Page 70 of Small Town Hunter

“Take care, Miss Whiteleaf. I got to go give Mister Ripley a titjob. Tell Crash I wish it was him. Ha ha ha ! Just kidding. Just playing.”

“Wait— what’s a tit job?”

“When he rubs his dick on your titties. Menlovethat.”

“Really?”Why did you ask that?

“Yup. And it’s technically not fucking so you won’t go to hell,” she adds.

I appreciate the suggestion but I don’t think that’s true at all.

“Jada?”

“Yeah, Miss Trina Whiteleaf?”

“It’s not true what people say about you. I’m sorry I ever believed them. Thanks for your advice.”

“You’re welcome. Aren’t you sweet?”

“Consider turning to the Lord,” I add, but she’s already hung up.

I pace around the room.Crash left without a word. He took his keys, his boots, but left both his cellphones here. He even left some money in his jacket on the nightstand. Maybe he didn’t think he’d be gone long. It’s already ten o’ clock in the morning. Surely he would be back by now if it was just a quick trip to the store. What’s holding him up?

What Jada just told me only raises more questions. Crash said he came out to Oklahoma for a job. Apparently he was looking for somebody— a redheaded man. Why? I don’t know.

I try to break into Crash’s phone, the one that just rang, but it’s locked tight with his Face ID and everything. The most I can do is answer it when it rings.

And it does ring again, a half hour later.

And it’s Jada, again.

“Hello?”

“Babygirl,” she says in a very different tone from before. There’s no humor in her voice at all. “I just heard something on the grapevine and I thought I had better call you.”

“What is it?”

It’s Crash. Something’s happened to Crash.

“My pimp, Crocodile? He just got caught up on some unpaid parking tickets and they locked him up in the jailhouse. It’s a setup— my man did nothing wrong.”

“Okay, but what happened?”

“Right. Well Crocodile just told me they brought a man in from Virginia. His head’s all fucked up.”

I clutch my chest. “Are you sure? Are you sure that’s him? It’s not the— the redheaded man?”

“No, it’s your man, baby. Black curly hair? Pretty eyes? That’s him. I’m sorry,” Jada says. “I don’t know what happened but I heard he’s in bad shape. That’s all I can tell you. I’m going over there to get Crocodile the bail money, you want me to slip a message for your man?”

A message to tell him what? That I’m on my way? That I’m sorry?

“Tell him— tell him to hold on.”

I hang up the phone and start throwing everything in Crash’s duffel bag. I already know he took his car, which means I have no way to get to Tippalonga. I also don’t have a plan. What I do have is my jewelry, three Walmart sweatsuits, and a whole lot ofBudgie’s Favoritebirdseed. Plus Crash’s two cell phones: the burner with nothing on it, and the one that’s locked up tighter than a flea’s wallet as our driver Charles would say.

I remove the celibacy book from the duffel.

And kick it under the bed.

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