“I’d tell you to go to the cops if you’re accusing me of something,” Roof says. “But you already did that, didn’t you?” He turns back to his brother and his friends. “Wonder how that worked out for ol’ 109.”
“Little different tonight,” I say. “Nobody wearing masks and lots of witnesses. You want to take another shot at me, Roof, I’m right here.”
I know this is rolling out like a silly playground beef. But I don’t care. Or care that I’m poking the bear again. I’ve already gotten what I came over here for, because I can see the fear in Roof Crockett’s eyes as I’m still standing over him, probably looking as big to him as I ever have.
“Why not take your best shot with me looking at you?” I say, just loud enough for him and the others to hear. “I guess that’s what I’m asking.”
He doesn’t answer me right away.
Finally, he says, “Not tonight.”
“But soon.”
“Look forward to it,” he says.
“You sure?”
I reach toward him with my right hand now. This time he jerks back as if I just pulled a knife on him, his chair nearly going out from underneath him except the wall behind him stops it.
But all I do is reach down and pat him on the head, before turning around and walking back to the bar.
“Fuck you,” I hear Roof say from behind me.
“Good one,” I say over my shoulder.
Before I get to the bar, I see Taylor McCarter Webb standing just inside the front door. She shakes her head as she stares at me,obviously having seen what just went down, disappointment all over her face like I’ve just let her down.
When I walk over to her, because I can’t not, she says, “You promised.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, Silas,” she says. “Yeah, you did.”
Then she turns without another word and walks out of Rowdy’s. There’s nothing for me to do except let her go, knowing that she’s right the way she almost always is, at least about me, and feeling in that moment like the real meathead in the bar is me.
I’m back with Vince and Abby a few minutes later when I feel the buzz from my phone that means a text is coming in.
It’s from a number I don’t recognize.
But the message is clear.
Hope the next person gets hurt isn’t somebody
you care about
I look across the room at Roof’s table. His brother is still there. So are the three other guys.
Roof is gone.
FORTY-FOUR
I MEET UP with Burt Webb at Scobee’s the next morning, a little before eight and before he heads off to work.
Bess brings over two steaming mugs of coffee and leaves the pot.
Burt tells me, “I keep trying to make this town as safe as I still think it’s supposed to be. Which means the opposite of that stupid sign on the outskirts of town.”
Our usual skillet breakfast sandwiches—double over-easy egg and cheddar biscuit—are in front of both of us, along with a plate stacked with well-done bacon, Bess asking, “How in the world didthatget there?” as she walks away.
