“Yes. I do mind.”
“I understand. It’s a filthy habit.”
From an inner coat pocket, Cottle produced a pint of Seagram’s and unscrewed the cap. His bony hands trembled. He didn’t ask if it was all right to drink. He just took a swig.
Apparently, he had sufficient control of his nicotine jones to be polite about it. The hooch, on the other hand, told him when he needed it, and he could not disobey its liquid voice.
Billy suspected that other pints were tucked in other pockets, plus cigarettes and matches, and possibly a couple of hand-rolled joints. This explained why a suit in summer heat: It was not only clothing but also a portmanteau for his various vices.
The booze didn’t heighten the color of his face. His skin was already dark from much sun and red from an intricate web of burst capillaries.
“How far did you walk?” Billy asked.
“Only from the junction. I hitched a ride that far.” Billy must have looked skeptical, for Cottle added, “A lot of people know me around these parts. They know I’m harmless, unkempt but not dirty.”
Indeed, his blond hair looked clean, though uncombed. He had shaved, too, his leathery face tough enough to resist nicking even with the razor wielded by such an unsteady hand.
His age was difficult to determine. He might have been forty or sixty, but not thirty or seventy.
“He’s a very bad man, Mr. Wiles.”
94
“Who?”
“The one who sent me.”
“You’re his associate.”
“No more than I’m a monkey.”
“Associate—that’s what he called you.”
“Do I look like a monkey, either?”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“What’s he look like?”
“I haven’t seen his face. I hope I never do.”
“A ski mask?” Billy guessed.
“Yes, sir. And eyes looking out of it cold as snake eyes.” His voice quavered in sympathy with his hands, and he tipped the bottle to his mouth again.
“What color were his eyes?” Billy asked.
“They looked yellow as egg yolks to me, but that was just the lamplight in them.”
Remembering the encounter in the church parking lot, Billy said, “There was too little light for me to see color… just a hot shine.”
“I’m not such a bad man, Mr. Wiles. Not like him. What I am is weak.”
“Why’ve you come here?”
“Money, for one thing. He paid me one hundred forty dollars, all in tendollar bills.”
“One-forty? What—did you bargain him up from a hundred?”
“No, sir. That’s the precise sum he offered. He said it’s ten dollars for each year of your innocence, Mr. Wiles.”
In silence, Billy stared at him.
Ralph Cottle’s eyes might once have been a vibrant blue. Maybe all the alcohol had faded them, for they were the palest blue eyes that Billy had ever seen, the faint blue of the sky at high altitude where there is too little atmosphere to provide rich color and where the void beyond is barely concealed.
95
After a moment, Cottle broke eye contact, looked out at the yard, the trees, the road.
“Do you know what that means?” Billy asked. “My fourteen years of innocence?”
“No, sir. And it’s none of my business. He just wanted me to make a point of telling you that.”
“You said money was one thing. What was the other?”
“He’d kill me if I didn’t come see you.”
“That’s what he threatened to do?”
“He doesn’t make threats, Mr. Wiles.”
“Sounds like one.”
