Trust by George V. Higgins

made the list since then, and they’re not just lookin’ for this one. The tank’s full—I checked that. You won’t have to stop. Get a new plate, stick it on, and drive careful. Take it the crusher. Destroy it. Tell the guy that you owed that you’re even.”
    In the deepening twilight, Earl stopped the Dodge at the edge of the pavement where it intersected with the dirt road that led to the barn. He backed it about forty feet up the dirt road and shut off the lights. Penny stirred in the passenger seat. He put the transmission in Park and set the hand brake. He shut off the engine. He went to the trunk with the keys and opened the lid. He removed the tool kit and the flashlight, and unwrapped New Jersey 7J7-N54 from the blanket. He took the Dopp Kit out. He shut the trunk and returned to the driver’s seat and restarted the engine. He shook Penny awake.
    “Huh?”
she said.
    “You’re going,” he said. “Wake up and drive.”
    She frowned. “Where am I going? Where am I?”
    “You’re inna fuckin’ woods in Lafayette, Rhode Island,” he said. “Home is where you’re going. Now get out and swap seats with me.”
    “I can slide over,” she said.
    “No,” he said, “I want to see you walk, even just a little bit.”
    “I’m not drunk,” she said.
    “Look,” he said, “I’m not saying that. But you might be a little asleep, and I don’t want you, falling back into it, soon’s you get out on the road.”
    She said “Shit” and opened the door. She got out and slammed it, walking uncertainly on the edge of the dirt road, her left hand brushing the fender, the hood, and the fender until she reached the driver’s door.
    “Very good,” he said.
    “Shit,” she said. “This’s gotta be the most insane thing you’ve made me do yet. I don’t even know where I am.”
    “I told you where you are,” he said.
    “I don’t know how to get out of here,” she said, peering at the dashboard.
    “Put it in Drive,” he said. “Take the brake off. Roll down to the end, pavement here and turn left. That’s Route One-eighty-nine. Don’t take any turns. Just stay on it. Route One-eighty-nine—you got that? Takes you to I-Ninety-five. Going north. That’s it. Clear on that?”
    She nodded. “I could still use that drink,” she said. “You should’ve bought me a drink.”
    “Have your drink, you get home,” he said. “Least you’re going home. I got to go to Vermont. I don’t step on a fuckin’ snake first.”
    “Wasn’t my idea, champ,” she said, grabbing the gearshift lever. “This whole party’s your great idea.” The Dodge rolled down to the road. Earl with the plate and the tools and the flashlight started up the dirt road toward the barn in the hot dusk. Some night birds cried in the air.

7
    On the last Tuesday in July, Ed Cobb drove his maroon Chrysler 300F to Donald Beale’s Chrysler-Plymouth dealership in South Burlington. Vermont, trying to avoid puddles left by severe early morning thunderstorms and cursing his decision to spend the previous Saturday waxing the car. Beale was in his office on the second floor, talking on the telephone, his feet on the sill of the picture window that looked down on the showroom. He waved to Cobb to come up. Cobb acknowledged the invitation, but did not act on it until he had swapped views about the surprisingly tenacious Red Sox with Dennis McCallum, the sales manager, and Paul Oakes, one of the salesmen.
    “It’s
partly
this Conigliaro kid,” McCallum said. “Jee-
zuss
, but he can hit. But it’s mostly Yastrzemski, I think, that’s keeping them in the thing.”
    Oakes disagreed. “I think it’s the manager,” he said. “They had both those two guys last year, and look where they ended up. Was it all Herman’s fault? Yeah, I think it was. He’d’ve took the credit if they’d’ve won. So they lose? He takes the blame. This Dick Williams,boy, he is something else. Took us long enough, but we finally found ourselves a