Coot hopped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. He fired the engine. He pressed his foot on the gas a few times for effect. He’d always wanted to do that. But he drove nowhere. He only waited.

The old man stood in the headlights, staring at him, cigar hanging from his mouth.

“Now let’s talk about this,” said Joseph.

“Are you with me or not?”

The swindler studied the eyes of his best friend. He hobbled toward the car. He threw open the door and said, “For the love of Christmas, son, at least have the decency to let me drive. You can’t drive worth a cuss.”

*  *  *

Coot snuck toward the row of tents that looked like illuminated paper lanterns in the night. In the distance, the large canvas structures looked like a miniature city situated in a peanut field. The five small tents sat behind the big tent.

The sound of a radio came from one tent. A tinny radio voice, the sound of music, audience laughter.

He stepped through the high grass toward the open flap, then peeked in. A young woman was reclining in her bed. It was the woman who played the guitar. She wore a white nightgown, her hair wrapped in rags. She was reading a magazine.

Coot glanced behind him to get his bearings. He could see Joseph’s truck at the edge of the scalped field. It was idling, and he could hear it beneath the song the frogs were singing.

The next tent was filled with several cots pressed together, with men lying on them. A few men were playing checkers by lantern light; another man was ironing clothes with a flat iron, humming to a song in his own head.

But it was the tent at the end of the row that Coot was looking for. E. P. was in a heated discussion with a tall, skinny man. E.P was shirtless, suspenders slung over his bare, hairy shoulders. He was standing before a washbasin and mirror washing his face. He dipped his hands into the basin, then wiped the rag on his face. He swore at the skinny man.

The unmistakable sound of the big man’s voice carried Coot to another time and place. A terrible place. It was a time when Coot was on the receiving end of such swearing. Long ago, E. P. would cuss and holler just before laying his hand aside Coot’s young face. The memory made Coot swell with anger.