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Chapter One
Jack Fletcher thought that Derek Plimsoll was some kind of faggot. It wasn't just his name that made him think that, either. Plimsoll wore a silk scarf, even though it was summertime, and he wore it inside his shirt.
Jack was taking the shutters off the windows of the lakeside summer house and putting up screens. A low-grade moron could have done the job without supervi-sion, but Plimsoll was a born supervisor. He dithered and fretted about the way the shutters were stacked, about the way the screens were cleaned, about the matching of the windows with the screens, about the way Jack climbed the frigging ladder, for chrissake.
That was going too far.
"Come down, son, this ladder isn't footed properly!"
Jack thought of asking him how he would like his ass footed, but he thought better of it. The only other summer job he could get in Cattaquitpiss County would involve busting his hump on some farm. It wouldn't be worth it, blowing the job on the first day just for the momentary satisfaction of telling this asshole what he thought of him. He took his time about descending the ladder, and that made Plimsoll do a dance of impa-tience.
