enthusiasm, however, seemed dulled, lost in his businessman’s veneer. Sutter supposed any successful construction magnate carried the same air. And what did it matter, anyway? All our lives will improve because of this fella, Sutter realized.
Felps’s stay was brief, to the point. He paid up, bade them a good day, and left.
“Not the friendliest fella in the land,” Pappy said, “but do you think I give a flying fuck? My business’ll triple the first year those condos start opening.”
“He’s a big-city builder, Pappy,” Sutter reminded him. “Guys like that are no-nonsense and all business. That’s why they’re millionaires.”
Trey shrugged, leaning on the counter. “He ain’t such a poker face once ya get to know him. Matter of fact, I had a few beers with him at the bar the other night.”
Sutter felt secretly jealous. “You’re kidding me?”
“Naw. He and a few of his managers walked in. They asked me to join ‘em and we all sat there for an hour shootin’ the shit and pounding a few. When Felps is off the clock, he’s a regular guy just like you and me.”
Sutter’s jealousy remained. If there was one man he wanted to be pals with, it was Felps. I’ll have to work on that. . . .
“Later, Pappy,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
“You boys take it easy the rest of the day.” Pappy cackled. “Don’t wanna wear yourselves out kickin’ scumbag ass.”
“Just another day in the lives of two hardworkin’ cops,” Trey said, casting a final glance at the men’s mags.
Back outside, Sutter didn’t even have time to grab his keys before a shadow moved behind him. He hadn’t heard a sound. Had those drug dealers come back for revenge? Impossible, he thought. They’re lucky if they made it to the nearest hospital on their own . . . . Sutter spun, instinct charging his gun hand, but then found himself looking into the face of a gaunt old man.
“Hey, there, Everd,” Trey greeted.
Everd Stanherd stood like a meticulously dressed scarecrow, neat as a pin in his typical faded black suit and tie. Short jet-black hair didn’t look right atop the old, waxen, and deeply lined face, yet the deep-socketed eyes appeared vibrant, the eyes of a twenty-year-old set in an old man’s skull. The only detail that might tell him apart from any elderly man was the pendant around his neck: a black silk cord connected to a small black silk sack.
Everd lived with his wife, Marthe, in the only house at the end of the point, a decrepit slat-wood mansion built a hundred years ago. Judy Parker let him live there, and he shared the house with other elders of his Squatter clan. The rest of the Squatters lived all about the property surrounding the house, in surprisingly well built tin huts erected in the midst of the heavy woods—Squatterville, most people called the area. Judy let them all live there rent-free as a benefit of their employment with the crab company. In all, the Squatters were respectful, law-abiding, and industrious in their own simple way, and this frail yet vibrant man standing before them was their leader.
“It’s good to see you, Everd,” Sutter said. “Any word on those couple of folks in your clan who can’t be accounted for?”
“No, sir,” Everd replied. They all spoke so strangely, yet Everd’s tone and diction were the strangest of all. His thin lips barely moved around the words, almost as though they were being projected from elsewhere. And that indefinable dialect. “As a matter of fact, two left for Roanoke last week, quite verifiably. I suspect the same can be said of the others, as you suggested. It’s just uncharacteristic for members of our clan to leave without notice.”
“Everd, when I was a kid, I ran away a bunch of times, and never told my parents where I was headed,” Sutter pointed out. “There’s over a hundred Squatters you got livin’ on the Point. You can’t keep tabs on them all.”
“You’re correct, sir,” Everd returned. He stood
Felps’s stay was brief, to the point. He paid up, bade them a good day, and left.
“Not the friendliest fella in the land,” Pappy said, “but do you think I give a flying fuck? My business’ll triple the first year those condos start opening.”
“He’s a big-city builder, Pappy,” Sutter reminded him. “Guys like that are no-nonsense and all business. That’s why they’re millionaires.”
Trey shrugged, leaning on the counter. “He ain’t such a poker face once ya get to know him. Matter of fact, I had a few beers with him at the bar the other night.”
Sutter felt secretly jealous. “You’re kidding me?”
“Naw. He and a few of his managers walked in. They asked me to join ‘em and we all sat there for an hour shootin’ the shit and pounding a few. When Felps is off the clock, he’s a regular guy just like you and me.”
Sutter’s jealousy remained. If there was one man he wanted to be pals with, it was Felps. I’ll have to work on that. . . .
“Later, Pappy,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
“You boys take it easy the rest of the day.” Pappy cackled. “Don’t wanna wear yourselves out kickin’ scumbag ass.”
“Just another day in the lives of two hardworkin’ cops,” Trey said, casting a final glance at the men’s mags.
Back outside, Sutter didn’t even have time to grab his keys before a shadow moved behind him. He hadn’t heard a sound. Had those drug dealers come back for revenge? Impossible, he thought. They’re lucky if they made it to the nearest hospital on their own . . . . Sutter spun, instinct charging his gun hand, but then found himself looking into the face of a gaunt old man.
“Hey, there, Everd,” Trey greeted.
Everd Stanherd stood like a meticulously dressed scarecrow, neat as a pin in his typical faded black suit and tie. Short jet-black hair didn’t look right atop the old, waxen, and deeply lined face, yet the deep-socketed eyes appeared vibrant, the eyes of a twenty-year-old set in an old man’s skull. The only detail that might tell him apart from any elderly man was the pendant around his neck: a black silk cord connected to a small black silk sack.
Everd lived with his wife, Marthe, in the only house at the end of the point, a decrepit slat-wood mansion built a hundred years ago. Judy Parker let him live there, and he shared the house with other elders of his Squatter clan. The rest of the Squatters lived all about the property surrounding the house, in surprisingly well built tin huts erected in the midst of the heavy woods—Squatterville, most people called the area. Judy let them all live there rent-free as a benefit of their employment with the crab company. In all, the Squatters were respectful, law-abiding, and industrious in their own simple way, and this frail yet vibrant man standing before them was their leader.
“It’s good to see you, Everd,” Sutter said. “Any word on those couple of folks in your clan who can’t be accounted for?”
“No, sir,” Everd replied. They all spoke so strangely, yet Everd’s tone and diction were the strangest of all. His thin lips barely moved around the words, almost as though they were being projected from elsewhere. And that indefinable dialect. “As a matter of fact, two left for Roanoke last week, quite verifiably. I suspect the same can be said of the others, as you suggested. It’s just uncharacteristic for members of our clan to leave without notice.”
“Everd, when I was a kid, I ran away a bunch of times, and never told my parents where I was headed,” Sutter pointed out. “There’s over a hundred Squatters you got livin’ on the Point. You can’t keep tabs on them all.”
“You’re correct, sir,” Everd returned. He stood
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