Free Shout Down the Moon by Lisa Tucker Page A

in the door and spot him, I blink a few times, like my eyes are the problem, not what they’re seeing. It is a deal, that part is true. The weed is spread out on a newspaper on the table, and there’s a scale and bags. The guys are coughing, smiling; obviously they’ve had a sample.
    Dennis laughs. “Haven’t you ever seen a buy, Patty? God, you’re so sheltered.”
    Irene is inside too now, standing at the door next to me, quickly trying to take this all in. She turns to Dennis. “Patty knows him, idiot. He used to be her boyfriend.”
    “You’ve gone out with druggies?” Carl’s voice is sleepy, stoned. “This is a new side to you.”
    Willie has put down his grocery bag, and now he’s looking at Rick. I wonder if he remembers seeing him in Kentucky. A minute later, I decide he must: why else would he go over and stand right in front of Rick?
    “Hi,” he says, and his voice is shy, but he’s smiling his biggest, sloppiest smile. He’s still in his green swimming trunks; he didn’t want to change because the big kids told him dragons always wear green. He looks adorable with his little chest and his chubby stomach sticking out, his cheeks and nose sprinkled with new freckles.
    Rick smiles too, reaches in his pocket, gets out his keys. “You want to look at this?”
    The key ring is shaped like a lion’s head and glittering like gold. Of course Willie marches closer, sticks his hand out. Rick hands the keys to him, and at the same time, pulls Willie up on his lap.
    I force myself to take deep breaths, stay calm. I flash to what Mama said about calling the cops if I see Rick and I almost laugh. Considering what Rick’s doing here, it’s impossible.
    Jonathan always sits in the recliner where Willie and Rick are sitting; it looks strange to see them there instead. When I remember the van wasn’t in the driveway, I turn to Harry and ask where Jonathan is. Harry says he’s hanging with a local jazz reporter who came to the concert; he won’t be back for a while. This makes me more nervous, although I can’t imagine how Jonathan could solve this problem.
    Irene says she has to put the groceries away. She asks if I want to help; I say no. I don’t want to leave the room, leave Willie. “Just for a minute,” she whispers.
    I follow her into the kitchen but I keep looking back, glancing at Rick and Willie. Rick’s hand looks so big resting on Willie’s pink shoulders, but Willie seems happy, still absorbed in the key chain. Rick is talking to Carl about the possibility of getting them another ounce next week. He sounds like he does this kind of thing all the time, but I know he’s acting. What I haven’t figured out is why.
    Rick used to call weed “baby load” and guys like Carl “peewee chippers.” He dealt drugs, true, but he wouldn’t consider peddling anything for under five hundred dollars; it was too small-time. This transaction can’t be more than a hundred, and yet here Rick is, sitting in a trailer in Omaha, putting on like the band is his most important customer, like all he wants is to please.
    “What?” I ask Irene, as soon as we’re in the kitchen.
    Her voice is low. “I don’t like this.”
    “Neither do I. But what can we do?”
    She leans against the counter. “I’m going to tell Harry he’s up to something.”
    Before I can say I doubt that will help, Harry appears. He gives Irene a hug, tells her the concert went great. She asks him how they hooked up with Rick, and Harry says he came to the club; he’s a big jazz fan. I know this is crap. Rick rarely listened to any music. He said it broke his concentration.
    While Irene is telling Harry that Rick could be dangerous— he’s Willie’s father, he’s got to be here for some reason—I’m peeking into the living room. Willie’s off Rick’s lap, but he’s still standing close to him. They’re arm wrestling, or at least Rick has his hand out, but Willie’s using his whole body trying to knock it down. Rick is