Boys In Exile by Richard Duggin

Author:Richard Duggin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookLocker.com, Inc.
Published: 2022-06-30T00:00:00+00:00

18.

Finger Of Suspicion

Dickie Valentine

By eleven o’clock, it had turned into another hot day. The breezes that usually came off the lake had died, and the air was dead calm. You didn’t have to do much to sweat, even in the shade.

When Waite, Fowler and I returned to the cabin, several black flies were banging against the inside of the screen door, buzzing to be let out. One of them was huge, what I had heard called a bluebottle fly, almost big as a bumblebee. When I opened the door, however, they retreated deeper into the cabin.

Inside, we found Campanella getting out of his Sunday church clothes.

“Hey, he’s here!” Fowler greeted him as the three of us piled into the cabin, the screen door slamming shut like an exclamation behind us.

“What’s up?” Campanella said.

“We were just waiting for you mackerel snappers to get back from your ‘bless-me-father-holy-mother-of-god’ meeting.”

“You couldn’ta been waiting long,” Campanella said. “You had services, too.”

“We’ve been done an hour already,” Waite said.

“How’s come you’re done so early?” Campanella asked. He was folding a pair of dress slacks into a neat rectangular bundle to pack into his open footlocker.

“’Cause we don’t have to do all that kneeling and hail Mary stuff. And we don’t have to get all dressed up for it, either,” Fowler replied smugly.

Campanella faked a disapproving scowl. “That’s because you’re a bunch of heathens.”

“Oh, so you’re better?” Billy said.

“Better than you bums, I know that for certain,” Campanella said, a wisp of smile on his mouth. He packed his folded pants carefully into his footlocker and pulled out a fresh pair of khaki shorts. “You’re all going to burn in hell, you know.”

Waite said, “We’re going to play some scrub. Come on out with us.”

“Maybe later,” Campanella replied, shaking out his shorts and opening them up. “I’m gonna hang out here until lunch. I gotta write a letter home.”

“Why’re you gonna write home? What, you miss your mommy and daddy?” Fowler grinned at Billy and me to see if we were behind his jiving.

Campanella reddened. “I write home to let my folks know what I’m doing with their money.”

Waite said, “Well, I’d tell my folks to take a flying leap before they heard from me.” Then he spit—actually spit!—out of the corner of his mouth. The silver spray floated momentarily in its arc then dotted the wood floor. I was surprised once again by the abruptness of his mood shifts.

“Well, I ain’t you. I let mine know I appreciate being here,” Campanella said bluntly. “Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t let ’em know it.”

“This dump is a prison,” Billy said. “I’m not going to thank them for sending me to prison.”

Being around Billy Waite was like waiting for a snake to strike or a dog to suddenly snap at you. But, instead of fearing the unpredictable bite, my nerves became electrified in the new tension of waiting for it, like the wintry spark from a fingertip just before it touched your skin.

“Come on, Camp. Don’t be a fruit.

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