Free Bloodline by Gerry Boyle Page A

maternal instincts.
    Dulcy again.
    â€œJack’s a writer. He does articles for magazines.”
    The boys did their best not to gush.
    They stared some more. I stared back.
    â€œHow ya doin’?” I said, finally.
    The biggest guy nodded first, then the one who was my size. The little guy, who was standing with his feet planted wide apart as if he were ready for my charge, just stared some more.
    Perhaps we’ll pass on the Civil War, I thought, and move right on to Napoleon and his neuroses.
    I looked at them and they looked at me. Their hats advertised Ford trucks, a brand of shock absorbers, and Winchester firearms, respectively. I had a hunch they didn’t want to talk about American history. But they probably wanted to talk about that far more than they wanted to talk about babies.
    â€œKenny,” Dulcy said to the smallest guy. “I forgot your cigarettes.”
    She smiled teasingly from under her mane of hair.
    â€œSorry.”
    Hey, Dulcy, I said to myself. Way to soften him up.
    â€œSo you know Missy Hewett?” I said.
    â€œKnow who she is,” the big guy said, and almost smiled.
    â€œShe’s a bitch,” Kenny said. “She a friend of yours?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I met her once. That’s all. Through kids at the high school.”
    â€œWell, she’s a bitch,” he said again.
    Ever the diplomat.
    Probably he hoped I would try to defend her honor and we could have it out right there. I didn’t take the bait.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” I said.
    â€œBecause I want to,” Kenny said.
    â€œNo, I mean why do you think that?”
    â€œâ€™Cause that’s what she is. Put that in your article.”
    He pronounced article as if it were a woman’s undergarment, something small and dainty.
    â€œYeah, a lot of kids thought she was stuck-up,” Belinda said.
    â€œHow come?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, uneasy for a moment, and then plunging on. “I mean, like she was too smart for everybody else or something? Didn’t party or nothin’. But my stepmother knew her mother, and she used to be wild.”
    â€œWho was that?” the big guy said, suddenly interested.
    â€œJoyce Hewett. Too old for you, little boy.”
    He shrugged, then turned to me.
    â€œThat old truck got a three-fifty or a three-twenty-seven?” the big guy said.
    â€œThree-twenty-seven,” I said.
    â€œThem’s good motors,” he said. “Guys put ’em in stock cars.”
    â€œRuns great,” I said.
    We were en rapport.
    There was a moment of silence and we stood between the trucks like people on a blind date. The pit was deadly quiet. The girls looked on as if the whole thing were some sort of reunion gone awry. The medium-size guy and Kenny seemed tense and poised. I noticed Kenny had a large clasp knife in a leather case on his belt.
    â€œSo what do you want?” Kenny asked abruptly.
    â€œNothing, really,” I said. “I’m gonna be talking to kids around here for this story, and I thought I should meet some people.”
    â€œWhere do you live?” he asked.
    â€œRight here in Prosperity,” I said. “The dump road. You know the artist’s house?”
    If he knew it, he didn’t acknowledge it.
    â€œHow long you lived there?” Kenny continued.
    â€œSix months or so,” I said. “I came here from Androscoggin. I worked for the newspaper over there.”
    Kenny looked at me, turned his head slightly and spat, then turned back.
    â€œI think you smell like a cop,” he said.
    â€œKenny!” one of the girls gasped. Nobody else moved. The big guy smiled. I didn’t turn to see the girls.
    â€œHey,” I said. “Think what you want, but you’re wrong.”
    â€œThat’s what you say,” Kenny said.
    â€œYup.”
    â€œBut I say you’re a narc,” he said.
    â€œYou can think I’m