“Suicide, my ass.”
“There was a note.”
“Big fuckin deal. That don’t mean shit. The cops’ll have a handwriting expert look at the signature. Bet my Harley it [was] ’s forged.”
“I’m sure they’ll look into it.” I was looking at the lower half of Gator’s body, sticking out from underneath the front end of a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. The car was up on ramps, and Gator was beneath it on a dolly.
“Where did you say this happened?” He [hadn't] ’d not seen the news, which didn’t surprise me.
“The fish camp is in Barlow County.”
He rolled out from under the car, sat up and looked at me with his good eye.
[Same paragraph.] He laid down the wrench he’d been holding and stuck his hand up to me. I braced my feet and pulled, and he groaned as he came up. “That’s different, then.”
“Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you,” he said, leading the way from the detached garage in his back yard. His old Bassett hound, Bullet, had been lying in the shade of Gator’s pick-up, and he gradually raised himself to his feet, wagging his tail as he followed.
I like it. One thing I'm wondering about: Gator didn't think it was suicide. Then he finds out it happened in Barlow County, and says, "That's different." Different in that he now thinks it was suicide? If the Barlow County-victim connection has confirmed his belief, he'd be saying, "Aha! I knew it!" Not "That changes everything." It also strikes me as slightly odd behavior to come to some realization in the middle of this conversation and to then say, "Let's go inside and I'll tell you." I think most people would get right down to it. Not all people, of course.