Earl blew out some smoke, nodded. "I got a bed upstairs, and a TV. And I keep the fridge stocked. I even manage to do a little bit of entertaining." He gave me a sly grin, and a nod of his head toward an empty wine bottle and two dirty wineglasses over on the counter by the sink. "But I've kept the decorating to a minimum. Someone else owns the place, some Asian businessmen, I do the gardening, no one's the wiser."
I guess, without realizing it, I had been staring at the gun while Earl talked. He said, "You can't be too careful, this line of work. Sometimes your Asian businessmen get in a disagreement with your Russian businessmen, you don't want to get caught in the middle without a little reinforcement. But you have to understand, that would be a very rare occurrence."
I nodded toward the gun. "Is that thing registered?"
Earl sighed. "Zack, were you a hall monitor in school? Were you the kid the teacher got to keep an eye on the classroom when he had to go down to the office?"
I didn't say anything.
"I knew it," Earl said, draining his beer bottle. "You mind grabbing me another beer out of the fridge?"
I obliged. A powerful rotting smell hit me as I opened it. "Shit, Earl, I think you might want to clean this out." I looked in the vegetable hamper, where some celery was liquefying.
"I got no sense of smell," Earl said, tapping his nose. "I can't even smell these smokes, but I'm hooked on them just the same."
I handed him his beer and he twisted off the cap. "All those lights downstairs," I said. "Your electric bill must be through the roof."
"I bypass the meter," Earl said. "I'm handy."
I took another swig from my bottle. It was covered with moisture, the label was starting to peel. For a long time I said nothing, then finally, "I keep thinking about Paul and Angie."
Earl said nothing, but he watched me closely.
"You talk about pressures. I think of the pressure my kids are under. More than you or I were under back when we were in school. And it's a lot easier to succumb when the thing they're giving in to is so readily available, when it's being processed right across the street from where they live."
Earl nodded thoughtfully. "I appreciate what you're saying. I would never give anything, I swear to God, to your kids."
"But the people you do give it to may end up giving it to my kids."
Earl ground out his butt in a metal ashtray and lit up another smoke. "I don't know what to say. I'm not expecting the Nobel Prize or anything."
"Does Paul know what you're doing here?"
Earl shook his head. "No, he's never been down there. I've made sure of that. Of course, he knocks first." Ouch. "I just help him with his questions about plants and flowers, what needs shade, that's all. He's a good kid."
I had a sip of my beer. "So how'd you get into this line of work?"
"Pays good. No taxes. I need the money. I can make a lot, and I can make it fast. What can I say? I'm not the sort of guy who'd do well at an insurance company or a bank."
I put my head in my hand, rubbed my forehead. Sweat collected in my palm. I could feel a major headache coming on. Maybe it was the humidity. "I don't remember this kind of thing happening when we lived on Crandall."
"You were on Crandall?" Earl asked. "Nice street, nice houses. There was that little fruit place at the bottom of the street."
I put down my hand, took one last drink, and looked Earl in the eye. "I won't do anything. Not right away, anyway. And if I do, I'll give you some warning. But in the meantime, maybe you should think about some other way to make a living. And please, don't come around our place carrying that." I pointed to the gun.
Earl put up his hands, cigarette smoke trailing from his right one, like he was under arrest. "Never." Slowly, he lowered his hands.
"Let me tell you a story," he said. "A guy used to be a cigarette smuggler, took cartons by boat from the U. S., across Lake Ontario, when Ottawa was taxing the shit out of tobacco. He'd bring them to the Indian reserve, up near the Thousand Islands. I'd pick up a carton from him now and then, what he didn't turn over to the Indians. Anyway, he made a lot of money this way, and it was illegal, no question about it, the customs people wanted him, the cops wanted him. So one night, he's going across with a couple of other guys, and suddenly there's this other boat, you know? With the searchlight, and someone on a megaphone telling them to stop? The other guys, they throttle up, figure if they can get back past the midpoint of the lake, they can't touch them, right? And the customs boat comes up alongside, and this guy's buddies, they ram the boat, and one of the feds, he goes right off the bow, into the drink, but he's not splashing around, like maybe he hit his head or something? And my friend, he sees this guy, looking like maybe he's going to go under, and he dives in. His buddies on the boat, they think he's fucking lost his mind, this is their chance to get away, while the other customs guys try to find him, but my friend, he can't do that. He figures there's no time to waste, and he gets this guy, grabs hold of him, screams for the feds so they'll get a light on him and pull them both in."
I didn't say anything.
"So, anyway, my friend got charged, of course. But he saved that asshole's life. All I'm saying is, there's good in everybody."
I stood up to leave. "I hear you, Earl. Thanks for the beer."