he slept from the rest of the wide-open loft.
“You’ve got quite the roster of friends, Agent Kirby,” Roselita said as she took off her sunglasses and cased the apartment.
“Well, I can’t imagine you’ve got any, Agent Velasquez,” Ned said as he pushed past her in the doorway. It was the first thing he’d said to Roselita since he’d come out of the holding cell.
Roselita didn’t answer, and Dane smiled. “He’s got a point there, Roselita.” Dane passed her, too, and walked into the loft. Roselita followed and closed the door.