Something Bad Read Free

the other two, his flannel shirt rolled up to show huge forearms, the left bearing the words, “Semper Fi” in the faded blue of a Viet Nam era tatoo.
    Gabe parked to the side opposite “John’s” bench and tried his best to hurry into the store with a nod.
    Billy Smyth leaned forward and swiveled on the bench. He flipped his head to the left sending a cascade of straight blond hair toward his ear. It fell back over his left eye. “Gabe. Where you going in such a hurry? Come and sit awhile. John was just telling us about—”
    “Billy.” John’s booming voice vibrated the corrugated metal roof over the porch. The crimson flush of John’s face extended to the top of his bald head, highlighted by the horseshoe of grey-silver hair that connected his ears.
    Gabe rolled his eyes. Not another one of John’s schemes.
    “Come and sit,” Press Cunningham said. “Maybe you can get John off his high horse.”
    John scowled at Press.
    Gabe suppressed a chuckle. He loved to watch Press mess with John. Of John’s three cohorts—Billy, Press, and Mac McKenna—Press was the only one John didn’t try to bully, and Gabe enjoyed it more than Press did.
    It wasn’t a secret why John left Press alone. John’s full name was John J. Johnson, and only one person outside of John’s family knew what the “J” stood for. That was Press.
    Gabe shook his head. Secrets were like a narcotic to residents of the Tri-counties. The lifespan of most was short as the locals had snooping and prying down to a science. But none was as long-lived and protected as John’s middle name. John became furious whenever it was mentioned, and Press resisted all attempts to draw out the information.
    Gabe thought of how he loved the way life played out in the Tri-counties. It was predictable, but with its share of local intrigue. There was order and understanding, with few surprises. It was no wonder he felt so comfortable here.
    Gabe’s mind came back to the porch. “I can’t hang around. I only have a few minutes.” He remained standing. “What’s up?”
    Press smoothed the bib on his overalls. They always looked like they were dry cleaned instead of washed and hung out. “You have to hear John’s latest,” Press said. Like John, he was in his mid-fifties, but his clothing hung on him the same as in his youth when he earned the nickname, “No-ass Cunningham.”
    “Shut up, Press,” John said.
    Gabe rolled his eyes again. He didn’t want to hear John’s latest, or earliest, or middle for that matter. It was bad enough he horned in on their card games, but every time Billy or Press started to tell a good story that involved John, John would shut them up.
    Press blew a noisy exhalation and looked up at Gabe. “Heard you had quite a time after the game.”
    Gabe smiled. He didn’t want to open up the conversation to John’s ridicule. “Did just fine. Had a bit of a headache, though.”
    “You hear about Horace Murtry?” Billy said.
    “Shut… up,” John said.
    Gabe bounded two steps closer. “No. What happened?”
    Billy looked at John and slumped against the bench back.
    “Disappeared again, for two days,” Press said. “The way I heard it, he came back smelling like whiskey and women’s perfume, and I ain’t talking about the store bought kind of either.”
    John stood up and stomped to the edge of the porch, then turned to face Press. He bobbed his head downward and clenched his fists.
    Gabe’s mind accelerated. What was Horace up to? Another of his schemes to frustrate his wife? He shook his head and scanned the group. “Is Miz Murtry doing anything about it?”
    “No.” John said. He took a step closer to the bench and positioned himself between Press and Gabe.
    The roar of an engine increased in pitch at a rate that suggested an unusual speed for Main Street, and all four men turned their heads to watch a U-Haul whip by. It stirred up a small cloud of the same dust that had been stirring and settling in the town of