Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter Read Online Free PDF Page A

head.
    Silas creaked back in his chair and folded his arms. “You ever know of him not being open during business hours?”
    “So what. He ain’t had a customer in I don’t know how long. Don’t matter if he’s in or not.”
    “Yeah, but that ain’t never stopped him from being there’s what I’m saying. Monday through Saturday, regular as clockwork. Don’t even take lunch usually.”
    “Guess who’s the detective now,” French said, reclining in the mayor’s chair. He stretched out his legs and adjusted his ankle holster with the opposite foot. “You ever see that other movie Alfred Hitchcock did, Voncille?”
    “Which one?”
    “ The Birds ?”
    “Long time ago.”
    “All them buzzards and crows this morning reminded me of it. Seen it at the drive-in, when we was younguns. After it was over my little brother says, ‘You know what? I wish that really would happen. With birds like that. Just going crazy. We could find us some football helmets and a bunch of guns and ammo and go on the road, just killing birds and saving people.’ ”
    Silas barely heard. He was thinking of how, not long after he’d returned to south Mississippi, Larry Ott had called and left him a message on his home phone.
    “Miss Voncille,” Silas said. “You went to Fulsom High, didn’t you? Did you know Larry Ott?”
    “Not really, hon,” she said. “Just of him. He was a few years behind me.”
    The CI winked at Silas. “You ever go out with him, Voncille?”
    “Just the once,” she said. “I was never heard from again.”
    French snorted. “We wish.”
    SILAS HAD BEEN driving north on Highway 11 for ten minutes before he realized he was heading toward Larry Ott’s garage. It was early afternoon, the rain gone at last, puddles steaming in the road, a spongy dog of some unidentifiable breed shaking water from its fur. He ought to be over on 7, watching for speeders, getting his quota for the week, make a little cash for the city kitty, but something was gnawing at him.
    Larry’s first phone call had been nearly two years ago. Silas didn’t use his landline much and had gone a couple of days without noticing the answering machine had been blinking.
    “Hello?” the voice said when he mashed the button. “Hello? I hope I got the right number. I’m looking for Silas Jones. If I got the wrong number I apologize.”
    He had stared at the phone. Nobody called him Silas anymore. Not since his mother died.
    “Silas?” the recording went on. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but this is Larry. Larry Ott? I’m sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to, um, talk. My number is 633-2046.” Silas made no move to copy it down as Larry cleared his throat. “I seen you was back,” he continued. “Thank you, Silas. Good night.”
    He’d never returned Larry’s call—if Larry had phoned him at Town Hall instead of home, he would’ve had to.
    But then, instead of taking the hint, Larry tried again. Eight-thirty, a Friday night, couple of weeks later, Silas had stopped in for a change of clothes, on his way to eat, a date with some girl. Before Angie. When the phone rang he picked up and said, “Yeah?”
    “Hello? Um, Silas?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Hey.”
    “Who’s this?”
    “It’s Larry. Ott. I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”
    “Yeah, I was just heading out.” The heat trickling from his chest. “What’s up?”
    Larry hesitated. “I just wanted to, you know, say welcome back. To the crooked letter.”
    “I gotta go,” Silas said and hung up. He’d sat on the bed for half an hour, the back of his shirt stuck to his skin, remembering him and Larry when they were boys, what Silas had done, how he’d beaten Larry when Larry said what he said.
    Silas felt clammy now as he drove. Since leaving he’d known Larry was ostracized, but it wasn’t until he’d returned to lower Mississippi that he heard everything that had happened.
    He rolled the Jeep up behind a log truck and slowed, the rag stapled to the