nodded. I’d start with Porkchop, because I knew that Indy, after what had happened at home, would be looking for weed. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER NINE
Peeled paint and a crooked sign reading CASCADE CREEK TRAILER PARK let me know I had the right place, and from the look of the trailers as I skated down the lane, a dealer named Porkchop would fit right in. This wasn’t Grandma and Grandpa’s peaceful retirement community where they bought their double-wide and strolled down to the community center for a good game of rummy. This was the back hills of Alabama on crack .
I counted three pit bulls and two Rottweilers chained outside rickety trailers by the time I found the slot, and I stood in the road for a minute studying the place. Three bald tires lay stacked next to a chewed-up garden hose; rust-colored water stains streamed down the sides of the dirty white trailer where the rain gutters were broken; three fifty-five-gallon oil drums filled with broken appliances, car parts, trash, and beer cans stood sentry in front of a broken-down shed at the rear of the parking place; and an old Ford Escort with a coat hanger stuck in the antenna hole sat onthe gravel parking pad, like a half-dead dog with open sores covering its hide.
I walked up the way and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so I knocked again.
“Who’s there?” The yell came from inside, muffled, frenetic, high-pitched, and irritated.
I knocked harder, and a second later, the window curtain next to the door flashed open and I saw half a gaunt and hard-living face peek out. The door flew open, and a guy in his early thirties, dressed in dirty jeans and a ripped flannel shirt and with long straggly hair, craned his neck out at me. His eyes bulged from his ruddy face. “You got the wrong place, buddy.” Then the door slammed shut.
I knocked again. The door flew open, and the guy craned his neck at me again, his tendons straining. “I don’t buy Avon, don’t know how to read, don’t wear cologne, don’t want no insurance, and sure as hell ain’t going to buy nothing from you, so you might as well just turn your ass around and go knockin’ somewhere else.”
I looked him up and down, noticing the butt of a pistol stuck in his waistband. “Are you Porkchop?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. One of the bloodshot orbs wandered just a little bit. He jutted his chin out. “What are you staring at?”
I looked at his regular eye. “I’m looking for my brother. Indy.”
He narrowed his eyes even more, barely slits. “You a cop?”
There is nothing more dangerous in this world than areally dumb guy with a gun, and I wasn’t about to get shot. “Is he here?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Indy, there’s a guy out here says he’s your brother, but he looks like a cop. You here?”
Indy came to the door. His eyes were glazed. “Hey, bro.”
Porkchop smiled at me. “Hell, boy, you shoulda told me you was his brother. Come on in. We can get high.” He stepped back, opening a space for me.
I stayed on the porch. “Come home, Indy.”
He was so high he was floating. “I’m fine right here, Taterbaby.”
I looked at Porkchop, then glanced at the pistol again. “Would you mind giving us a minute, sir?”
He nodded, gesticulating wildly. “Shit yeah, man. I got me some Spam cookin’ anyway. Nothin’ worse than burning your damn Spam, huh?” Then he disappeared into the trailer, cackling about burned Spam.
I looked at Indy. His lip was swollen. “Did Dad do that?”
He smirked. “Yeah. He broke my board, so I shoved him. Did you know Dad doesn’t like being shoved?”
I knew Dad hadn’t hit him with a closed fist. If he had, Indy’s head would have been half caved in. “Pretty bad situation?”
He smiled. “He’s tired of Indy not being like Tate.”
I ignored it. “Are you suspended?”
He nodded. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not going back.”
“Come home.”
“Dad kicked me out until I learn how to be a good little
CHAPTER NINE
Peeled paint and a crooked sign reading CASCADE CREEK TRAILER PARK let me know I had the right place, and from the look of the trailers as I skated down the lane, a dealer named Porkchop would fit right in. This wasn’t Grandma and Grandpa’s peaceful retirement community where they bought their double-wide and strolled down to the community center for a good game of rummy. This was the back hills of Alabama on crack .
I counted three pit bulls and two Rottweilers chained outside rickety trailers by the time I found the slot, and I stood in the road for a minute studying the place. Three bald tires lay stacked next to a chewed-up garden hose; rust-colored water stains streamed down the sides of the dirty white trailer where the rain gutters were broken; three fifty-five-gallon oil drums filled with broken appliances, car parts, trash, and beer cans stood sentry in front of a broken-down shed at the rear of the parking place; and an old Ford Escort with a coat hanger stuck in the antenna hole sat onthe gravel parking pad, like a half-dead dog with open sores covering its hide.
I walked up the way and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so I knocked again.
“Who’s there?” The yell came from inside, muffled, frenetic, high-pitched, and irritated.
I knocked harder, and a second later, the window curtain next to the door flashed open and I saw half a gaunt and hard-living face peek out. The door flew open, and a guy in his early thirties, dressed in dirty jeans and a ripped flannel shirt and with long straggly hair, craned his neck out at me. His eyes bulged from his ruddy face. “You got the wrong place, buddy.” Then the door slammed shut.
I knocked again. The door flew open, and the guy craned his neck at me again, his tendons straining. “I don’t buy Avon, don’t know how to read, don’t wear cologne, don’t want no insurance, and sure as hell ain’t going to buy nothing from you, so you might as well just turn your ass around and go knockin’ somewhere else.”
I looked him up and down, noticing the butt of a pistol stuck in his waistband. “Are you Porkchop?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. One of the bloodshot orbs wandered just a little bit. He jutted his chin out. “What are you staring at?”
I looked at his regular eye. “I’m looking for my brother. Indy.”
He narrowed his eyes even more, barely slits. “You a cop?”
There is nothing more dangerous in this world than areally dumb guy with a gun, and I wasn’t about to get shot. “Is he here?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Indy, there’s a guy out here says he’s your brother, but he looks like a cop. You here?”
Indy came to the door. His eyes were glazed. “Hey, bro.”
Porkchop smiled at me. “Hell, boy, you shoulda told me you was his brother. Come on in. We can get high.” He stepped back, opening a space for me.
I stayed on the porch. “Come home, Indy.”
He was so high he was floating. “I’m fine right here, Taterbaby.”
I looked at Porkchop, then glanced at the pistol again. “Would you mind giving us a minute, sir?”
He nodded, gesticulating wildly. “Shit yeah, man. I got me some Spam cookin’ anyway. Nothin’ worse than burning your damn Spam, huh?” Then he disappeared into the trailer, cackling about burned Spam.
I looked at Indy. His lip was swollen. “Did Dad do that?”
He smirked. “Yeah. He broke my board, so I shoved him. Did you know Dad doesn’t like being shoved?”
I knew Dad hadn’t hit him with a closed fist. If he had, Indy’s head would have been half caved in. “Pretty bad situation?”
He smiled. “He’s tired of Indy not being like Tate.”
I ignored it. “Are you suspended?”
He nodded. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not going back.”
“Come home.”
“Dad kicked me out until I learn how to be a good little
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