StoneDust by Justin Scott Page A

door.
    â€œYou sure I’m the guy for you?”
    â€œNo question.”
    â€œOkay. Let me sit down with my Rolodex. I’ll get back to you.”
    â€œGood man.”
    â€œIn the meantime, can I ask you something?”
    â€œShoot,” said Duane, though Bill was reverting to his earlier irritated-bear look, and Ted was turning dark.
    â€œI got a little bit of a problem. You see, Janey Hopkins—”
    â€œPoor Janey’s a problem. But she’ll deal. She wants out. Guaranteed.”
    â€œGood, but she also wants me to tell her that Reg really wasn’t snorting heroin.”
    â€œBut he was.”
    â€œWell, I know that now. Michelle told me.”
    â€œSo what’s your problem?”
    â€œWell, aside from the fact that Michelle first didn’t tell me—”
    â€œLater, she did. So what’s your problem?”
    â€œMy problem is, she doesn’t know what Reg was snorting. It could have been Sweet ’n’ Low—her own words.”
    â€œHe’s dead,” said Duane. “Why don’t you leave him in peace?”
    Bill Carter said, “The autopsy said heroin. What do you want, Ben?”
    â€œI want to believe that and I don’t.”
    â€œMichelle told you what she saw. Why you bugging us?”
    â€œHow’d he look when he left the house?”
    â€œI didn’t see him,” said Ted.
    â€œMe neither,” said Bill.
    â€œI saw him and he looked stoned,” said Duane. “Come on, Ben, I’ve known Reg my whole life. Believe me, he was stoned.”
    â€œThen how did he drive twenty miles—eight miles of dirt road—to the covered bridge?”
    â€œWho the hell knows?” demanded Bill.
    And Ted added, “Who cares?”
    I looked at Duane. “You care, don’t you? Your best pal. For crissake, you guys were like brothers.”
    â€œBen, if you don’t shut up about Reg, you’re not getting this job.”
    â€œOr any other job,” said Bill. “None of my houses.”
    Considering what I’d seen this morning, that wasn’t the biggest threat to my happiness. Ted grew darker and quieter, mourning, I assumed, that he had no houses to take back from me now that he taught shop.
    Duane stepped closer and started pointing with a finger he’d cut while pulling nails. “None of my deals. And none of my friends’ deals.”
    This was a threat. Newbury Pre-cast had continued to prosper in the same economy that cost Ted his cabin cruiser and that Bill Carter blamed for his woes. Shrewdly bartering concrete work for a piece of the action, Duane had garnered shares in every new project in the county, as well as some dead ones recently rescued from grateful banks.
    While it was true that I concentrated on selling country houses, there weren’t enough of them to count on for my entire income, which Duane knew very well. So perhaps I spoke harshly.
    â€œYou’ve just reminded me of a piece of Newbury history. Mount Pleasant wasn’t always called ‘Mount Pleasant.’ My great-grandfather changed the name to toney up the neighborhood. Sounds like your project ought to go back to the original.”
    â€œYeah, what’s that?”
    â€œSlut Hill.”
    â€œWhat the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    â€œReg was my friend too. If the situation was reversed, he’d tell the three of you to shove your business sideways.”
    To my absolute astonishment, Duane balled his fists and told me that if I knew what was good for me, I’d back off. Big Bill Carter shouldered beside him, forearms up like a defenseman looking for blood.
    I laughed.
    â€œYou’re kidding—Come on, you guys, what are you doing?”
    They lunged shoulder to shoulder. I couldn’t believe my eyes. But it was suddenly clear to me that Duane was going to take a swing. I looked around. Bill appeared to be winding up to blow me into the next