“What ken we do you for, officer?”
Jim Tile stood at the counter eyeing a display of bootleg Mickey Mouse dolls. Each stuffed Mickey had a Confederate flag poking out of its paw. Jim Tile picked up one of the Mickeys and turned it over.
” ‘Made in Thailand,’ ” he read aloud.
Shawn Curl coughed nervously.
“Nine-fifty for one of these?” the trooper asked.
Shawn Curl said, “Not for you. For you, half-price.”
“A discount,” Jim Tile said.
“For all peace officers, yessir. That’s our standard discount.”
Jim Tile put the mouse doll back on the counter and said, “Does Disney know you’re selling this crap?”
Shawn Curl worked his jaw sideways. “Far as I know it’s all legal, officer.”
Jim Tile looked around the gift shop. “They could sue you for everything,” he said, “such as it is.”
“Hey, I ain’t dune nuthin’ nobody else ain’t dune.”
After scanning the shelves—cluttered with painted coconut heads, rubber alligators, chipped conch shells, bathtub sharks, and other made-for-Florida rubbish—Jim Tile’s disapproving brown eyes settled again on the bogus Mickey Mouse doll. “The Disney people,” he said, “they won’t go for this. That rebel flag is enough to get their lawyers all excited.”
Exasperated, Shawn Curl puffed out his cheeks. “Who sent you here, anyway?”
“I’m looking for young Thomas.”
“He ain’t here.”
The trooper said, “Tell me where I can find him.”
“S’pose you got a warrant.”
“What I got,” said Jim Tile, “is his uncle. By the balls.”
A family of tourists walked in, the kids darting underfoot while the mother eyed the merchandise uneasily. The father peered tentatively at the zoo grounds through a window behind the cash register. Jim Tile guessed they wouldn’t stay long. They didn’t. “Raccoons, that’s all,” the father had reported back to his wife. “We’ve got zillions of raccoons back in Michigan.”
When they were alone again, Jim Tile said, “Shawn, give me your nephew’s address in New Orleans. Right now.”
“I’ll give it to you,” Shawn Curl said, scribbling on the back of a postcard, “but he ain’t there.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Last time he come through he was on his way to Miami.”
“When was that?”
“Few days ago,” said Shawn Curl.
“Where’s he staying?”
“Some big hotel.”
“You’re a big help, Shawn. I guess I’ll have to call Disney headquarters after all.”
Shawn Curl didn’t like that word. Headquarters. In a sulky voice he said, “The hotel is the Grand Biscayne Something. I don’t remember the whole name.”
“Why was Thomas going down to Miami?”
“Business, he said.”
“What business is he in?”
Shawn Curl shrugged. “Promotion is what he calls it.”
Jim Tile said, “I couldn’t help but notice that big Oldsmobile out front, the blue Niney-Eight. It looks brand-new.”
Warily Shawn Curl looked at the trooper. “No, I had it awhile.”
“Still got the sticker in the window,” Jim Tile remarked, “and the paper license tag from the dealer.”
“So?”
“Did Thomas give you that new car?”
Shawn Curl drew a deep breath. What was the world coming to, that a nigger could talk to him like this? “Maybe he did give it to me,” Shawn Curl said. “There’s no law ‘ginst it.”
“No, there isn’t,” Jim Tile said. He thanked Shawn Curl for his time, and walked toward the door. “By the way,” the trooper said, “that lion’s humping one of your llamas.”
“Shit,” said Shawn Curl, scrambling to find his pitchfork.
The three boys went to the high-school basketball game but they didn’t stay long. Kyle, the one with the phony drivers license, had three six-packs in the trunk, along with his stepfather’s.22-caliber rifle. Jeff and Cole, both of whom were on the verge of flunking out anyway, cared even less about high-school basketball than Kyle. The game was just their excuse to get out of the house, something to tell the parents. The teenagers left before the first half was over. Kyle drove to the usual spot, a county dumpsite miles west of the city, and there they gulped down the six-packs while plinking bottles, soda cans, and the occasional hapless rat. Once the beer and ammunition were used up, there was only one thing left to do. Jeff and Cole called it “bum-bashing,” though it was Kyle, the biggest one, who claimed to have invented both the phrase and the sport. That’s what everyone at the high school said, anyway: It must have been Kyle’s idea.