First, Roland McKenry, Jr. had spent most of his life in
Buford and knew everybody in the town. Second, the guy's suit was way too nice. Custom made, from the
looks of it. Probably the guy was not even from Columbia or
Charleston. It looked like a suit you'd see on a guy from New
York, Milan, London. Maybe Atlanta. Maybe.
Roland McKenry, Jr. was a nice-looking man, nearing forty,
with blond hair that could have stood a cut about two weeks
earlier, a cleft chin, and a truly horrible rust colored suit. You'd have thought from
the way he dressed that he was a man who wouldn't know whether a
suit was from Milan or from Boise. But Roland McKenry, Jr. was a
guy who could fool you.
Then the out-of-town guy made the crack about his own
suit. Which, as it happened, was from J.C. Penney.
Naturally Roland took a closer look at the guy when he got
a chance, turning around at his desk and pretending to think
about something while he stared at the out-of-town guy.
Once you put aside the suit and actually looked at the
man's face, you got a different impression. Not a New York or
Milan kind of face. More of thug face, really. Back when Roland
had been in college he'd made a brief foray into the commercial
dope trade, sold a few ounces of shit here and there -- and
that's what this guy put him in mind of: this asshole he'd had
to deal with once when he was buying weed by the pound.
Roland's connection had been a Texan, a short guy who
always wore giant high-heeled cowboy boots, who was shipping pot
up from Brownsville by Greyhound bus. He packed the dope in
Coleman coolers, fifty pounds a throw, sealed them with silicone
caulk, threw them on the bus and let 'em ride.
Later Roland had found out the guy had just got out of the
Allen Unit of the Texas pen, serving time for murder. It was
that guy's face alone -- nothing he'd said or done -- that had
convinced Roland to get out of the dope business.
"Whatchya thinking?"
Roland blinked. It was Noreen, the
teller that had such a crush on him. Roland noticed the out-of-
town guy was gone.
"What did that guy want?" Roland said.
"Cash a check."
"How much?"
"Twelve dollars and fifty seven cent," Noreen said. She
held up some change between two red painted fingernails. "Left
his money, too. Whatchya want me to do with it, Mr. McKenry?"
Roland shrugged. "Keep it. Why not."
Cashing a check for twelve bucks? That guy, with his
thousand dollar suit and his thug face? Something wasn't right.
Damned if he could figure what it was, though.
But then on a whim he went outside, and there was the guy
in the suit getting in the car with a thin fellow wearing over-
alls and another guy sitting already in the passenger seat. Come
to think of it, the guy with the over-alls didn't look like the
over-all type anymore than the other guy looked like the thousand
dollar suit type. Thug was the word that came to mind.
The guy had backed into the parking space, so Roland could
see the license plate.
