Read Online Bound for Home (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) by Jamie Sheffield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jamie Sheffield
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goods store … only steps from my front door )? I want a list of the top five or ten, and I’ll tell you why before you decide if you want to help me … ok?” Pete hadn’t run from room, so I continued. “Someone has shot a couple of dogs, family pets, at extreme range … 300 to 500 yards. Shooting like that needs daily, or near daily practice, and that translates to ammo shipments, which you deliver.”
I could see that I nearly had him, “Shit Tyler, I could get fired for even talking about stuff like that … but … pets?” I’d helped Pete grab boxes out of the back of the truck for SmartPig before, and seen pictures of his family members, including pictures ( with studio backdrops ) of his three dogs. If I was the kind of person who felt guilty about manipulating people, this would be a good moment for it … but I’m not.
“Yes, inside- dogs, playing next to their houses, in one case with kids nearby.” Another falsehood, but I could see from the flush creeping up his neck, and the wetness of his eyes, that he was picturing the tiny blond girl in one of the pictures on the dashboard losing her dog, or being shot at/adjacent/near to … and he was mine.
“Should we go to the cops?” Popped out of his mouth, and these were six words I had not planned on. I tried to think about books that I had read, and how people talk/act/react in these situations … I didn’t have more than a second to formulate my reply, so I hoped it would suffice.
“No, definitely not. There won’t be enough evidence for an arrest or a warrant, and it will just make him careful. I know one of the dads ( I hit the word “dads” with more emphasis than I ordinarily would, to hammer the point home ), and he wants to go and have a talk with the shooter … a talk. Nobody is looking to channel Marsellus Wallace, after the basement with Zed ( I noted that it was the second time in as many days that I’d reached for a “Pulp Fiction” reference, and wondered briefly if I should be bothered that my life seemed to be developing some parallels … I decided not ), just a talk to let him know that we know, and that it has to stop, now.”
Pete mulled all of that over for a few seconds … we’d talked movies and books a few times, when he’d see them on the table in SmartPig, and I refused to rise to any other conversational gambits ( this was back before he had shared word of his love for camping ); then he rolled his eyes up and to the left, perhaps trying to recall/redraw a map of ORM-D deliveries.
“Robert Everson, Brent Mar tin, Mark LaFleur, Tony Allen. Those four. Nobody else is even close. Those guys get monthly or better shipments of serious quantities of ammo from multiple vendors … they must shoot a thousand rounds a month, or better, each.”
“Thanks Pete … want a Coke for the road?” I had other plans for the remaining donuts, or I would have offered him a cruller. He looked at me as though he had more to say, but didn’t know where to start, so I did it for him ( leading off my #7 smile, ‘knowing and sly’, which was still awkward and untested ), “I trust that you won’t talk about this with anyone.” He nodded. “… and I’ll let you know what I can, when I can … if I can.” I hoped that this was sufficiently cryptic, and dismissive, to bring this encounter to a close, so that he would leave, and I could eat my donuts and figure out the last few moves.
It was.
Donnelly’s Ice Cream, 12:39pm, 6/6/2002
I had a large Black-Raspberry cone in hand, and once John came out with his, more modest, baby cone, we moved off some distance to talk about what I had found out, my ideas for getting to checkmate, and … hopefully, setting up a schedule for future payments in bacon.
I had called John as soon as Pete clumped down the stairs and out to finish his route, suggesting Donnelly’s as a meeting place for a number of reasons: it was approximately
I could see that I nearly had him, “Shit Tyler, I could get fired for even talking about stuff like that … but … pets?” I’d helped Pete grab boxes out of the back of the truck for SmartPig before, and seen pictures of his family members, including pictures ( with studio backdrops ) of his three dogs. If I was the kind of person who felt guilty about manipulating people, this would be a good moment for it … but I’m not.
“Yes, inside- dogs, playing next to their houses, in one case with kids nearby.” Another falsehood, but I could see from the flush creeping up his neck, and the wetness of his eyes, that he was picturing the tiny blond girl in one of the pictures on the dashboard losing her dog, or being shot at/adjacent/near to … and he was mine.
“Should we go to the cops?” Popped out of his mouth, and these were six words I had not planned on. I tried to think about books that I had read, and how people talk/act/react in these situations … I didn’t have more than a second to formulate my reply, so I hoped it would suffice.
“No, definitely not. There won’t be enough evidence for an arrest or a warrant, and it will just make him careful. I know one of the dads ( I hit the word “dads” with more emphasis than I ordinarily would, to hammer the point home ), and he wants to go and have a talk with the shooter … a talk. Nobody is looking to channel Marsellus Wallace, after the basement with Zed ( I noted that it was the second time in as many days that I’d reached for a “Pulp Fiction” reference, and wondered briefly if I should be bothered that my life seemed to be developing some parallels … I decided not ), just a talk to let him know that we know, and that it has to stop, now.”
Pete mulled all of that over for a few seconds … we’d talked movies and books a few times, when he’d see them on the table in SmartPig, and I refused to rise to any other conversational gambits ( this was back before he had shared word of his love for camping ); then he rolled his eyes up and to the left, perhaps trying to recall/redraw a map of ORM-D deliveries.
“Robert Everson, Brent Mar tin, Mark LaFleur, Tony Allen. Those four. Nobody else is even close. Those guys get monthly or better shipments of serious quantities of ammo from multiple vendors … they must shoot a thousand rounds a month, or better, each.”
“Thanks Pete … want a Coke for the road?” I had other plans for the remaining donuts, or I would have offered him a cruller. He looked at me as though he had more to say, but didn’t know where to start, so I did it for him ( leading off my #7 smile, ‘knowing and sly’, which was still awkward and untested ), “I trust that you won’t talk about this with anyone.” He nodded. “… and I’ll let you know what I can, when I can … if I can.” I hoped that this was sufficiently cryptic, and dismissive, to bring this encounter to a close, so that he would leave, and I could eat my donuts and figure out the last few moves.
It was.
Donnelly’s Ice Cream, 12:39pm, 6/6/2002
I had a large Black-Raspberry cone in hand, and once John came out with his, more modest, baby cone, we moved off some distance to talk about what I had found out, my ideas for getting to checkmate, and … hopefully, setting up a schedule for future payments in bacon.
I had called John as soon as Pete clumped down the stairs and out to finish his route, suggesting Donnelly’s as a meeting place for a number of reasons: it was approximately
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