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  “Nice, huh?”

  “I’ll say.” As the truck began winding its way toward the valley, Eddie added, “So what’s the plan? What exactly are we going to do?”

  Mark downshifted, the engine whining, the truck slowing as he eased off the clutch. “Just what I told you: haul a truckload of Christmas trees out to Cajun-land and make our stake. I’ve been cruising the farms and buying them bad boys up. Taking a few freebies off the mountain, too—they grow wild up here, you know.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, they’re all over the place—see? Look, there… right there. All we gotta do is pull this big yellow house-on-wheels up in front of one, jump out with the saw I’ve got stashed behind the seat, and bing-bang-boom: the tree’s in the truck and the truck’s rolling down the mountain. Easy as one, two, three.”

  “One, two, three.”

  “Right.”

  “Bing-bang-boom.”

  “Yep.”

  “We can’t get in trouble for mowing down Christmas trees on public property?

  “Not if they don’t see us.”

  “Jesus, Mark.”

  “What?”

  “I’m from Florida and you just blew in from Louisiana. The cops catch us doing that shit, they’ll throw us under the jail.”

  “Relax, Dude, there’re only two cops in the whole town.”

  “Yeah, well, it just takes one to catch us, doesn’t it?”

  “Look, Eddie, we’ll be pulling in anywhere from fifty to seventy-five bucks a tree, some will do better than that. Hell, you’ve been to those lots. You know how much these babies go for.”

  Eddie nodded. Last year the tree Vicki picked out ended up costing Eddie sixty-five dollars, much more than he was willing to spend, but Vicki had expensive tastes and she always managed to get what she wanted, one way or another. Problem was, she no longer wanted Eddie, a sad fact he still had not gotten used to.

  “Dude, I bought fifty trees, and took another fifteen off the mountain. You just wait, we’re gonna make out like bandits. Get us a nice trailer, pay Moms back and still have plenty left to tide us over while we get jobs.”

  “Are they really that easy to get? The jobs, I mean.”

  “Hell yeah. I was on a rig the first day I got there—making good money. Hell, jobs are easier to get than these trees are, and they’re a piece of cake.” Mark slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. “Watch this,” he said. “See that? Look over there.”

  A fir tree approximately five feet tall sat several yards off the roadside, a pleasant sight for all to see, until the rental truck ruined the view by stopping in front of it.

  Mark killed the ignition. “C’mon,” he said, and then opened the door and stepped onto the running board. He grabbed the frame of the rectangular side mirror and swung down to the ground, slamming the door shut and hurrying around the front of the truck just as Eddie was stepping onto the roadside. Mark maneuvered around him and slid a hand behind the seat. It came out clutching an old bow saw. Though the metal frame was rusted, the shiny blade looked new, its serrated edge as sharp as shark’s teeth.

  “No way,” Eddie said. “You are not going to saw that down.”

  But Eddie knew that was exactly what Mark was going to do. And that was what he did. Under cover of the hulking yellow truck, he led Eddie to the tree and swung the saw. Moments later the blade sliced through the thin trunk like it was made of modeling clay. Mark handed Eddie the saw and told him to open the truck. Then, grinning from ear to ear, he hefted the tree onto his shoulder and followed his friend. He stood hidden from the occasional car coming up or down the road while Eddie stepped to the rear of the truck. When the door rolled up, Mark stepped around and tossed the tree inside, and then Eddie slammed the door shut.

  “Cool?” said Mark.

  “Cool!”

  “Bucks, brother, and lots of ‘em!”

  “Bing-bang-boom, dude!”

  Eddie was excited. Swiping a tree off the roadside seemed like a screwball idea; especially knowing they could end up in jail if the police happened by. But when the door slammed down and he realized they had gotten away with it, an exhilarating rush swept through him. He raised his arm and the two friends high-fived each other.

  “Ha!” Mark said, as they stepped back to the roadside, beside the truck. “I knew you’d come around.”

  “That was easy.”

  “Told ya.”

  “How’d you think of this?”

  “It was Mom’s idea. I think she just wanted to see me again, and figured this was a good way to get me to home for Thanksgiving.”

  “She figured right.”

  “Dude, it took me two days to get here. And I got my ass kicked as soon as I hit the county line.”

  Eddie laughed and shook his head. He opened the passenger door and slid the saw back into its resting place, and Mark walked around to the driver’s side. Once inside, the truck back on the roadway and rolling down the mountain, Mark said, “Still early, what say we stop in Weaverton and grab a beer.”

  Chapter Three

  Harry Edwards watched the oncoming Camaro roar down the highway, smiling at the ear-to-ear grin plastered across Charlie’s face as he pulled into the lot, a look of solid satisfaction that told Harry everything he needed to know. He had him. The only thing now was to see how high he could take the boy. If Charlie had any gambler in his blood, if he had any guts at all, he might end up going much higher than he anticipated. If not, Harry would get his $10,000.00 and a hefty profit anyway.

  Horse-trader-Harry, they called him, and for good reason. He owned the only car lot in Weaverton, North Carolina, and kept it stocked with everything from beat-up piles of junk to the cherry-red Camaro that had caught Charlie Rodgers’ eye, all the way up to the crown jewel of Horse Trader’s Car Mart: a forest green Jeep Cherokee Harry had acquired from the chop shop his cousin operated over in Asheville. A good many of Harry’s vehicles came from his cousin—damn near half, to be exact. The rest were trade-ins and the occasional car or truck he’d rustled up by hook or by crook.

  Horse-trader-Harry stood six-feet tall. His close-cropped hair was grey, his eyes sky-blue. Faded jeans and a western-style shirt had been his uniform of choice for more years than he could remember, along with a straw cowboy hat that shielded his head from the sun. He stepped to his right when the car pulled up beside him, still smiling as the door opened and Charlie jumped out.

  “Everything I said it was, ain’t it?”

  Charlie took a step back, staring at the car like a proud father admiring his newborn baby. “Everything and a whole lot more.”

  “Ten, nine-ninety-nine,” Harry said, and Charlie said, “We’ll just have to talk about that now.”

  “Talk about it?”

  “I’m thinkin’ seven-five.”

  “What do you think, ‘cause you’re courtin’ my niece I’m gonna give it to you? You know the bluebook on that baby? I gotta make a goddamn profit here, son.”

  “Well goddamn, you’re the horse trader, ain’t you?” Charlie said, sweeping a hand toward a faded banner overlooking the highway.

  “That’s what the sign says,” Harry said, smiling.

  “Well let’s do a little trading then. You give a little and I’ll give a little and see what we come up with.”

  Harry, arms crossing his chest, cocked his head sideways, giving Charlie the same appraising eye he’d give a car he was buying. He straightened up, lips pursed for a moment, before saying, “I’ll go nine-five. Not one red cent less.”

  “How about eight?”

  “Nine-five. Take it or leave it.”

  “C’mon, Horse-trader, you can do better than that.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll flip a coin. Tails you give me five thousand dollars and that beat-to-shit truck of yours.”

  Charlie’s eyes grew wide; so did the smile that suddenly appeared on his face.

  “Comes up heads, you’re out thirteen thousand and the truck. What’dya
say to that?”

  Charlie looked at the car, then back at Harry. “Gee, I don’t know,” he said.

  “Hmpf. Thought you wanted to do a little horse tradin’.”

  “I don’t wanta end up owing you thirteen thousand dollars for an eight thousand-dollar car!”

  “Lose your nerve real quick when it comes down to it. Don’t ya? Looks like we’re back to nine-five then.”

  “I only make twelve dollars an hour at the mill!”

  “Well by God, you live with your parents, don’t you?”

  Charlie took a deep breath, walked over and laid a hand on the Camaro’s hood and felt the warmth of the engine, which was still ticking from the test drive over the mountain. He looked at his own rusted-out hunk of metal, and then leaned against the Camaro—it felt good, warm beneath the seat of his jeans.

  “Flip a coin, huh?”

  Grinning, Harry said, “That’s why they call me the horse trader.”

  And Charlie’s mind was made up, which it had been ever since the Camaro’s engine roared to life and Charlie roared off down the highway.”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Or thirteen.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Harry said. He fished a handful of change from his pocket, and pulled a silver dollar from that. “Heads you lose, tails I win.”

  “My ass!” Charlie moved away from the car, toward Harry, who said, “Just messin’ with you. Heads I win, tails you win. Got it? We straight on that?”

  “Yeah. Geez.”

  Sweat beaded along Charlie’s brow, and Harry noticed a slight trembling in his hands. Nestling the coin between thumb and forefinger, he smiled at Charlie.

  “Wait a minute!”

  “What, losin’ your nerve again?”

  Charlie moved to Harry’s side. “Lemme see that coin.”

  “Why?”

  Right palm up, Charlie said, “Give it”, and Harry dropped it into his hand. Charlie looked at the outline of JFK on the coin’s face. “Son of a bitch,” he said, when he flipped it over and saw another head on the opposite side, and then turned and hurled the coin across the lot, into the field bordering it.

  “The fuck’re you doin’!”

  “You cheatin’ son of a bitch!”

  “What?”

  “That was a two-headed coin, ya son of a bitch!”

  “Bullshit, it was. Goddamnit, Charlie Rodgers, you just threw my lucky coin away.” Harry pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Here,” he said, and handed it to Charlie. Knock yourself out.”

  “What?”

  “What? What’dya think? Flip the son of a bitch!”

  Charlie positioned the coin in a hand that was shaking so bad he could hardly hold it.

  “Want me to flip it for you?”

  “Hell no!” Charlie called out, and then sent the coin flying end over end toward the clear blue sky.

  Chapter Four

  Farley’s Shack was just that, a square wooden structure of rough-hewn plank walls outside and cheap faux walnut paneling inside. Flashing neon hung in two front windows looking out on the highway, a Budweiser sign in one and a Coors sign in the other. Tables sat scattered about a dingy, white tiled floor, littered with sawdust and spent peanut shells. Two pool tables stood side by side a few feet apart in the middle of the large room. Pinball machines and video games lined one of the walls, silent in the early afternoon beneath the Bon Jovi tune piping out of an old Wurlitzer juke box residing between the pinball and arcade games. A drum set, speakers and amps and microphone stands stood on a raised stage at the far end of the building. In front of the stage was a large vacant square bordered by tables and chairs, the area the bar’s patrons did their dancing on.

  A loud crack of colliding pool balls filled the air as Mark and Eddie stepped up to the bar. Three men stood around the pool table, two holding cues while a third took a seat, watching his friend lean over to position himself for his next shot. Two young women sat a few stools down from Mark and Eddie, a couple of frosted mugs of beer and a half-full pitcher on the bar in front of them. Straight blonde hair cascaded down the back of the one nearest them. The other had a pixie cut, short and brown. She was thin and lithe, agile-looking. Maybe she was a dancer, or an athlete. Whatever she was, she sure looked good to Eddie, who hadn’t been with a woman since the sympathy fuck he’d pried out of Vicki two nights before slinging his guitar over his shoulder and heading out of Jacksonville.

  The bartender—Farley, Eddie guessed—said, “What can I do ya for?”

  “Rolling Rock?” said Mark.

  “Rocks roll down the mountain ‘round here.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bud and Miller, Coors and Mick and their Lite cousins, Heineken if you’re bound and determined to get exotic.” Farley lifted a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his green and plaid flannel shirt. Short and barrel-chested with thick, bushy eyebrows, he wore his black hair slicked back on his head. He shook a cigarette loose, lit it and set the pack on the bar, a thin ribbon of smoke drifting toward the ceiling as he nestled the cigarette in a black plastic ashtray. “What’s it gonna be?” he said.

  “Couple of Coors,” Mark said, nodding at the blonde, who giggled and whispered into her friend’s ear. Her friend turned to look, smiling as she quickly looked away.

  The blonde said, “How about some peanuts over here, Farley?”

  Farley scooped a small wooden bowl from beneath the bar. His other hand came up filled with peanuts. He dumped them into the bowl and slid it down to the girls. Then he was in and out of the cooler and a couple of Coors were sitting in front of Mark and Eddie. They grabbed them and both took a drink.

  Mark walked over to the women but Eddie stayed put.

  “Hey, ladies,” Mark said, and the blonde said, “Hey yourself, cutie”, which brought a whimsical smile to Mark’s face, and another giggle from her auburn-haired friend.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him.

  “Mark,” he said, and took another drink.

  “Where ya from, Mark? Not around here, that’s for sure, not with that.” She reached out, stroking a hand down a long shock of his straight brown hair. “I would’ve noticed you by now.”

  “You would, huh?”

  “Better believe it.”

  Mark motioned for Eddie to join him, and he did. He stood at Mark’s shoulder as his friend leaned against the bar, smiling as he said, “This is my pal, Eddie, king of the southern rockers.”

  “Oh, really.”

  Eddie started to say ‘no, not really’ but before he could, the object of Mark’s affection said, “Well, Mark, Eddie. I’m Thelma and this is—”

  “Let me guess,” Mark deadpanned. “Louise.”

  Thelma’s friend huffed out a breath, and Thelma laughed. “Not hardly,” she said. “Brenda. Brenda and Thel, at your service.”

  “Well, Brenda, Thel.” Mark raised his bottle in a toast. “It is really nice to meet you. Eddie and I are in town to—”

  “Hey!”

  Eddie turned to see a guy coming across the room carrying a pool cue. Tall and thin, he wore jeans, a blue-and-white-striped Polo shirt and a faded denim jacket. A Carolina Panther’s cap sat backwards on his head. He was coming fast with a pissed-off look on his face. He stopped in front of Mark, slapping the fat end of the cue against his hand as he said, “What the hell, Thel?”

  “Oh, Jimmy,” she said. “Gimme a break.”

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “Would you stop it?”

  “Hey,” Mark said. “We’re just—”

  Jimmy drew back the cue. “You—shut the fuck the up!”

  “Hey,” Mark said.

  “Jesus,” Eddie muttered, and then looked down to see if the guy had serpents on his cowboy boots, wondering if he’d be able to bounce his beer bottle off the guy’s head before the cue stick cracked Mark’s skull. The guy Jimmy had been shooting pool with leaned over the juke box. Moments later, th
e opening of .38 Special’s So Caught Up In You filled the room.

  “Goddamit!” Thel yelled.

  Farley tapped a sawed-off piece of a Louisville Slugger against the bar, leaned over the counter, and said, “Take it outside.”

  “Stay out of it, Farley,” said Jimmy, and Farley slammed the bat down hard. “I said take that shit the fuck outside.”

  Thel jumped off her barstool. Positioning herself in front of Eddie, she said, “Would you just stop it? Jesus, Jimmy, I’m twenty-three-years-old, for Chrissakes.”

  “We talked about this.”

  “Yes, we talked about it and I told you to chill out. So chill the fuck out!”

  “Dude,” one of Jimmy’s friends called out—the guy who’d been at the juke box and was now back at the pool table. “Leave your sister alone.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “Chill out before you get yourself hurt.”

  “Hurt? Me hurt! I’ll show you hurt, motherfucker!”

  “I don’t even know your mother.”

  “Don’t!” Thel called out, as if she knew what was coming next, which, apparently she did, because Jimmy swung the cue and Mark ducked, the cue stick snapped Farley’s head back and his club dropped to the floor.

  “Goddamnit!” he yelled, holding a hand over his ear as Jimmy took a faltering step backwards, Farley kneeling down and grabbing his piece of Louisville Slugger, standing back up and shaking it at Jimmy, who by now had backed all the way to the pool tables.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “I… I’m sorry… Farley, I’m sorry. Look—”

  “C’mere, you little cocksucker!”

  “He didn’t mean it,” Thel said, as Farley made his way around the bar and Jimmy and his pals ran for the door, Farley running after them, onto the porch, screaming, “GODDAMNIT!” as car doors slammed and rubber howled against pavement, and Mark and Eddie looked dumbfounded at one another.