I stopped.
“You did?”
“Yeah. For Ray.” He shrugged. “He paid me twenty-five bucks a yard. I did them on Saturdays with his mower. Well, your grandpa’s mower. He’d drop it off and pick it up.” He looked at the Snapper. “That thing was so dull I was basically beating the grass to death.”
“Twenty-five dollars a yard,” I repeated.
“Yeah. Ray said he had the contracts and I was just the labor. Like a subcontractor.” The kid scratched his neck. “Then he stopped paying me in May. Said the ladies weren’t paying him. So I quit.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tyler. Tyler Simms.”
“Simms. Loretta’s grandson?”
“Yeah.” He looked over at his grandmother, who was pouring tea for Mr. Archie. “She’s been on Ray about it for months. He told her to mind her own business.”
I looked at Tyler. Fifteen years old. Doing the work. Getting paid twenty-five dollars a yard, and then not getting paid at all.
And Ray collecting four hundred from my grandmother. For a yard he never even mowed.
“Tyler,” I said. “You busy right now?”
“Not really.”
“There’s a rake in my grandpa’s shed. On the pegboard, on the left side. Outlined in black marker.” I pointed. “Go get it and rake up behind me. I’ll pay you twenty-five a yard.”
“You said you’re not charging anybody.”
“I’m not charging them,” I said. “I’m paying you. Different thing.”
He grinned. He dropped his bike in the grass and ran for the shed.
Chapter Seven: Raymond
Around one o’clock, a truck slowed down at the end of Locust Street.
I heard it before I saw it. A deep, rattling diesel growl, the kind that makes your chest vibrate. Then it turned the corner.
