Read Online Crow's Landing by Brad Smith - Free Book Online

you picked up someplace and then Albany PD shows up and seizes it, along with your boat. Which makes me wonder just what the fuck you’re involved in, pal. And now you got the nerve to get in my face?”
    â€œSo it was Albany PD?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe cop. He was Albany PD?”
    Brownie hesitated. “I got no idea.”
    â€œYeah, you do. You couldn’t see the badge from the bait shop, and the vehicle was unmarked. But you know because you called him.”
    â€œYou can get the fuck out of here,” Brownie said. “And don’t come back. I’m taking away your docking privileges.”
    Virgil smiled. “You’re taking away my docking privileges the day after your buddy took my boat? That’s like taking a man’s shoes after you cut off his feet. I’m beginning to think that you and Mudcat are sharing a brain, Brownie.”
    Virgil got into his truck and drove away, leaving Brownie fuming and spitting obscenities in the parking lot. By the time he got back to the farm, Virgil had to accept the fact that the day had been wasted; he didn’t know any more now than when he got up that morning. Well, he had established that Mudcat and Brownie were a pair of liars, and that there was something sketchy about the sweaty little cop in the SUV who had stolen his boat.
    But those were things he already knew.

SIX
    The auction sale was Saturday morning, on the southern shore of Lake George, at a consignment place called Terrapin’s. They’d been in business for ten years or so and they handled mainly estate items—high-end furniture, glassware, some artwork. They rarely had cars to offer, and Parson was banking on this working to his advantage.
    He picked Zoe up at her apartment just before eight. The sale started at ten and it was an hour and a half to get there. Parson had no idea just when the vehicles would go under the gavel, so he wanted to be there on time. Zoe had worked the bar the night before, one of the places on Madison that catered to college kids, and when he arrived at her walk-up on Ontario Street he’d had to knock on the door to get her out of bed, and then wait in her cramped kitchen while she took a shower. There were dirty dishes on the table and in the sink, cigarette butts in coffee cups. A bottle of Jack with maybe half an ounce left, on the table. A pair of large black cowboy boots were in the middle of the floor, as if they’d been removed in a hurry, and a man’s denim jacket on the back of a chair.
    As he waited, a fat white cat wandered out from the bedroom and jumped into Parson’s lap before he could swat it aside. He was wearing brown pants and a black golf shirt, and both were now covered with white fur. He spent the next fiveminutes listening to the noisy shower in the bathroom and plucking the hairs one by one from his clothes.
    When Zoe finally came out, wearing jeans and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, her hair still wet, Parson was standing impatiently by the door.
    â€œHow do you live like this?”
    â€œBitch, bitch,” she said.
    They took 87 north. Parson was driving the black Escalade, not wishing to call attention to himself as a dealer by arriving in one of his muscle cars. Zoe was quiet until she’d had her takeout coffee.
    â€œSo what are we doing?” she asked.
    â€œThey’ve got some vintage hot rods,” Parson said. “One of them is a ’70 ’Cuda ragger with a Hemi,” Parson said. “Supposed to be numbers matching.”
    â€œAll right,” Zoe said. “How high do I go?”
    Parson flipped open the console compartment and handed her an envelope full of thousand-dollar bills. “Thirty grand here. If I can queer the provenance, it’ll go cheaper. If I can’t, it’ll go higher and we’ll pass.”
    Zoe yawned. “All depends who’s there, right?”
    â€œWay it is.”
    â€œMaybe somebody smarter than