Between Wrecks Read Online Free PDF

stockbroker, you know. Been with Edward Jones for sixteen years. Company didn’t like what I was doing, letting my clients get all rich and all. They said that the last thing a brokerage firm needs is people making so much money that they can afford to buy a computer and start trading online, you know. I wouldn’t toe the company line. No, sir. They’d tell me to push Putnam Voyager mutual funds, or Doubleclick, and to not let anyone buy a stock under four dollars a share. Let me just say that I got people into Amazon and Google when they went public going for nothing.” Gus cleared his throat and didn’t make eye contact with anyone.
    Mal looked past Prison Tat Pat at the red light on his camcorder. He brushed hair out of his face. He said, “I work for Home Depot. I get stock options, but I don’t trust the market.”
    â€œHe won $250,000 dollars playing one them scratch cards,” Gus said. “Now he’s got a house that’s worth eighty grand on the outside, and about two hundred grand on the inside.”
    Prison Tat Pat didn’t respond. He said, “So I lost my job—and I used to be the stockbroker for the likes of Sheb Wooley and Porter Wagoner and Boxcar Willie, you know—and Emma left me, and I decided that I was going to do what I’ve always wanted to do. I sold my house, bought an RV, and am on my way to Myrtle Beach. I tattooed myself on the right hand, but I can’t decide on what I want to do with the left. Maybe I’ll print out B-R-I-C-K. Or S-O-L-I-D. Or C-O-I-N. Not only am I going to prove that I can keep up a conversation with normal people, but I’m going to prove I have a dangerous side to me. Emma said she thought I was too safe, too absorbed. So here we are.” He turned to Gus and said, “If you got moonshine, then I’d like to buy some moonshine. If you don’t, then I guess I’ll take a Miller Lite.”
    Windshield got up off his stool and looked down at the river. He said, “Is that your Winnebago nose down in the river? That ain’t safe.”
    Prison Tat Pat hadn’t used the parking brake. He said, “I would cuss, but I don’t want it on camera.”
    Mal Mardis’s cell phone began to ring in his left side pants pocket. It came out James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” Brenda was always changing his ringer tone, as a joke. He spent a month showing people plants at work while his pants rang out “Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme” before he figured out what his wife was doing.
    Mal pulled his phone out and read “Brenda” on the readout. It kept ringing. He shrugged, looked at Gus, and answered. He said, “Man, you won’t believe what happened down here. I went down to the One-Hour Photo place—they’re closed because the UPS guy didn’t bring the right chemicals or something—so I stopped by Gus’s place to ask if he knew another photo shop, and this guy walked in saying he’s the reason why Merle Haggard and George Jones have so much money, and the next thing you know his RV’s in the river. You wouldn’t believe it!”
    Brenda listened. She said, “I just realized that I don’t have enough grout. I need more grout. Now, sometimes they don’t have it marked right, so I want you to go into Lowe’s and open up the ten-pound bag of Keracolor Gray. It’s supposed to be something called ‘Gris Gray.’ But I opened up some Gris Gray that ended up being red. Originally I thought about using red, but I looked at it and didn’t like it. They got some kind of grout they call Rouge Red, but I don’t want that. I want Gris Gray. I need one more ten-pound bag of Gris Gray.”
    Mal held the phone away from his head. Down on the riverbank, Prison Tat Pat and Windshield looked at the Winnebago. Brenda didn’t seem upset that he was in the bar already. He said, “I’ll get right