Surfing the Gnarl Read Free

this,” said Danny, pulling a folded up newspaper from his hip pocket. He hawked some spit on to the ground, then read, more mellifluously than one might have expected. Danny had gone to C. T. Piggott High School the same as Jack and Tonel; he’d been a senior when they’d been freshmen. But he’d been expelled before his graduation.
    â€œFalwell County’s most notorious computer criminal is temporarily lodged in the Casa Linda Motel on Highway 501 southeast of Killeville, next to a tattoo parlor and a liquor store that rents adult videos,” read Danny. “His neighbors include a few parolees and at least one registered sex offender. His second-floor room in the thirty-four-unit motel overlooks the parking lot of a strip club.”
    â€œPunkin-head Chesney,” said Tonel. “We just seen him. He and Gretchen goin’ to church.”
    â€œGretchen?” parroted Danny, as if unwilling or unable to understand. He was intent on his presentation. “Do you dogs grasp why I read you the news item?”
    â€œBecause you’re spun,” said Jack, laughing.
    â€Give me a piece of that gum.”
    â€œThree dollars,” said Danny, reaching into shirt pocket. “Casa Linda is my crib. The county thinks they can just dump any old trash on my doorstep. I been planning to write a letter to the paper. But—”
    â€œWho’s the sex offender, Dank-man?” interrupted Tonel.
    Danny looked embarrassed and chewed his gum in silence. The sex offender living at the Casa Linda was Danny. He’d been expelled from Piggott High for putting a Web cam into the girls’ locker room. One of the girls who’d been showering there was frosh Lucy Candler, the pluperfect cheer daughter of Judge Bowen Candler and his wife Burke. The Judge had thrown the book at Danny. Racketeering and child pornography. Even though, Danny being Danny, the Web site hadn’t worked.
    â€œHere’s three bucks,” said Jack, pulling the singles out of his wallet. “This is my last night in town, Danny. Disable me, dog.”
    â€œI’m on the boat,” said Tonel, getting out his own wallet.
    â€œI’m up for a power run,” said Danny, taking the money and fishing out two sticks of gum. “But Les Trucklee says I gotta be here at dawn for the barbeque. All I do in that kitchen is, like, fry frozen fries for freezing. I can’t hack no more of that today. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. You dogs got any booze?”
    â€œWe know where there’s a lot of bourbon,” said Jack, impishly curious to see what might happen if he encouraged Danny. “Right, Tonel?” Ragland had fiercely enjoined the caddies to keep mum about the mibracc’s lockers, but tonight of all nights, Jack could afford to be reckless. “Youget Ragland to chasing you, Tonel,” continued Jack. “And I’ll scoop into Mr. Cuthbert’s stash.” Anything was better than going home.
    â€œWhat stash?” asked Danny.
    So he told Danny, and they talked it over a little more as the light faded, in no rush to actually do anything yet, the three of them chewing their Winnipeg Wheelchair. They strolled into the patch of rough between the first tee and the eighteenth green. There was a grassy dell in among the trees where they could stretch out without anyone coming along to boss them.
    â€œDanny!”
    It was the voice of Les Trucklee, the personnel manager. The boys could see him standing on the floodlit terrace next to the barbeque wagon. He wasn’t a bad guy—he’d hired Danny despite his record. Les Trucklee was gay, not too bright, in his thirties, a wannabe yuppie, with thinning blond hair in a comb-over. He had very large ears and a fruity voice.
    â€œOh, Danny!” repeated Trucklee, peering out into the night. “I need you. I know you’re out there! I hear your voice. You’re making things hard, Danny.”
    Jack