and nose. He wore his hair in a Korean War crew cut, and his forehead had that flattened, shiny look that you see on bar brawlers. Like Dessusdelit, he wore a stressed-out face, compounded of anger and weariness. We'd taken well over three hundred thousand out of his house...
"Painting," I said. I was sitting on a canvas stool, and he moved in close, looming over me. He stuck out one thick finger and tapped the French easel, making it shiver.
"I can see that," he said. "You got a permit?"
"I didn't know I needed one," I said. "The mayor didn't mention it."
His eyes tightened. "The mayor? You got permission?"
"She sent me up here," I said. "She and Mr. Ballem."
"Huh." He looked skeptical but backed off a step. He was about to say something else when the screen door on the Trent house slammed and Gloriana Trent came striding across the yard.
"Old bitch," the dogcatcher muttered under his breath.
"Duane Hill, you get out of here and leave Mr. Kidd alone," she said. Her voice was pitched up a notch. Under her flinty exterior she was afraid of the man.
"Just goin'," Hill muttered. He looked at me, his lips moving silently, as though he were memorizing my face, glanced resentfully back at Gloriana, got in the van and slowly pulled away. Gloriana watched him go.
"Bluff sort of fellow," I said.
"He's a chrome-plated asshole," Gloriana snapped. She looked back at me. "The people downtown say he has his uses. Sometimes I wonder."
"He's not one of your friends," I said. It wasn't a question.
"No. When he was in third or fourth grade, he used to steal from my husband's store; we own the department and sporting goods stores in town, the family does. I caught him once and sent him on his way. The second time I took him by the ear and dragged him down the street to his parents' house, for all the good that did. The Hills were always... trashy, I suppose. The third time I caught him, I took him down to the police station, and he went to juvenile court. He's not forgotten those trips with his ear stretched out like a rubber band." She smiled. "I like to think his head is lopsided, but I suppose it's wishful thinking."
She had me laughing. "I hope this won't cause you any trouble," I said.
"Oh, no. Duane knows where the lines are drawn. He came to look at you because the way things work here, he's sort of the town-" She groped for a word.
"Dogcatcher," I said.
She looked at me, no longer smiling. "Exactly," she said. "I hear from the rumor mill that he's had some trouble lately. Someone broke into his home."
"Crime is everywhere these days," I said distractedly, in my flattest voice.
"Yes, it is." She looked at the painting on the easel, and the smile came back. "Very nice."
"Not so good," I said. "I'm just getting a feel for it. It's a complicated subject. I'm not really painting the house, you know. I'm painting the light."
"I understand from Chenille that Lucius Bell owns one of your works, bought it in N'Orleans."
"That's what he says."
"He's a nice boy, Lucius," she said. "Grew up poor, put together a very nice farming business. Educated himself."
"Poor but not trashy?"
"Definitely not trashy. Poor and trashy don't have much to do with each other, do they?" she said.
"Not much," I conceded. "Listen, Mrs. Trent, you want a Dos Equis? I got a couple of bottles in a cooler."
"Well..." She looked around, as if spotting neighbors peering from behind curtains. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that would be nice on a hot day. But why don't we sit on my porch?"
We had a nice talk, and then she went back to her air-conditioning, and I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the painting. LuEllen was in town, ostensibly shopping but also checking out the City Hall and the city attorney's personal office. About four o'clock the dogcatcher's van crossed the street a block down, slowly, and I could see Hill's face in the driver's side window, looking my way.
There's a myth that bullies can't handle a real fight, that if
"Painting," I said. I was sitting on a canvas stool, and he moved in close, looming over me. He stuck out one thick finger and tapped the French easel, making it shiver.
"I can see that," he said. "You got a permit?"
"I didn't know I needed one," I said. "The mayor didn't mention it."
His eyes tightened. "The mayor? You got permission?"
"She sent me up here," I said. "She and Mr. Ballem."
"Huh." He looked skeptical but backed off a step. He was about to say something else when the screen door on the Trent house slammed and Gloriana Trent came striding across the yard.
"Old bitch," the dogcatcher muttered under his breath.
"Duane Hill, you get out of here and leave Mr. Kidd alone," she said. Her voice was pitched up a notch. Under her flinty exterior she was afraid of the man.
"Just goin'," Hill muttered. He looked at me, his lips moving silently, as though he were memorizing my face, glanced resentfully back at Gloriana, got in the van and slowly pulled away. Gloriana watched him go.
"Bluff sort of fellow," I said.
"He's a chrome-plated asshole," Gloriana snapped. She looked back at me. "The people downtown say he has his uses. Sometimes I wonder."
"He's not one of your friends," I said. It wasn't a question.
"No. When he was in third or fourth grade, he used to steal from my husband's store; we own the department and sporting goods stores in town, the family does. I caught him once and sent him on his way. The second time I took him by the ear and dragged him down the street to his parents' house, for all the good that did. The Hills were always... trashy, I suppose. The third time I caught him, I took him down to the police station, and he went to juvenile court. He's not forgotten those trips with his ear stretched out like a rubber band." She smiled. "I like to think his head is lopsided, but I suppose it's wishful thinking."
She had me laughing. "I hope this won't cause you any trouble," I said.
"Oh, no. Duane knows where the lines are drawn. He came to look at you because the way things work here, he's sort of the town-" She groped for a word.
"Dogcatcher," I said.
She looked at me, no longer smiling. "Exactly," she said. "I hear from the rumor mill that he's had some trouble lately. Someone broke into his home."
"Crime is everywhere these days," I said distractedly, in my flattest voice.
"Yes, it is." She looked at the painting on the easel, and the smile came back. "Very nice."
"Not so good," I said. "I'm just getting a feel for it. It's a complicated subject. I'm not really painting the house, you know. I'm painting the light."
"I understand from Chenille that Lucius Bell owns one of your works, bought it in N'Orleans."
"That's what he says."
"He's a nice boy, Lucius," she said. "Grew up poor, put together a very nice farming business. Educated himself."
"Poor but not trashy?"
"Definitely not trashy. Poor and trashy don't have much to do with each other, do they?" she said.
"Not much," I conceded. "Listen, Mrs. Trent, you want a Dos Equis? I got a couple of bottles in a cooler."
"Well..." She looked around, as if spotting neighbors peering from behind curtains. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that would be nice on a hot day. But why don't we sit on my porch?"
We had a nice talk, and then she went back to her air-conditioning, and I spent the rest of the afternoon working on the painting. LuEllen was in town, ostensibly shopping but also checking out the City Hall and the city attorney's personal office. About four o'clock the dogcatcher's van crossed the street a block down, slowly, and I could see Hill's face in the driver's side window, looking my way.
There's a myth that bullies can't handle a real fight, that if
Similar Books
