StoneDust by Justin Scott Read Free Book Online

patient guys, like Machiavelli, Sun-Tzu, and the inventor of the time bomb. “Hey, instead of private school, why not shut down the public school—temporarily—’til we balance the budget?”
    Steve’s customers smiled. Fond memories of snow days. “Hell, you’d win the kids’ vote, Steve.”
    â€œInteresting thought,” said Steve. “Weird, but interesting. Just might steal that from you, Ben.”
    â€œIn that case, I will have a bumper sticker.”
    I slapped it on a truck with Texas plates.
    ***
    Early that evening, I hit paydirt. Sort of.
    Recalling from somewhere that recovering alcoholics often have a sweet tooth, I stopped at Dr. Mead’s Ice Cream Drive In. The parking lot was crammed with Little Leaguers, coaches and parents lining up for postgame malts and sundaes.
    I got on line and, when things quieted down, bought a low-fat yogurt and asked Doc Mead himself if Reg had been by Saturday night. “The night he died.” I dropped my change in a tip cup marked: “For the kids’ college.”
    Mead scratched his shiny bald head.
    â€œYeah. I was probably the last friend to see him alive.”
    â€œWhat time?”
    â€œEleven. I was closing, but I pulled him a soft pistachio. Thank God. Can you imagine turning a customer away the night he dies?”
    â€œHow’d he seem?”
    â€œDown. Ordered a double in a cup with a cover. Then he ordered a cone and ate that while we talked a second. Inhaled it and split.”
    â€œWha’d you talk about?”
    â€œNothing, really. Weather. Late night. Glad he’d caught me open, said goodnight, and split.”
    â€œWas he drinking?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Didn’t smell it. He looked fine, just down.”
    â€œWhich way did he go?”
    â€œWhy, Ben?”
    â€œCurious. Which way?”
    â€œI really don’t remember. I was mopping the floor when he pulled out.”
    â€œToward Frenchtown?” I don’t know why I asked. He could have ended up in that bridge from either direction.
    â€œNo. He headed up toward the flagpole.”
    Pondering the five hours between a BLT and ice cream, I went to the Town Hall movie theater to take one last shot with Cindy Butler, the tax assessor’s clerk who doubled as a ticket taker. The last of the seven-o’clock crowd were hurrying in. Coming attractions were blaring in the dark. I waited in the lobby until Cindy had shut the doors.
    â€œDid you see Reg Saturday night?”
    Her eyes got big. “What Saturday? The night he died?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œ One Hundred and One Dalmatians ?—Besides, I’d remember, Ben. If I’d seen him that night…Maybe he went to the Fisks’ cookout.”
    Maybe I was too dumb to live.

Chapter 5
    I had my excuses: For one, blazer and necktie weren’t exactly cookout dress code; for another, I’d been at the cookout and I hadn’t seen him. Though I had left early, hoping to get a call from Rita Long, who I had thought might have come up from New York for the weekend.
    Still, I should have thought about it on my own.
    Reg Hopkins and Duane Fisk had been best friends since kindergarten. They’d built their businesses side by side, pooled their profits and made a bunch of fast money together, back in flush times when new houses and mini-malls were sprouting like jewelweed in July. Their summer deep-sea fishing trip had been an annual rite—boys only, no wives and kiddies. Same as their Montana elk hunt, from which they would return, usually elkless, with half-grown beards their women would make them shave.
    I went home, denuded my fledgling basil crop to make a pesto, and, when dinner hour was over, telephoned the Fisks. Michelle answered.
    â€œHi, it’s Ben with a belated thank you. Great cookout.”
    â€œOh, I’m glad. When you left early I thought maybe you