The Jealous Kind by James Lee Burke

punk like that?”
    â€œSo how do you know who he is?”
    â€œHe’s like all you guys. He slums. He hunts on the game reserve. For him, that’s our neighborhood.”
    â€œI don’t think your neighborhood is a slum. And I’m not Grady Harrelson.”
    He gazed at my 1939 Ford. The hood was up, exposing the twin carbs on the V8 Mercury engine. “Those your wheels?”
    â€œYeah, it is.”
    â€œNot bad,” he said. “Do yourself a favor, Holland. Drive your heap, date your girl, stay out of the kitchen. You’re not up to the heat.”
    â€œI didn’t do a bad job with you.”
    He stuck his comb into his mouth and combed his hair again, this time with both hands. “You got lucky. Next time bring a blade.”
    A FTER I WENT homeand bathed and changed clothes, I drove to Valerie’s house and told her about Loren Nichols’s visit to the filling station. “I can’t figure that guy out. He’s got guts. Why does he act like such a shit?”
    We were sitting on the porch swing. She was wearing a white blouse with flower-print shorts like a little girl would wear. Her father was inside. She said, “He’s like most of the boys around here. They aren’t afraid of the world they live in. They’re afraid of the world that’s waiting for them.”
    â€œHow’d you get so smart?”
    She kicked me in the ankle.
    â€œYou want to go for some ice cream?” I said.
    â€œSure.”
    I looked over my shoulder. “Would your father like to come with us?”
    â€œHe’s going to a movie with a lady friend.” She put a piece of Juicy Fruit into her mouth and looked at me and chewed it with her mouth open. The lawn sprinkler flopped across the flower bed.
    â€œWe could go for ice cream another time. I mean when your father is here and can go with us,” I said.
    â€œHe wants to talk to you.”
    â€œPardon?” I felt as though I had just stepped backward into an elevator shaft.
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œGuess.”
    â€œJesus Christ, Valerie.”
    â€œCome on,” she said.
    She picked up my hand and led me inside. Her father was talking on the telephone in the kitchen, looking through the hallway at me. Inside a glassed-in case in the hallway was a photo of him on one knee by a campfire, with several bushy-haired and mutton-chopped men who wore filthy clothes and rags wrapped on their heads, allof them armed with U.S. paratrooper grease guns, the kind that had folding wire stocks. Only three men in the photo were clean-shaven. One of them was Mr. Epstein; the second was Marshal Tito; the third resembled the actor who starred in The Asphalt Jungle.
    Mr. Epstein hung up the phone and motioned for me to enter the kitchen. He was olive-skinned, his hair flaxen and curly on the tips, his short sleeves tight-fitting on his biceps. “Sit down.”
    â€œIs anything wrong?” I asked.
    â€œWe’ll see. What do you have to say?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œYou and Valerie.”
    â€œAbout us going out?” I replied, my vocal cords beginning to atrophy.
    â€œCall it that if you want. You seem like a nice kid. At least that’s what my daughter thinks, and that’s all that counts. Here are the rules in my house. I don’t impose my way on Valerie. She’s like her mother. Not afraid and not receptive to control by others. That said, she’s still my little girl, and that means no boy or man will ever abuse or disrespect her. If that happens, I get involved. Are you reading me?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou have any questions?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œThat’s it.” He picked up a teacup and drank from it.
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œYep.”
    How about that for clarity of line?
    â€œIs that Sterling Hayden in the photograph?” I asked.
    He nodded and waited for me to go on. But I thought the less said,