Rick doesn’t point out that they’re asking him rather than using their own eyes and ears. He figures a smart-mouthed comment like that won’t go down well with these boys.
‘You look like you’ve seen things,’ says the short-haired twin, pointing his finger at Rick. ‘And we need for you to tell us the details.’
‘I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, for sure, but I wasn’t there in the park this morning, so I’ve got nothing to say about that.’ Rick’s keeping his tone amicable, but the short-haired guy’s aggression is making him pissed. ‘The cops are investigating. That’s all I know.’
‘That’s a crock of shit.’ He steps closer to Rick. ‘You, pal, are holding out on us. You know stuff. You must know.’
Rick crosses his arms. Fixes the guy with a steely gaze. ‘I ain’t your pal.’
‘Who was involved in the accident? Did someone die? Who died? Was it really an accident?’ The man’s getting all up in Rick’s face. Waving his hands to emphasise each point he makes, bracelets jangling. ‘Do the police have any suspects? Have they made an arrest? Are they going to?’
Rick holds his ground. Says nothing.
‘Come on, man. You have to know something. She’s one of the patrollers.’ The short-haired guy gestures towards Precious’s house. ‘And if you’re collecting whatever the hell that was you just stuffed into your pocket, then you must be her boss, which means you know for sure what’s gone down.’
‘And you have to tell us,’ says the longer-haired guy, a pleading whine to his voice. He steps closer to stand alongside his brother. He grasps his necklace again, his fingers running along the beads, rubbing them in a steady rhythm.
Rick looks from one guy to the other. They stare back, all expectant. He shakes his head. ‘I’m not her boss. And there’s nothing to tell.’
The long-haired twin lets go of the beads. His face flushes a deeper shade of red. ‘I don’t believe that. Please, you have to—’
‘Believe what you want, it’s a free country.’ Rick shrugs and turns towards the jeep.
‘Not necessarily,’ mutters the shorter-haired twin under his breath. He grabs at Rick’s T-shirt, trying to stop him leaving. His voice is louder, almost a shout now. ‘Stop bullshitting us. Tell us what’s going on.’
Rick turns back to face the guy. He looks at the man’s hand, still gripping his tee. Keeps looking at it until the man lets go.
The long-haired guy puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. ‘It’s okay, Jack. Let him go. He won’t help us.’ The guy’s voice breaks as he says the word help.
Jack is shaking. He’s pale beneath his tan. The aggressive posturing of a few moments ago is gone; now he just looks beat.
Rick takes a breath. Pissed as they’ve made him, he can see these guys are real worried. Oftentimes fear makes folks act out of character. He decides to cut them some slack. ‘This is about more than what happened in the park, am I right? What’s really going on?’
Neither of the men speaks at first. They look at each other, something unspoken going on between them. Rick can feel the tension.
‘We should tell him,’ says the long-haired brother.
Jack shakes his head. ‘Won’t make no difference. He’s not helping us.’
‘He might.’ The long-haired one gives his brother’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘And if not, if we say, then at least he’ll get why . . . he’ll see we’re not crazy people.’
‘You think?’ says Jack, looking away, eyes on the tarmac. He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he looks back at his brother. ‘Okay.’