Go With Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

knew,” said Coop. “Can’t recall. Susie?”
    “Sally?” said D.B.
    “Lillian,” said Whizzer. “Her name is Lillian. And that ain’t either what Blackway wants with her.”
    “What, then?” Conrad asked.
    “To teach her a lesson,” said Whizzer.
    “What lesson?” Conrad asked him. “Why?”
    “Because she got him fired,” said Whizzer.
    “Fouled up his game,” said Coop.
    “What game?” Conrad asked.
    Conrad was married to Whizzer’s younger sister. He was a smart man, but he was a man who didn’t know the ground. He didn’t know the ground, and he thought you could learn the ground by asking questions. A man of questions, a man from away. “What game?” Conrad asked.
    “That thing with the dope,” Coop said.
    “What dope?” Conrad asked.
    “That thing with Russell’s kid,” said Whizzer.
    “What kid?” Conrad asked.

4
     
    BLACKWAY’S VISIT
     
    “What a bunch of clowns,” said Lillian.
    “Can’t hear you,” said Lester.
    They were bouncing around in Nate’s truck on their way to Fitzgerald’s. The motor roared, and the gears screamed, and the tailgate, which was wired shut, rattled and banged.
    “I said, what a bunch of clowns.”
    “Who?”
    Nate drove, with Lester on the outside and Lillian in the middle, between them.
    “Back there,” said Lillian.
    “You mean Whizzer and them?”
    “Idiots.”
    “They ain’t idiots,” said Lester.
    “What would you call them?” asked Lillian.
    “I wouldn’t call them idiots,” said Lester. “Not exactly.”
    “No?” said Lillian. “What are they, then? What do they do in there?”
    “They get the news. Keep track of things.”
    “No, they don’t. Look, I know all about them. Guys like that. You think I don’t? I do. I know them too well. I know everything about them. They do nothing. They sit there. All day, every day, they sit in there. That’s what they do: nothing.”
    “They talk things over,” said Lester.
    “They talk, all right,” said Lillian. “You’re right about that. They talk. They talk to themselves. If you knew how sick I am of talk.”
    “Everybody talks,” said Lester.
    “Not like them. Clowns. Nine o’clock in the morning? I bet they were half in the bag — all of them.”
    “You mean drunk?”
    “Something,” said Lillian. “They weren’t stoned. They’re too old. But they were doing something. They had to be. Listen to them. They sound like a flock of chickens, the way they talk. Nobody who isn’t doing something talks like that.”
    “Like what?” asked Lester.
    Fitzgerald lived a few miles out of town in a big house that had a view of the mountains to the west, which, as the fog broke up, showed themselves in the morning sunlight, far off, a pale blue limit. Fitzgerald had had the place built ten years before, out of redwood, shingles, stone, and glass. He’d had it built low, all on one floor, like a new house ought to be. He’d spent a lot of money. Fitzgerald did pretty well. He was the biggest logger in that part of the state, he had a couple of dozen men working for him. Maybe he wasn’t a genius, but he was honest and fair, he’d been lucky and he’d worked hard, and he’d done pretty well for himself. Until now.
    They found the house shut up tight with the blinds down and no lights showing.
    “Nobody’s here,” said Lillian.
    “Don’t look as though there is, does it?” Lester said.
    He got down from the truck and went to the front door. He tried the knob and found the door locked. He rang the bell. No response. Inside the house, a dog began to bark, not a big dog, by the sound, but a little, yapping dog. Lester began knocking on the door, and as he did he began calling, “Fred? Fred? Come on, Fred.”
    The door opened a foot and Fitzgerald peered out. He looked like hell: no shave, skin gray, eyes red, clothes slept-in, breath like an empty bottle in which a mouse has died.
    “Les?” said Fitzgerald.
    “Morning,” Lester said. “We see you for a