Free Salvage by Stephen Maher Page A

nodded.
    â€œI’m not going back there,” Donald said.
    â€œI hear that,” said Scarnum.
    â€œYou mind if I pat you down for a wire?” asked Donald.
    Scarnum stood and held out his arms. Donald stood behind him and ran his hands over him. “All right,” he said, and then they sat down.
    Donald cut up the coke and they each did a line.
    â€œFuck,” said Donald, and he raised his eyebrows and imitated Tommy Chong. “That’s some good sheeet, man,” he said.
    They both laughed.
    â€œAngela asked me to find out what happened to Jimmy,” said Scarnum. “She got this coke from him. I don’t think that’s no street coke.”
    â€œNo,” said Donald. “That is 100 percent pure Columbian motherfucking marching powder, that shit.”
    â€œWhere would Jimmy get cocaine like that?”
    Donald got up and picked up the deer rifle and loaded it. “Talkative people don’t get old in the cocaine business,” he said.
    He took a target — a cardboard silhouette of a man — clipped it to the clothesline, and pulled on the line so the target went down the gully.
    â€œDo you know if Jimmy was dealing coke?” said Scarnum.
    â€œNo,” said Donald. “But I wouldn’t hear about that, necessarily.”
    He brought the rifle to his eye and fired at the target way down at the bottom of the gully. It snapped with the impact.
    Scarnum started at the sudden crack of the rifle.
    â€œI think Jimmy might have been bringing in coke off the boat,” he said. “Got mixed up with some people who were tougher than he was and got himself killed.”
    Donald fired again, then looked up from the rifle.
    â€œIf that’s true,” he said, “and I don’t know if it is, but if it is, you think you’re smart to go around asking questions about it?”
    â€œAngela asked me to,” said Scarnum.
    â€œFuck,” said Donald and he fired again. This time he missed. “Cocksucker,” he said, then he took a deep breath, let it most of the way out, then fired again, one shot after another, until the rifle was empty. The target twitched on the line as all of the shots hit home.
    He sat down and put his face in his hands.
    â€œOne thing I know,” said Scarnum, “is how to keep my mouth shut.”
    â€œAll right,” said Donald. “I’m gonna tell you something, but if I ever hear you tell anyone else, it’s not gonna go too good for you.”
    â€œI know that,” said Scarnum.
    â€œJimmy came to somebody I know, about a month ago,” said Donald. “Had a brick of cocaine this big.” He stretched his hands in front of him, about two feet apart. “Ten kilos. Same shit as that.” He nodded at the pill bottle of coke on the table. “Wouldn’t say where he got it. ‘I found it floating in the fucking water. Musta fell offa boat.’ Wanted to sell it. Asked for $300,000. Said it was worth twice that on the street.”
    â€œThe fellow you know,” said Scarnum. “Did he buy it?”
    Donald shook his head. “If he did, he didn’t pay no fucking $300,000.”
    Scarnum sat for a minute, nodding his head. “You ever hear of any Mexicans around here?” he asked. “Mexicans dealing coke?”
    Donald laughed and got up and pulled the target up the clothesline. “A fellow can be too curious,” he said. “Tell Angela I said hi. Tell her I said I was sorry to hear about Jimmy.”
    â€œAll right,” said Scarnum, and he got to his feet.
    â€œCome to think of it,” said Donald, “don’t tell Angela nothing. Don’t tell nobody you come up here to see me. Don’t mention my name to nobody, ever.”
    â€œAll right,” said Scarnum.
    â€œAnybody ever ask about me, say, ‘Donald? Is he that fucking Indian used to drink at the Anchor?’ ”
    â€œAll right,” said