Hank looked uncomfortable. “They never actually caught him. He was arrested a few times. The charges never stuck, but everyone knew it was him.”
“And people still like this guy?”
My friend rolled his eyes, looking even more uncomfortable. “Yes. He only ever stole tourists’ rentals, never any locals’ cars. Except one time he stole my father’s Mercedes.”
I winced. “He took your dad’s Mercedes?”
Hank’s father had been an extremely unpleasant man . . . possibly the nicest way to describe him. He was demanding and cold and, honestly, a prejudiced asshole. When he’d met me over spring break at Harvard, he’d asked me if I’d been accepted on one of those special charity case, minority scholarships—you know, for women like me.
When I replied that, no, I was accepted because of grades, test scores, and my parents paid for my tuition, he asked me if they were drug dealers.
So I lied, said yes, and implied I could make him disappear with a phone call rather than telling him my parents were physicians in private practice as well as militant about saving and education.
“Yes. Jethro stole it when he was fifteen or sixteen.”
“I can’t believe your dad didn’t have him arrested.”
Hank’s smile was wry as he filled in the blanks. “First of all, my dad couldn’t prove it. And second, Jethro returned it after three days. It was spotless. Of course it smelled like the inside of a urinal, but he returned it nevertheless.”
I’m not ashamed to admit, this made me giggle. “Ha ha! That’s hilarious.”
My friend chuckled too, his eyes growing hazy. “It was. No amount of shampooing or detailing could remove the smell.”
I gave him a minute with his memory, what I knew was likely one of the few happy ones from his childhood, before getting the gossip train back on track. “So, he stole cars and gave the proceeds to the poor? Like Robin Hood?”
“Uh, no. Nothing like that. He stole for the local biker gang, the Iron Wraiths. They had a chop shop and Jethro was the best at delivering inventory.”
“Well, if he was so good, didn’t see anything wrong with it, and he didn’t get arrested, why’d he stop?”
“He did see that it was wrong, eventually.” Hank turned down the heat and stirred the meat unnecessarily, his expression contemplative. “You know, lots of people think it was because of Drew Runous, the federal game warden in these parts. Drew was new to town a few years back and Jethro tried to steal Drew’s classic BMW motorcycle. Drew caught him in the act, beat the shit out of him, but didn’t turn him over to the cops. After that, Jethro got out of the Wraiths, got his GED, went to community college, worked his way up to become a wildlife ranger at the park . . .”
Whoa.
My eyes widened by increments as Hank relayed Ranger Jethro’s history. What I’d considered harmless gossiping about the locals had turned into something different. I was about to suggest we change the topic when Hank continued, unprompted.
“But I think it was Ben McClure who did it.”
Oh, crap. Now I was curious. “Who is Ben McClure?”
“Ben was Jethro’s best friend. They grew up together, but Ben was always the straight and narrow sort. He died in Afghanistan around the same time Jethro got his shit together. Plus,” Hank switched the gas off completely and rested the wooden spoon against the edge of the frying pan, “Jethro takes care of Ben’s widow.”
“What do you mean, takes care of?”
He shrugged. “You know, looks after her house, does repair work, yard work, cleans the gutters, man stuff.”
I made a face. “Man stuff?”
Hank gave me a flat look. “Don’t give me that. This ain’t Los Angeles or Boston. This here is Green Valley, Tennessee. Men do men’s work.”
“Oh, like run strip clubs?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
He snorted. “No. That’s just work work. I’m not saying men don’t clean ovens around here, and I’m not saying women don’t mow lawns. I’m just saying, more often than not, a man has his place and a woman has hers, everybody pulls their weight and no one minds it much. We all do our chores and help each other. So stop with the cosmopolitan, enlightened judgmental shit.”
Hank was easy to tease when it came to his roots. If I wanted to get him worked up, I’d call him a yokel. I didn’t think of Hank as a yokel. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what a yokel was.
But his retaliatory slurs—about women and Latinas—never bothered me since I knew he didn’t mean or believe them, kind of like when your big brother calls you a poopy-head. Well-meaning revenge slurs between friends were one thing, well-meaning ignorant slurs between strangers were quite another.