Wild Game

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

I was waiting for the kid to make his move when Wyatt called.

The kid had been hanging around the magazine racks all morning, pretending to be interested in “Motorbike Mania!” when he really wanted a chance to slip something from the top shelf under his tee shirt. “Super Hooters” maybe, or “Bare-ly legal!” He knew there was no way I would sell any of that stuff to him. Not that I cared if he went blind and sprouted fur on his palms, but sooner or later Mama would find it under the mattress and ask him where he bought it. I didn’t need that kind of trouble.

“Hey, Roy,” said Wyatt softly. I hadn’t heard his voice in maybe a year, but there was no mistaking it. I felt my gut go tight right away. Wyatt could be another kind of trouble.

“Where did you get this number?” I asked.

“It’s in the book. Your brother said I might catch you there. Maybe I’m wasting my time, you being night manager and all, but I thought you might be interested in making some real money.”

“I’m legit now,” I said warily.

“So is this—sort of.”

I needed time to think. “Where you living these days?”

“I’m back in the hills upstate. I got an offer I can’t refuse, but I’m gonna need a little help with this job.”

“What kind of job?” I wondered if we should even be discussing this. Overhead, the store’s security camera was faithfully recording my half of this conversation, in full color and stereophonic sound. All we needed was a musical soundtrack to set the mood, a little blues sax moaning and brushes whispering on drums while two ex-cons planned the big score.

“Just a little hunting party,” Wyatt said.

“Hunting!” I snorted, “Hunting what?” I figured that maybe he was going after bail jumpers or collecting for a shark.

“Cooter,” he chuckled. Wyatt has some colorful ‘up country’ words in his vocabulary. I’ve learned a lot of them, but not this one.

“Coons?” I said, “There hasn’t been any money in that since kids stopped wearing those stupid hats in the fifties.”

“Not coons,” he said impatiently, “Cooter.”

I sighed; Wyatt loves his little jokes. “Okay, so what’s a cooter?” I was half expecting to hear a bad pun. There used to be a sign above the bar down at Mac’s place that said “Henway for sale”. Sooner or later, every new customer would ask:

What’s a henway?

All the regulars would roar the reply in unison.

About four pounds

Wyatt just chuckled. “Come on up and I’ll show you.”

I had my back to the counter, but I checked on the kid in the security mirror. He was strolling toward the door with a suspicious bulge under his shirt.

“I got this career,” I said, looking down at my blue apron.

“No need to quit your day job,” he drawled. “We can take care of this over a three-day weekend.”

“What’s it worth?”

He named a number. I was still standing with my jaw dangling when the kid bolted for the door.