Wild, Hard, Sweet

Wild, Hard, Sweet

John Moncure Wetterau

Copyright ? 2007 by John Moncure Wetterau.
?
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is free to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved verbatim and is attributed to the author. To view this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to:
?
Creative Commons
559 Nathan Abbott Way
Stanford, California 94305, USA.
?
Published by:
Fox Print Books
200 Seashore Ave
Portland, ME 04108
[email protected]

Acknowledgements:

This book is for all of you in Standard Baking, Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, Sophie's Bakery, Coffee by Design, and the Public Market in Portland, Maine, and, on the Big Island: at the Kohala Diner, Tropical Dreams, and especially Suzanne and Nick at the Nanbu Courtyard. Your smiles have been my grants. Mahalo.

For w.cat

There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
Francis Bacon

1

'Twenty-six thousand,' Harry said. 'Gotta spend it to make it.' He stretched yellow bands around two stacks of bills and laid one stack on the seat next to Charley. 'Give them half before I check the load. Calms them down.' He looked at his watch. 'High tide. Getting dark. Perfect.'
'Won't be any diggers around,' Charley said, slowing the truck and easing over a slab of ledge rock. There was just enough room to turn around under a stand of pines. He shut off the engine, shoved the money into his back pocket, and got out. Brunswick jumped to the ground, sniffed a few trees, marked one, and trotted onto the decaying dock.
'So far, so good,' Charley said.
Harry leaned against the truck. 'Easy money for you, my man. After you unload, don't be hanging around. In and out.'
'Back in time for breakfast,' Charley said. Blueberry pancakes, a fine thought.
'Take a little weed for yourself--recreational--not enough to go into business.'
'Couple of bales should do it,' Charley said. Harry got in your hair like a deerfly; you had to keep brushing him away.
Brunswick stiffened, looking toward the mouth of the cove. The sound of a diesel carried in on the evening sea breeze and became more distinct. A fishing boat rounded the point and felt its way slowly up the channel, dark against the silvery water.
Harry aimed a flashlight and signaled three times. Three answering flashes came from the wheelhouse. Harry blinked his light three times again and waved. A man on the stern waved back. Charley went down to the water to take a line.
A blinding light came from the wrong direction. 'FREEZE! You're under arrest! Hold it right there!' Brunswick charged, barking. 'GET DOWN, Goddamnit!'
Charley dove for the water, heard shots, more yelling. He swam underwater as far as he could, took a quick breath, and went under again, heading for an outcrop of spruce. A powerful engine surged into the cove, trapping the delivery boat.
Charley stayed close to shore, surfacing only for air. It was almost dark. He had a chance if they didn't have dogs. Brunswick probably would have sensed dogs. They must have come earlier, through the woods from the head of the cove.
The shouting stopped. They were listening for him. Harry was caught. The boat guys were caught. If he came ashore where he was, they'd hear him. He had to get farther down the shore before they came after him in the boat. He swam silently underwater. The tide was beginning to run, helping him. He made another two hundred yards before the big engine revved. He came out of the water on his hands and knees and crawled into the underbrush as quickly as he could.
The boat passed by, shining a powerful light on the water and shore. They weren't going to get him in the dark without dogs. He had until morning.
If they knew about the buy, they might know about him. Someone local could have recognized him. No going home. Shit. Ginny. They'd be after her, too. Better stay away. Harry's money was still in his pocket, a soggy block. They'd send him to Thomaston for years, probably. No way. It was either run for it now or lie low and run later. Sometimes you had to be patient. Let the game come to you, he could hear his coach saying.
He moved quietly away from the cove, waving off mosquitoes. His shirt began to dry, but his jeans were wet and heavy. Rafer's house was four miles down the main road. He could wait in the woods until Rafer went to work and then maybe borrow some stuff.
An hour later he emerged from the trees and started walking on the road, ready to run back into the woods. It didn't feel right. The cops might be waiting with their lights off; they knew he was somewhere close. He decided to stay hidden and wait for first light. He curled up under a pine