“Red shirt, blue shorts.” She hurried along on her way.
The boy headed north on the opposite side of the street, along with a dozen other loud, laughing kids. Crack started up his truck and drove slowly. Parts of the gang peeled off as they reached the streets to their homes. It was down to just a few when Crack hung out the window again.
“Ricky! Ricky Aparicio!”
The boy looked over. “Who are you?”
Crack waved with his left hand. “Come over here. I need to ask you a question.”
“Don’t go,” said one of the other boys.
“See what he wants,” said another.
Ricky decided to split the difference and walked halfway across the empty street. “What do you want?”
“Come closer,” said Crack. “I won’t bite.”
“I’m staying right here until you tell me what this is about.”
“It concerns the gold coin you sold to the pawnshop.”
“I didn’t steal it!”
“Nobody says you did.” The captain held out a piece of currency. “I just need some information. I’m writing an article for a hobby magazine.”
“Ricky!” yelled one of the boys on the other curb. “Don’t get any closer!”
“Ricky!” yelled another. “That’s a hundred-dollar bill!”
Ricky got closer. “Exactly what kind of information?”
“I’ve been doing some research on your town, the hurricane and everything, and I think you might have stumbled onto something historic. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to show me where you found that coin.”
Ricky stood like a statue. A beeping car drove around him.
Crack hung farther out the driver’s window. “Listen, I know what you’ve been taught about strangers. But how would I know all this information about what you found? Besides, all those warnings are for little kids. You’re practically a man now.”
Ricky remained a stone.
“What do you say?” Crack waved the bill tauntingly. “Hundred bucks. Going once, going twice—”
“Okay, okay, but give me the money first.”
“Once you’re in the truck, or you’ll just run away.”
Ricky got in, and the Dodge drove off. The other boys dashed home to tell their parents . . .
It was ten minutes of dubious directions from the youth. “Take this left. Wait, the next left, that’s it. No, that’s not right. It’s farther up.”
“Are you sure you know where we’re going?”
“Positive.” Ricky clutched the hundred as if it was life itself. “Uh, could we go back to town and start again? I can figure it out better if we’re coming from Main Street. From this other way, I’m not so good.”
“Jesus,” Crack said under his breath. But greed had gotten the better of him, and he was locked in for the ride, seeing nothing but piles of those coins.
The Crossroads.
If the intersection had one of those signposts with wooden arrows pointing different directions with names of places and mileage, all the arrows on this post would have said Nowhere.
Three of the corners were empty except for concrete-block ruins with collapsed roofs, and weeds now grew where there had been carpeting.
On the fourth corner sat a gas station that sold as much malt liquor as unleaded.
Signs said No Loitering, at least under the spray-paint graffiti.
Three young men lounged on a stoop. All high school graduates, all football players, all with onetime dreams of making the NFL. Now they spent their days here. This was not the NFL.
Wasn’t their fault. Life had dealt them truly cruel hands of cards. If you take a hundred successful Wall Street types and have them born at the very bottom with no breaks, see how far they go. This particular trio all had jobs. The operative word was had. When the economy coughed, The Muck got pneumonia, and layoffs were a lifestyle. The three currently had a bunch of job applications submitted all over town, but where were the jobs? So they hung out here until something turned up.
“Remember that pass I caught in the fourth quarter? Right sideline?”
“You and that one freaking pass! All we ever hear: ‘Remember? Right sideline?’ Shit, I had three receptions that game.”
“But all short yardage over the middle.”
“Moved us into scoring position, didn’t it?”
“Both of you are bullshit,” said the third young man. “Just remember who threw all those passes.”
They stopped talking and watched as a lone vehicle slowly rounded the corner at the station and accelerated east. Magnetic door sign for a boat-towing company. They all sprang to their feet.
“That son of a bitch!”
“He’s back!”
“And he’s got Ricky!”
They piled into a low-riding Datsun and took off.
“I knew that asshole was up to something, but I didn’t know what. He’s a pedophile!”
“He’ll kill Ricky for sure if we don’t stop him!”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Screw that! We can take care of our own . . .”
A mile out of town, Ricky pointed. “Turn here. This time I’m sure.”
“If you say so.” The Dakota made a skidding left onto a dirt road.
Moments later, a tricked-out Datsun sailed by the turnoff. “I don’t see his truck anymore.”
“Drive faster. We’ll catch up . . .”
Back in the cane field, Ricky hopped down from the pickup’s cab and climbed through a couple rows of stalks. “It was right around here somewhere.”
“You don’t seem that sure.”
Ricky stopped and stomped a foot into the black soil. “Right here.”
“Exactly?” said Crack.
Ricky nodded vigorously. “Take me back now.”
“Are you joking? I gave you a hundred. Show me!”
“How?”
“Dig!”
“What?”
“If you’re so fucking sure, dig!”
Panic now. Ricky got on the ground and scooped dirt with shaking hands.
“Don’t keep looking up at me!” yelled Crack. “Pay attention to what you’re doing! Dig! . . .”
Up the road, parked on the right shoulder, more panic. “We just got Ricky killed!” said the wide receiver.
“Don’t say that!” yelled the tight end.
“I knew we should have called the police,” said the quarterback.
“What’s done is done. We need to chill out and figure this thing out. What would a pedophile do?”
They looked all the way around the horizon. “Bring him out in a cane field,” said the wide receiver. “For privacy and body disposal.”
“Don’t say that!” snapped the tight end.
“He must have taken a turnoff.” The quarterback swung the car around. “Keep your eyes open . . .”
Somewhere out in the stalks, small hands flung dirt. A whimper.
Captain Crack had gotten back into the Johnnie Walker, swinging the bottle by his side. “What the hell are you crying about!”
“I want to go home.”
“Shut up and dig!”