Blake didn’t speak. He only blew a cloudy breath at the ceiling and watched it gather around the ceiling fan. Then he leaned forward and turned off the radio. His face went from lighthearted to serious. He touched his mustache and took in a few labored breaths like he was thinking.

Blake reached into a brown leather bag and retrieved the metal box he’d stolen from E. P. It was a red tin box with a wire handle on it. He placed it in Coot’s lap and said, “This money, it belongs to you, Coot. You and your mama. And if anything ever happens to me . . .”

“Blake, don’t talk like that.”

“I mean it. There’s a lot in there, and it ain’t mine.”

“Blake . . .”

“There’s enough in that there box to put me away for a long time. And if anything ever happens to me, you go find a bus station and go as far away as you can. Doesn’t matter where.”

Coot didn’t like hearing him talk like this. It filled him with fear and made his lungs cold.

“Blake, I couldn’t make it on my own.”

“Now, you listen to me.” Blake replaced the money box in the bag and zipped it shut. He plopped the entire bag in Coot’s lap. “Don’t never let that money outta sight.”

“But—”

“Hush and let me finish. Now, you’re a lot more courageous than you think you are, and I want you to remember that.” He patted Coot’s hair. “If I was you, I’d quit thinking about all these bad things and get cleaned up.”

“Get cleaned up for what?”

“I’d put on my nice duds too. Wouldn’t wanna be late, you know.”

“Late for what?”

Blake leaned back on the bed, resting his head on the pillow. He let out a chestful of blue smoke and coughed. The coughing lasted a few minutes. The dust had done a number on them both.

“Where’re we going, Blake?”

“I’d grease up my shoes real good and fix my hair—” Blake coughed again.

“Why, Blake? Where’re we going?”

“’Course, that’s just how I’d do it. You can do what you want, you’re practically a grown man anyway. Besides, what a fella wears to his first baseball game ain’t nobody’s business but his own.”

“Baseball! Are you putting me on?”

Blake coughed again. “Why, Coot, I’m offended. Would old Blake lie to you?”

Twenty-Eight
Stealing Home

The baseball bat made a cracking sound that could probably be heard all the way to China. Coot had only heard this particular noise a few times in his life. He’d heard a bat hit a ball before, certainly, but never with this kind of sincerity.