Free Bloodline by Gerry Boyle Page B

a Martian,” I said. “I don’t give a shit.”
    The words hung there. Somewhere in the brush, a chickadee gave that long dee-dee-dee call. A second chickadee answered it. Then a blue jay, farther away, and the titter of a warbler. A yellow warbler, it sounded like to me. Too bad I hadn’t brought my binoculars. Perhaps one of the boys would have a Peterson Guide in his truck.
    I shifted on my feet and grinned.
    â€œWhat you smilin’ about?” Kenny said.
    â€œWhat’re you all pissed off about?” I answered.
    â€œNone of your friggin’ business,” he said.
    â€œBut you don’t even know me,” I said.
    â€œI know you’re here and I didn’t invite you,” Kenny said.
    His mouth moved but his eyes were fastened to mine, unblinking, like a knife fighter’s.
    â€œThey invited me,” I said, nodding toward the three girls.
    â€œThat’s not what we’re talking about,” Kenny said.
    â€œWhat are we talking about?” I asked him.
    â€œSome guy from away who walked in here like he owned the place. Why don’t you go back to New Jersey, cop? Where you belong.”
    â€œI never liked New Jersey,” I said. “Except maybe for the Jersey Shore. And the Pine Barrens. Ever heard of the Pine Barrens? They’re a lot like Maine except they have ticks. And deer. Lots of—”
    â€œI don’t like cops,” Kenny interrupted.
    â€œOh, but they speak very highly of you,” I said. “Exemplary social skills. For a sociopath.”
    â€œI oughta kick your ass,” he said.
    â€œI rest my case,” I said.
    â€œLet’s do it right now,” Kenny said. “Come on.”
    He took a step forward so he was about eight feet away. I had four inches on him, maybe fifteen pounds. But I didn’t lift truck motors for fun.
    â€œYou sure, Ken?” I said, smiling. “I’ve got to remind you that an assault charge isn’t gonna increase your chances of getting into law school.”
    â€œCome on, pussy,” he said, beckoning me forward.
    I shook my head and grinned, then looked away, first to the two guys and then to the girls. I figured Kenny would either sucker-punch me or be left hanging, like a dancer without a partner.
    The punch didn’t come.
    â€œWell, boys and girls,” I said. “It’s been real. If you’re ever on the dump road, stop in.”
    All three girls decided to light cigarettes, despite the surgeon general’s warnings. The big guy leaned back on the truck fender and, pushing his hat back, gave me a good-old-boy grin. The other guy looked to Kenny to see what to do. I’d guess that in the pecking order of the pit, Kenny was number two. I wasn’t sure what this little exchange had done for his standing.
    â€œKen,” I said, walking over to my truck and stopping by the door. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not a cop. I’m just a newspaper reporter. Come over sometime and I’ll show you my clippings. In New York City, I wrote about people who would chew you up and spit you out. Either that or they’d just kill you and never give it another thought.”
    â€œColombians, right?” the big guy said. “My cousin was in prison in Connecticut with ’em. Said they were mean mothers. He’s rugged, too. You know Lyle, right?”
    The medium-size guy started to answer.
    â€œI’m not through with you, narc,” Kenny said to me suddenly.
    â€œWhatever,” I said.
    I climbed into the truck, shut the door, and started the motor. There was a puff of blue smoke.
    â€œMotor job,” the big guy said.
    The third guy stood poker-faced.
    â€œTake it easy, boys and girls,” I said. “And, oh yeah. If I were Missy Hewett, I would have been a bitch, too.”
    I backed the truck up, put it in gear, and lurched back through the pit and out the path onto the road, leaving them to