The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

The two loud pool shooters had grown louder. “You boys shut up before I come down there,” Jenks said. He turned back to me. He was breathing through his nose, obviously thinking about how much he should say. “Here’s the short version: Mr. Harrelson should make sure his life insurance policies are up to date.”

“You never answered my question, sir.”

“What question, for God’s sake? I swear, my heart goes out to your parents.”

“How do I get clear of all this?”

“I’ll ask you a question: Where’s your buddy Bledsoe? For some reason, you haven’t mentioned a word about him.”

“I’m worried about him.”

“Worry about yourself. That kid is a born brig rat.”

“I think I know how to get out of this, sir. I need you to help me.”

“You’re seventeen years old and you’ve got the magic solution? Does that strike you as a little vain?”

“The dead Mexican girl was Loren Nichols’s cousin.”

“So?”

“He knows who did it, but he’s scared. I want to talk to him. I’ll have to give him some assurances.”

“Why do you think a kid like Nichols is going to do anything for a kid like you?”

“I know what it’s like to be him.”

Jenks signaled the waiter. “Wrap up my sandwich and get my check, will you?”

AFTER WORK, I FOUND Loren Nichols’s number in the city directory. When I called, he picked up on the second ring.

“I need to talk. Can I come to your house?” I said.

“Broussard?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me over the phone.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Mommy and Daddy are standing close by?” he said.

“Don’t be disrespectful of my parents. I think Grady Harrelson killed your cousin. You want to pull your head out of your ass or not?”

“Come up to the Heights and say that.”

“Count on it,” I said, and hung up.

But I didn’t get to keep my word.

Chapter

16

IT STARTED WITH my mother. Some days she took off early from work and rode the bus to a clinic where she talked to a counselor. There she sometimes saw the effeminate and odd kid named Jimmy McDougal. Poor Jimmy. He was the butt of everyone’s jokes, homely and awkward and gullible if someone showed him a teaspoon of kindness. He was in the corner of the waiting room, his hands clenched between his thighs, his face downcast as though he had wet his pants. My mother sat beside him and placed her hand on his back. “What’s wrong, Jimmy? It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, the soles of his shoes tapping up and down. “I’m tops.”