Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Hey, Dolph,” he mustered, his gaze drifting to a sign advertising a sale on Gatorade drinks.
“I nevah see ya ‘round much! It’s been years, man.” Dolph repeated as he bounced from foot to foot like ants were tickling his nuts. His beat-up station wagon looked as if it had been given a salt bath, and his unshaven face and dark bags under his eyes proved that life hadn’t been so great for him as of late. “Where ya been hidin’?”
“Not hiding. Just working.” He stopped pumping his gas once the tank was full and put the nozzle back in the holster.
“Just workin’, huh? You still at Parker Hannifin?” Dolph snapped his fingers. “Forget what Stew said ya did there. You remember Stew Gentry, right? He told me ya worked there with Gino Ferrandine some time ago. Makin’ good money there, huh? Union job?” The man eyed his truck that was less than a year old. His peepers turned to inky slits, and the smile on his face crimped tight, then faded.
“Nah. Not at Parker Hannifin anymore. Got my own shop now.” He slipped a pack of spearmint gum from his red and black checkered front jacket pocket, unwrapped the silver paper, and popped it into his mouth, debating on grabbing a couple of the Gatorades since it was buy one get one free. Seemed like a good deal.
“Ya own a shop, huh? Cars? Mechanic shit?”
“No, blacksmith.”
“Ohhhh! Well, that’s real interesting.” The fool bobbed his head as if he had an inkling of what it truly entailed. “Just the otha day, Stew said that he had a—”
“Sorry to cut this conversation short, but I gotta go, Dolph. Nice seein’ ya though. Take care.” Nikolai offered a wilted wave, turned off his truck and locked it up, then made his way to the gas station door, sick and tired of the interview from a fucker he’d barely spoken to even when they sat next to one another in math class so very long ago.
“Oh, yeah… I understand. I don’t wanna trouble ya!” Dolph yelled out with an overly friendly chuckle. “I won’t keep you too long, big guy, but hold on a sec. Won’t take more than sixty seconds. Promise. I’m sure you could spare it for an old friend.”
Nikolai turned to face him, his hand on his hip. Shitty people came in all sizes and varieties. Dolph was the kind of character who was always in trouble, doing sneaky, underhanded things, then playing victim after getting caught. Nikolai knew all about the bastard’s stints in jail for petty theft and other simpleton crimes.
Dolph started making quick work of locking up his own car, pointing his finger in the air every so often as if to say, ‘Just a minute… hold on.’ This fucker. A loser. I don’t have time for whatever bullshit he’s about to say.
One thing Nikolai wasn’t good at was hiding his true feelings. If he didn’t like you, it showed—that was his reputation. Problem was, he disliked most people. His mother said he always looked disinterested when folks would approach him and make small talk. She worried he’d come off as rude. Unsocialized. Mom said that maybe smiling a bit more like his brother, Mark, would put people at ease, especially with him being so tall and big. Wasn’t he intimidating enough? But he’d decided long ago to rarely heed that sort of advice. It wasn’t his problem what strangers thought of him, and it wasn’t his fault if they found him unfriendly. No poker face required.
“What is it?” Nikolai tossed his gum in a trashcan as Dolph approached him, his car keys in hand, looking to and fro as if he were about to make a drug deal right then and there. The man’s light brown eyes were simmering with mischief. Something hot and sneaky was cooking. A crime underfoot. With a crooked, toothy grin, the guy with thinning jet black hair and paper-thin lips stood before him. Dolph wasn’t more than five foot eight, but he always tried to stand really straight and wear thick-soled boots. He even wore shoulder pads in his coats to appear bigger and broader, but didn’t seem to realize that everyone knew he was wearing them.
“So you went to blacksmithin’ school, huh?”
“Yeah, trade school, but I already knew somethin’ about it. My uncle was a blacksmith.”
Dolph nodded, but didn’t seem to really give a damn about the answer to his question as his gaze shifted about, left to right like some cat burglar’s, before returning his attention to him. “Can I get a cigarette?”
Nikolai obliged without further commentary. Dolph stood there with the damn thing dangling out of the side of his mouth, waiting for him to light it. When he did, the bum took a couple puffs and started up his spiel.