Chapter 2
Francis is in no hurry to reply; no telling how long he's been standing there in that one spot waiting to be discovered. He likes to weird people out nowadays, anyway. He cocks his head to one side and grins. "Wanna beer? --this out the side of his mouth in that high singsong voice of his, a ring to it, like a Bluegrass tenor.
"Nope, I got this drink," I say.
"Suit yourself, old man."
But I'm not old--though my full beard is beginning to show a little gray. I keep it neatly trimmed knowing it may be my best feature, for I am short, only five seven and a half, but my boots give me an extra inch. Ellen said that I was becoming a little stooped over, but that's from hard work.
I raise hay and corn and a few beef cattle to get by. But the problem with farming is that you always need part-time help, which is hard to find since everyone usually needs them at the same time. But that's where Francis comes in--part-time help. But then we sort of got attached to each other. Now, not so much since he started running with a bunch of young outlaws.
His arm goes up again, raises it like a big arching featherless wing--beer to lips, guzzles, wipes mouth with the same forearm. Then just stands there grinning as if I'm expected to applaud or something.
I feel he is testing me, not really drunk but acting stupid to see how hospitable I can be. "So--what's going on?" I repeat.
"Just thought I'd stop by--"
"Ain't seen you in a while. Whatcha been doing?"
"Ay, just workin' hard everday."
He drains the beer in little swallows, crushes the can, drops it in the carton, picks up a full one, pops it open--all this with one hand. Throws his head back for a big gulp and wipes his mouth then drops his chest and looks around at me. "Wanna ask you somethin', Lester."
"Ask me what?"
"A favor."












