First Family (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 4)

Quarry playfully jabbed him in the arm with his elbow. “Good.’Cause I ain’t no Indian giver.”

Thirty minutes later they reached the small town. Fred was still looking down at the envelope packed with twenties. “You didn’t steal this, did you?”

“Never stole nothing in my life.” He looked at Fred. “Not counting people. Now I stole me some people, you know.” A long moment passed and then Quarry laughed and so did Fred.

“Cashed in some old bonds my daddy had,” explained Quarry.

He pulled in front of the local bank, a one-story brick building with a glass front door.

“Let’s go.”

Quarry headed to the door and Fred followed.

“I’ve never been in a bank,” said Fred.

“How come?”

“I’ve never had any money.”

“Me neither. But I still go to the bank.”

“Why?”

“Hell, Fred,’cause that’s where all the money is.”

Quarry snagged a banker he knew and explained what he wanted. He pulled out the document. “Brought my real American friend here to help witness it.”

The stout, bespectacled banker looked at the scruffy Fred and attempted a smile. “I’m sure that’s fine, Sam.”

“I’m sure it’s fine too,” said Fred. He patted his jacket where the envelope full of money was, and he and Quarry exchanged a quick grin.

The banker took them into his office. Another witness was called in along with the bank’s notary public. Quarry signed his will in front of Fred, this other witness, and the notary. Then Fred and the other witness signed. After that, the notary did her official thing. When it was all completed, the banke

r made a copy of the will. Afterward, Quarry folded up the original and put it in his jacket.

“Make sure you keep it in a safe place,” warned the banker. “Because a copy won’t be good enough for probate. How about a safe-deposit box here?”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Quarry. “Anybody tries to break into my house gets their head blown off.”

“I’m sure,” said the banker a little nervously.

“I’m sure too,” said Quarry.

Fred and Quarry stopped at a bar for a drink before heading back.

“So now it is okay to drink, Sam?” asked Fred, tipping the mug of beer to his mouth.

Quarry pitched back a few fingers of bourbon. “It’s after noon, right? All I’m telling you, Fred, is to have some reasonable standards.”

They drove back to Atlee. Quarry dropped Fred off at the Airstream.

As the old man slowly made his way up the cinderblock steps, he turned back to Quarry who sat in the old truck. “Thank you for the money.”

“Thank you for witnessing my will.”

“Do you expect to die soon?”

Quarry grinned. “If I knew that I’d probably be off in Hawaii or something going for a swim in the ocean and eating me that calamari. Not riding around in a rusted-out truck in nowhere Alabama talking to the likes of you, Fred.”