inside.
Soon, we were right behind the Boy Scout lot. When we reached the chicken wire, Arthur stretched it back so that there was enough room to squeeze through.
He did, and I followed.
He army-crawled on his elbows, with me copying him, to the back of the men’s porta-potty. My nose twitched at the acrid smell of chemicals from inside it. (I hoped that was all I was smelling.)
Arthur turned and whispered, “Start digging.”
He showed me what he meant. He dug into the sand with a cupped hand and pulled out as much of the sandy dirt as he could. I did the same thing on my side. We worked steadily for about five minutes, carving out a sizable hole beneath the back of the big green coffin-like box.
When Arthur was satisfied that we had dug enough, he slapped at my shoulder. He started back, army- crawling along the same path, so I did, too. We squeezed through the chicken wire and moved, quickly and stealthily, back to our hotel room door. Neither of us made a sound.
The next morning at eight, I stuffed my notebook in my pocket and followed Jimmy and Arthur to the lot. Jimmy rapped on the window of the truck to wake Warren. He handed Warren a huge cup of coffee.
Arthur and I drifted over to the tree pen. I did a quick count and established that thirty-four trees remained, meaning we had sold sixteen. (It had seemed like more.)
The first sign of life at the Scouts’ lot was the arrival of the Scout master’s SUV. He got out and entered their tree pen. He was holding a huge cup of coffee, too. Arthur and I watched him on and off for about ten minutes. Suddenly Arthur emitted a short, sharp
My eyes focused in on him like binoculars. My heart started to pound. I whispered to myself, “Please. Please do it. Do it.”
And he did.
The big man opened the door of the green box and stepped inside. Just a few seconds later, just long enough for him to pull down his shorts and sit, the green box started to move. It was a slight tipping move at first. We heard a muffled cry, and then the whole thing tilted back crazily.
The cry turned into a yell as the big green box crashed backward down the hill, making a cracking and then a sloshing sound.
Arthur and I both doubled over, laughing hysterically, until we couldn’t breathe. It took a full minute for us to recover enough to look up again. By then the Scout master, his shorts pulled most of the way back up, had pushed up the coffin lid of the porta-potty. He struggled to climb over one side, turning enough to show us a very wet, very suspicious-looking stain on the back of his decorated shirt.
He half crawled up the sandy hill to our side. His face was bright red. He looked right past us and screamed at Warren, “You’ll pay for this!”
Then he turned and stomped away. That stain on his back was suspicious, all right.
Warren watched him go, looking very confused. He motioned for Arthur to come over to the truck, so I followed. “What’s going on? Why’s he yelling?”
Arthur smiled at me. He told Warren, “Uh, I think he had a problem using the rest room facilities.”
“What?”
“I’m thinking it was all those medals on his shirt. You know? Weighing him down?”
“Arthur? What the hell are you talking about?”
Arthur’s smile faded. He tried to explain. “We did the porta-potty.”
Warren’s voice was all business. “What does that mean?”
“We rigged it so the next guy in it would fall over.”
Warren and Jimmy looked over at the toppled green box. Arthur added, “It was payback for last year. For the air horn. We got them back good!”
Arthur tried smiling again, but they were definitely not smiling back.
Warren snapped at him, “Damn it, Arthur! Why did you do that?”
“Like I said—payback, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Warren looked around like he was frightened. He turned toward the hotel room and then toward the truck.
Arthur’s face fell. He whispered in an agonized voice, “Oh no, Warren. You’re holdin’?”
“Shut up.”
Warren turned away. He was soon huddled with Jimmy, whispering.
I asked Arthur, “What? What’s going on?”
“Damn. We should not have done that, cuz. Things are different this year. Warren’s holdin’.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s got drugs on him.”
“What? Where?”
“In the truck. In the room. Both? I don’t know.”
A sheriff’s car arrived before Warren and Jimmy could even formulate a plan. A skinny young guy got out and approached quickly, freezing us all in our places. He stopped when a squawking noise came out of the speaker on his shoulder. He responded to the voice and then just stood still, surveying the scene. The woman deputy from the day before pulled in a minute later.
She walked right up to Warren and informed him, “If what I just heard is right, Mr. Giles, you are looking at a charge of criminal mischief.”
Warren said, “I don’t know what you heard.”
“I thought we had an understanding yesterday. I guess I was wrong.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The woman deputy scrutinized Warren carefully, especially his eyes. She nodded briefly. Then she pointed back toward the parking area. “Do you mind if I look in your truck?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
Warren replied politely but firmly, “There’s no
“I got a police dog. He won’t have to go into that truck. He’ll know from out here what’s in it. Do I call for him or not?”
Warren shrugged. “Go ahead and call. I like dogs.”
I could see that the deputy didn’t really want to. She tried again. “I’m just doing my job here, sir. How about some cooperation.”
“I’m doing my job, too, Officer, which is selling Christmas trees, on this lot that I paid good money for. I’ve done nothing wrong, so let me get to work.”
“That’s your final word?”
Warren answered, “That’s my final word.” He walked back and stood with us.
Arthur hung his head and turned away. I think he was crying. The deputy got on her shoulder speaker, and soon a third patrol car pulled in. An officer got out, along with a big German shepherd.
By now about a dozen Scouts and their parents had arrived and were hanging out along the wire fence.
Then something so bizarre, so totally impossible, happened, that I just stood there with my mouth open, failing to comprehend it.
A car pulled into our lot and sat there next to the three police cars.
It was Mom’s Ford Taurus. And Mom got out of it.
She walked, somewhat stiffly, right toward me, her eyes locked onto mine like a laser beam. She got within two feet and stopped. “Get in the car, Tom. Now,” she ordered.
I started to protest. “I… I can’t. I have my stuff in the—”
She cut me off angrily. “Now! I don’t care what you have here. Get in the car.”
I felt scared, like a little kid. I turned to look at the others. Warren was trying to talk to the policewoman, but she was no longer listening. Jimmy was standing there looking down, just shaking his head. Arthur had fallen to
