Free All Hat by Brad Smith Page A

drink of Scotch and glanced over to the bar, where Dean was watching her in puzzlement. Then she turned her chair around, regarded Ray, and told him, “I’m not giving the motherfucker his twenty back.”
    Ray shrugged. “What do I care? I don’t even know them.”
    â€œI thought they were your friends.”
    â€œI’ve never seen them before. Don’t you know them?”
    â€œThey’re just a couple guys who hang out here. They claim they’re related to Earl Stanton, the billionaire.”
    Ray had straightened in his chair now, and he was looking in the direction of the bar. He glanced back at the woman for a moment. If it was some sort of power play, he had to wonder if she was in on it. He dismissed the thought, though; if she was involved, it would have been stupid to spill about the Stanton connection. And she didn’t appear stupid. Ray got to his feet and walked directly to the bar. Dean had his back to him, ordering another round. Ray slammed him from behind, pinned him against the bar, felt inside Dean’s jacket for a piece. Then he turned to Paulie, who was wearing a T-shirt, not hiding anything.
    â€œDon’t move,” Ray said.
    â€œWhat the fuck—” Dean said.
    Finding no weapon, Ray turned Dean around, held him by the collar with one hand. “So what’s the story here?” he asked. “You boys got a message from cousin Sonny?”
    â€œYou got it all wrong,” Dean told him.
    â€œI’ll tell you what, asshole,” Ray said. “Follow me out that door, and you’ll have it all wrong.”
    He pushed Dean aside and walked out the door. Dean straightened his collar and gathered his dignity and then he turned to see Paulie watching him.
    â€œIt didn’t appear to me as though that man wanted a treat,” Paulie said, and then he ordered another beer.
    *   *   *
    Etta loaded the last of the whites into the washing machine and measured out the detergent. Before closing the lid, she glanced down at her own T-shirt, stained from the cereal Homer had tossed her way in a fit an hour earlier. She pulled the shirt over her head and placed it in the washer, closed the lid, and started the machine. There was a plaid work shirt hanging on the wall, just inside the back door; she took it from the hook and slipped it on. It smelled faintly of her father’s pipe tobacco.
    She walked back into the kitchen. Homer was sitting by the window, rocking back and forth and watching a hummingbird as it searched fitfully for an autumn blossom. The second bowl of cereal sat soggy and untouched on the table. Etta considered another effort to get him to eat, then let it go. Homer would eat when he was ready.
    Etta looked out the window and saw that the flag was up on the mailbox. She went out the front door and walked across the lawn to the road. The wind had come up overnight, stripping the large silver maples along the lane of their leaves and assorted small branches. The lawn was covered.
    Etta flipped the red flag down and retrieved the mail from inside. There were several bills and the Farmer’s Monthly. She glanced quickly through the pile, saw nothing encouraging, and started for the house. Her next-door neighbor drove by in her filthy white LeBaron, honking her horn like she just got it for Christmas. Etta waved over her shoulder and continued on across the leaf-strewn lawn.
    When she went back into the house she saw that her father was no longer in the kitchen. Looking out the kitchen window, she saw him walking in the orchard. At least he’d put a jacket on.
    Etta went into the pantry—her office—and sat down in front of the computer. She opened the envelopes one by one, keeping a running total in her head, then tossed them in a pile.
    â€œShit,” she said.
    After a moment, she turned on the computer and went on-line. She went into her bank account and checked her balance. Then she