The Concrete Pearl by Vincent Zandri Read Free Book Online Page B

there I drove west into farm country, following Rural Route 84 all the way out until I spotted the lake though the trees on the left and eventually the stream that fed it: the Desolation Kill. I drove the Jeep fast over winding, hilly country roads, not worrying about speed, only about trying to find Farrell before my absence from the PS 20 jobsite became more conspicuous than it already had to be.
    Motoring around the pine-treed perimeter of the lake, I came to the bridge.
    I recognized the short metal-span bridge as the same one my grandfather took me to back when I was a little girl. I took it slow over the bridge until I cut the wheel to the left, cruising onto a wide section of gravel-soft shoulder that had been cut out of the thick second-growth woods. I put the Jeep in park and  killed the ignition.
    Looking up, I took immediate notice of a sign that had been nailed to the trunk of an old oak tree, the words “Public Fishing Access Area” engraved on it. It also displayed the hours of regulation fishing: 7 A.M. to 7 P.M. Below that in smaller script were the words “No Parking After Hours. Vehicles Towed at Owner’s Expense: $75.00.” Obviously Greenfield was concerned about providing its teenage lovers with a secluded place to suck face.
    Also displayed on the sign was the name and phone number of the towing company: Dott’s Garage.
    I opened my briefcase, pulled out a yellow estimating pad, jotted down the number in one of the slots normally reserved for a construction item. Naturally I had my doubts that Farrell had come here at all. But if he had come here, was it possible his car had been towed from this very spot? And if it had been towed, why had he abandoned it in the first place?
    I set the estimating pad back down on top of the briefcase, opened the door, slipped on out of the Jeep. Immediately I was struck by the smell of pine trees. The sweet scent transported me back to my childhood. So did the stream rushing over the rocks under the bridge, the iron structure forming a kind of echo chamber that amplified the sound.
    I pictured Farrell standing in the gravel lot, dressed in overpriced Orvis waders and vest, fly rod in hand. I saw him trekking the short path down to the stream. But then that was stupid. If he had come here, his pockets bulging with mine and the school’s money, it hadn’t been to fish. That much I could be sure about.
    I followed the path. Its dusty gravel floor was stamped with footprints from the dozens of fishermen and women who’d come and gone since the fishing season began back in the early spring. I came upon the stream and its strong-flowing, metallic-smelling water.
    I took a look around at the spent cigarette butts that littered the bank along with an empty beer can. Tossed in the mix was a used condom. Just looking at it made my stomach turn. Not far away from that: an empty can of Skoll chewing tobacco.
    It pained me to see the litter. Made me downright angry to see the filth scattered about the same pristine stream bank where I used to share a picnic lunch with my grandfather. Turning, I started back up the embankment towards the parking area. I didn’t get three steps before it hit me.
    Skoll tobacco.
    Farrell might have been one hell of a gifted dumb jock back in high school. But I knew from experience that he did harbor one very bad habit that I found particularly repulsive. He chewed tobacco. He had chewed it back in high school and he chewed it now when making the rare visit to the PS 20 jobsite.
    Reversing, I trekked back down the embankment to the stream bank. Careful not to step on the used condom, I stared down at the chewing tobacco container. Had it belonged to Farrell? Was it proof that he had truly been here?
    I bent down, picked up the tin, opened the lid. It was empty. I stuck my nose inside, inhaled the sick, rich tobacco smell. It was a smell I associated with Farrell; with his breath and his mouth.
    A mouth I once kissed.
    I wasn’t sure what good