“Hi there,” Holly exclaims brightly, no doubt trying to save me from his jabs. “We were looking for you.”
“We have a proposition for you, Elijah,” I say curtly, getting right to business.
He narrows his eyes, then dumps the worms into a plastic container. “It’s Eli,” he says, brushing dirt from his hands. There’s a slight trace of grease under his clipped fingernails, which are framed by ragged cuticles. This man works with his hands, I realize. “Elijah’s my deadbeat dad.” Then, breaking into an utterly charming smile, he adds, “Whatever you have in mind, it’s not my thing.” He throws both hands in the air in mock surrender. “No judgment.”
I roll my eyes. Holly’s cheeks have turned tomato red. Did he think we were makingthatsort of proposition?
“It’s not like that,” I say, glancing at the laptop and various accounting reports laid out on the counter beside him. “I’m a journalist.” I pass him my business card. “I’m working with a family a few miles from here. They’re about to lose their home, and we need your help.”
Eli’s phone dings. He reads the screen and scowls. “Sorry, I’m not your guy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, these ain’t gonna count themselves.” He gestures toward a few dozen containers in the fridge behind him.
Holly shoots me a panicked look, then marches past me, disappearing behind an extensive display of fishing rods, hooks, weights, and sinkers.Where the hell is she going?
“We’ll make it worth your while,” I say, briefly distracted by a list ofCarp Juice Flavorsset next to an extra-large jar of hard-boiled pickled eggs and another of pickled pig’s feet. “Think of it as contract work,” I add, moving closer to the counter, forcing him to meet my gaze.
He studies me intensely, turning my attempt at assertiveness into a moment of surprising intimacy. Oddly, a pang of panic settles in the pit of my stomach. It can only be yet one more sign that this plan is insane, but given our nonexistent options, I push on.
“We’ll pay you to pose as an investor in a development right here on Westlake,” I tell him, my tone pragmatic, professional. “All you have to do is record the deal.”
“Y’all are barking up the wrong tree,” he blurts out, his accent dropping into a thick backwoods drawl.
An enormous tabby cat jumps from his lap, momentarily pausing our conversation, and heads across the room, along rows of coolers and bins, all presumably crawling with live bait, above which hang about a dozen cricket cages. The cat yowls as he brushes past Holly, who is ambling back with a Happy Hooker trucker hat over her head and a heavy-looking golf bag behind her. In the same breath, she asks, “How much for the hat?” and “Are these your golf clubs?” She waves a driver in the air. “Would you happen to play golf?” She raises both eyebrows at me with a silentTold you he’s our guy!
Eli grabs a pencil from inside a mason jar. “Twenty-five for the hat. And we don’t take Amex.” Then he scribbles something on an inventory sheet. “There’s a few public golf courses round here. I caddy sometimes. Tips are good. Hustles are better.”
“What do you mean, ‘hustles’?” Holly asks.
“What’s it to you?” he says, cutting an impatient glare to a wall clock hanging above a sign that readsIt’s Fish O’Clock Somewhere.
Holly slips the driver back in the bag. “Looks like you could use some new clubs.”
“Those suit me just fine,” he replies, nonchalant.
Eli types something on the laptop, then sets one of the blue containers from the fridge on the counter beside him. The lid has about three dozen tiny holes punctured through it, and a round sticker that readsNot Your Ordinary Happy Hooker.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“What? You ain’t never been to a bait ’n’ tackle before?” Once again, he leans into his backcountry lilt, the one he seems to turn on and off at will.
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” I say snarkily, watching him intently as he removes the container’s lid with a flourish and drops the contents into what looks like… a roasting pan?
“Up in here, ma’am, we got some grade-A, top-of-the-line,big catch, fishing worms.” Thick, pinkish worms crawl out from under a handful of dirt. “And if worms ain’t your thing, we got minnows, leeches, shrimp, shiners, goldfish, baby catfish, bream. We go through damn near twenty-four-hundred crickets a week in summertime.” I ignore the sneering tone behind his facetious country-boy sales pitch, grateful when the store’s phone rings and he turns to answer.
We’ve already wasted enough time. We need to get to the point of this little visit. I adjust the bill of my trucker hat, then mirror Eli’s stance. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in years of field reporting, it’s that quickly earning a source’s trust requires making eye contact, matching their inflection, and adjusting my posture to set them at ease. Coincidentally, these are also the same qualities that make for a great con artist. Eli, with his pool hustles, his secrets, and his untraceable history reminds me of every other trickster on the face of the planet—including my own father.
A growing list of indisputable facts makes it clear that Eli cannot be trusted, which, paradoxically, also makes him perfect for our scheme. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it, or him. It does mean, however, I’ll have to keep him at arm’s length at all times—or risk losing my objectivity. If things get icky, we bail. I refuse to repeat my mother’s mistakes and fall prey to a scammer.
“Thanks for showing us around,” I say, “but we haven’t got all day. Are you interested or not?”
“So let me see if I understand this—what did you call it?” he asks with a smirk. “Contract work?” He sits back on the stool, hands resting on top of his thighs. “You want me to pretend to be somebody else—”
“From a family with generational wealth,” Holly says, not waiting for an answer. “Grandfather was a cotton magnate, and you just got your first trust fund payout.”
The tabby cat jumps back into his lap, and he casually begins to stroke his fur. “You want me to pretend to be some Atlanta country club asshole—”
“Mississippi,” Holly clarifies. “Mississippi country club asshole.”
“Whatever,” Eli says, adjusting the visor of his hat. “They’re all the same.”
