Wild, Hard, Sweet | Page 6

solid at second. Charley saw him taking a hard throw, putting on the tag, getting out of the way. He'd look up at Charley with a little smile and whip the ball around the infield.
When he opened his eyes in the morning, he didn't know where he was. A semi went by outside, and he remembered the road outside and the Howard Johnson's. He took a long shower and washed his dirty underwear and socks, leaving them in the bathroom to dry. He counted his money, putting half with his driver's license in the pack. He hung the pack on a hook in the closet area. If he got mugged, he'd have something left.
He walked toward the center of the city. It was warmer than Maine--none of the fall chill that sets in at night. There were oak trees with gray-green moss hanging from the branches, lots of little parks and squares, old houses with wrought iron railings. He had breakfast in a busy place called Creary's.
'You want grits with that waffle?'
'Sure. What are grits?'
'Corn. Like a hot cereal, Honey. Put butter on 'em. Some folks use syrup.' The waffle was fine. It took a couple of mouthfuls to get used to the grits--creamy and gritty at the same time.
'Anything else for you, Handsome?'
'No, thanks. Grits are good.'
'Where you from?'
He paused. 'Up north.'
'No kidding.'
'Near Boston.'
'I only been far as New York.' She took his plate. 'Well, y'all come back and see us.'
Charley walked aimlessly along the street. Where was he from' He was going to need an answer. Maine was risky. If he said, New Hampshire--say, Portsmouth or Newburyport--somebody might know more about the place than he did. North of Boston, on the coast' He could hear the next question: where on the coast' He didn't want to use his home town. Maybe Portland' He knew Portland pretty well. If anyone pressed him about Portland, he could say he went to school in Orono, hadn't lived in the city for long. He actually had lived in Portland for a year. He'd visited his grandparents there often when he was little. Screw it. Charley Dunn from Portland.
He crossed an avenue and descended a steep alley to a riverfront walkway. Ice cream stores, tourist shops, and art galleries were just opening. A brother with a salt and pepper beard was sitting on a park bench, playing a sax. There was a red plastic bucket for tips by his feet, but he seemed to be playing for himself, repeating lines, listening for something. Two blondes pushed babies in strollers, side by side.
Charley went to the end of the walk and turned around. He was edgy about the cash in his pocket. He didn't look like someone who had a lot of money on him, but he'd feel better if he weren't carrying so much.
He climbed up from the river walk and found a store that sold travel gear. He bought a money pouch that he could carry inside his pants, tied around his waist or hanging from a belt loop. That should work.
He walked through a park and stopped to look at an elegant black cannon. It had a cast motto, Ultima Ratio Regnum. A plaque next to the cannon translated: The Last Reckoning of Kings. Louis XIV. Force. What it came down to. Nothing wrong with smoking a joint if you wanted. It was saying fuck you to the cops, that's what they couldn't handle. Probably why he did it, too. It was fun--until you got caught. Well, he wasn't caught yet. Harry was, but that was his problem. His family would probably get him off, somehow.
When Charley got back to the hotel, he put ten thousand in the travel pouch, leaving two thousand in the pack. He put the rest of the money in his wallet and walked back and forth in the room, getting used to the feel of the pouch. Better.
He lay down and let out a deep breath. He felt a pang of loneliness, but he pushed it into the hard place. There were things to figure out. Every dollar he spent was like a clock ticking. He liked Savannah. Its old buildings leaning toward the waterfront reminded him of Portland. It had style. But he wasn't sure he wanted to stay.
He wasn't tired enough to sleep, so he walked back into town. It was like summer. Lots of people on the streets, all going places. Students. Shoppers. Old people, moving slowly. A few groups of laughing girls, cheerleaders for sure. He wandered into a bar with high windows facing the street. A friendly crowd was watching a football game. Georgia'Alabama. It was Saturday, he realized.
Georgia had a hot quarterback throwing flat accurate passes all over the field. He was getting good protection. Nice to have a line,