The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

He found a stick of gum in the glove box. He peeled it and stuck it into his mouth. He sighed. “You should be playing in one of those bands at Cook’s. I was proud of you up there on the stage.”

“Grin and walk through the cannon smoke,” I said. “It drives the bad guys up the wall. A great man said that.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

But he was like a bird that had lost its song. He stared out the window, his eyes dead. In the distance I heard the two cars coming down the road again, engines wide open, headlights whipping around the curve, sweeping across the trees. I rested my hand on the keys, preparing to start the engine.

“Let them get past,” Saber said.

I clicked on the radio. Hank Williams was singing “Cold, Cold Heart.” I thought of Valerie and wanted to cry. The Austin-Healey and Grady’s convertible were barreling toward us, leaves blowing in their wake. I heard another firecracker pop. As they roared past, I started the engine. I saw Saber stick his arm out the window and heave something over the roof. I thought I heard glass break.

“What did you just do?” I said.

“You told me to get rid of the brick.”

I looked in the rearview mirror. The convertible was swaying all over the road; then it slowed as though the engine had died, and coasted onto the grass. People flung open the doors and piled out, silhouetting against the headlights like confused stick figures in an animation.

“Haul ass,” Saber said.

My hands were shaking. I couldn’t think.

“Snap out of it! Get us out of here!” he said.

I started the engine and drove onto the asphalt, slowly accelerating so my twin mufflers didn’t come to life. I followed the bend in second gear, the headlights off. The road was winding and gray and humped, speckled in the moonlight like the scales on a snake. We drove in silence all the way to South Main, neither of us willing to look at the other lest we recognize the deed we had done.

Chapter

10

TWO DAYS PASSED. I called Valerie four times. I would have gone to her house, but I didn’t want more trouble on the northside, at least not until I was sure about what had happened during the incident in Herman Park. (That was the way I had come to think of a brick flying into an oncoming automobile: “The Incident.”) At 9:14 A.M. Wednesday, I glanced through the living room window and saw Detective Merton Jenks pull into our driveway and get out. The fact that he parked in the driveway indicated he knew I was alone and my parents had gone to work. I met him on the front porch. He carried two small ice cream cups and a pair of tiny wood spoons in one hand. “I bought these at that ice cream store by the firehouse on Westheimer. This is a nice neighborhood you have.”

“I’m fixing to go to work,” I lied.

“You need to talk to me. Don’t try to jump me over the hurdles, either. If you cain’t tell me the truth, don’t say anything. But the one thing you need to do is listen. Sit your ass down.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“I’ll talk to you any way I goddamn please.”

He wore his fedora but no coat. His sleeves were rolled, and I saw a red parachute and the scrolled caption “101 Airborne” tattooed on his forearm. He put an ice cream cup and spoon in my hand.

“Somebody threw a brick at Grady Harrelson’s car in Herman Park. Were you aware of that?”

“No, sir, I haven’t heard talk of it. Is Grady okay?”

“The last I saw him, he was. On occasion do you drive through the park at night?”

“Not often.”

“A couple of guys say your car was parked by the zoo a couple of nights ago. Maybe you and your girl were making out. You see any vandals cruising around?”

“No, sir, no vandals and no smoochers. I don’t hang out at Herman Park at night.”

“How about Bledsoe? Maybe he borrowed your heap and was making out?”

“No, sir, he didn’t do that.”