Slightly Irregular by Rhonda Pollero Page B

carport so much as it was four metal poles with a worn and torn tarp across the top. There was a kiddy pool in the front yard, flanked by two Barcaloungers, both with springs popping through the fabric. The same was true of the sofa on the porch. As I slowed my car to a stop, Cujo and company continued to bark and growl. When the screen door opened, I was hoping it was the owner. It was, but he wasn’t alone. His companion was a really large shotgun.

Work is a four-letter word; working hard is just stupid.

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    Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling wrapped in the warmth of his welcome. Like the man at the gas station, the armed bozo wore a stained wife-beater and had that pregnant-man physique going on. What little hair he had was swept over to one side. It was gray and as dull as his washed-out brown eyes.
    The dogs continued their attack on my car while the man on the porch cradled the gun like an infant. I could hear more dogs in the distance and wondered if they were the understudies for the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Great. Dogs with a side order of more dogs.
    Just behind armed guy I could make out a shape in the shadows of the tattered screen door. I wanted to slam my car into reverse and head back the way I’d come when he placed his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loud enough to be heard over the hum of my car engine.
    The pack of matted, mangy dogs instantly raced toward him.The unseen pack in the distance still barked and snarled, but even after a scan of my surroundings—such as they were—I couldn’t seem to locate them. With the visible dogs heeled, I felt comfortable enough to depress the button, opening my window little more than a crack. “Mr. Bollan?” I asked politely.
    He nodded as the ears on two of the hounds lifted alertly.
    “Who’s asking?”
    I had to tilt my head to one side so my lips were closer to the narrow space I’d created. I gave him a quick explanation. He rested the gun against the aluminum home and started walking toward me. A woman stepped out from inside the trailer and followed closely on his heels. She appeared far friendlier, quite a feat given that what I could see of her gray hair was up in pink foam curlers and her attire consisted of a faded paisley housedress and slippers that scuffed the dusty ground with each step.
    I so didn’t want to leave the relative safety of my car. Reluctantly, I opened the door, my eyes fixed on the six dogs watching my every move. I have a history with dogs, and it isn’t good.
    Mr. and—I assumed—Mrs. Bollan walked past the garden of fake flowers and weathered lawn ornaments until we met on neutral ground.
    “Nice to meet you,” he said, offering me a sun-leathered hand with dirt and God only knew what else crusted beneath his nails.
    I quelled the urge to reach for the Purell in my purse after we briefly shook hands.
    “Call me Sleepy and this here is the wife, Wanda Jean.”
    “Miss,” she said as she reached around her husband’s girth. “Did I hear correctly? Mr. Walter passed?” she asked.
    “Three years ago,” I answered as I felt the first trickle of perspiration slithering down my back.
    “We didn’t know.” Wanda spoke for both of them.
    Fine with me since I was in no hurry to get a second glance at Sleepy’s three yellowed teeth. I reached back and pulled out my briefcase, dug out the money order, and said, “My firm represents Lenora Egghardt, and until she received this”—I paused and passed Sleepy the money order—“she had no idea anyone was living on the property.”
    I think Sleepy scowled. Hard to tell since a serious overbite made him look like a perplexed beaver. Then he explained, “We’ve been here for near on thirty-five years. Used to tend the groves until the canker came a few years back. Now we farm sugarcane and run a few head of cattle.”
    “Sleepy,” Wanda interrupted with a smidge of irritation, “let’s go inside where we’ll all be more comfortable.”
    I