Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

one and tossing it into the wind. “Your last name is Humphries, right?”

“Sure is.”

“Harold Humphries was my grandpa.”

“No shit?” He smirked. “I guess we are family.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“Once, maybe thirty years ago.”

“How are you related to him?”

He was holding his driver between his legs and he tapped it against the grass as he thought. Finally, he said, “I think he was my dad’s uncle.”

It took me a moment to do the genealogical algebra. “So your grandpa was Harold’s dad’s brother?”

“That sounds about right.”

“Did you know your grandpa?”

“He was around when I was really little, but I don’t remember much. He swung his cane at me once when I stole a Werther's Original from the kitchen cupboard.”

I laughed.

“What about your grandma?”

“I remember more about her, playing cards and doing crosswords, but they were both pretty old. My dad is fifteen years younger than his two sisters.”

“Did the sisters have any kids?” I suppose these would be my cousins as well.

“Yeah, but my dad wasn’t very close with either of them. They both moved to the East Coast for college and ended up staying there.”

“So you’re the only Humphries in Tarrin?”

“Me and my family.”

I don’t know why this shocked me. Most men in their mid-forties were married with children. Heck, most men in their mid-thirties were married with children. I was the exception. I was an eleven-year-old trapped in the body of a chubby thirty-five-year-old.

Jerry said, “I have two boys. Seven and four.”

“Nice. What’s your wife do?”

“She stays home with the kiddos.”

“How long you been together?”

“About ten years.” He paused, then added, “We separated a few years ago, but we worked through things.”

I didn’t pry, but I did say, “That’s good to hear.”

He said, “You said it was a long story about us being cousins?”

I gave him the diluted version.

A few minutes later, he said, “That’s crazy, man.”

“Yeah.”

“And then he just up and left the farm to you?”

I grinned.

“You know what it’s worth?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, not sure exactly why I lied.

He snapped his head to the right and said, “Finally! Let’s hit.”

I ambled up to the tee box.

“Keep your head down this time,” he shouted.

I swung.

I did not keep my head down.

I topped the ball, and it went into the thick overgrowth.

“Nice shot,” Jerry said.

I flipped him off and he laughed.

Just cousins being cousins.

Jerry got another par.

I lost three balls in the thick underbrush—which I was now terrified to wade into because of the snake—then spent four strokes in the sand. I ended up getting a whopping sixteen.

Yay.

Fun.

I was at DEFCON 2 crankiness when I saw the little girl manning the grill just on the other side of a low fence.

“Hiya, Gracie,” Jerry called out.

“Hi, Mr. Humphries,” she said with a big smile. She was probably twelve.

“You got any brats today?”

“Sure do. Just finished casing them a couple days ago.”

My eyebrows furrowed, and I whispered to Jerry. “They make their own?”

“Of course.”

I could smell the brats on the grill, and my stomach rumbled. I was the hungriest I’d been since being a hostage on a cruise ship.

“Are these pork brats?” I asked Jerry.

“Yeah.”

“And pork is pig?”

“Yes, Thomas, pork is pig.”

I’d eaten bacon on my BLT just the day before and thought nothing of it, so I wasn’t sure why I was hesitating now.

“Do you have any burgers?” I asked.

The little girl shook her head. “Just brats today.”

Jerry turned to me and whispered, “Don’t tell me you don’t eat pork or something. You don’t look Jewish.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” He turned back to Gracie and said, “We’ll take two brats.”

She pulled two off the grill with tongs and slipped them into two hot dog buns. She handed one to me and said, “Ketchup and mustard are over there, and help yourself to a soda.”

Jerry handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.

We fixed up our brats and grabbed sodas. Barq's Root Beer for me and Pepsi for Jerry. I’d eaten many hot dogs, brats, and polish sausages in my day, but none had ever looked or smelled as divine as the one in my hand this second.

We made our way to the next tee box, and I said, “I gotta take a whiz.”

Jerry swallowed down a big bite of brat and motioned toward some trees. “Just go over there.”

I walked over to the trees and unzipped my pants. I didn’t have to pee. I pulled the brat off the bun and tossed it into the brush. I couldn’t eat it. All I could think about was Harold and May.

Little jerks.

I ate the bun, which still tasted pretty good from the brat juice, but it was a tease. I stuffed the last of the bun in my mouth as I returned and said, “Man, that brat was good.”

“Told you.”

We finished the last four holes. Jerry pared three and bogeyed one, shooting even par for the day. I got double digits on all four holes for a grand total of seven jillion.

I didn’t have any cash on me, but I promised to give Jerry forty-five bucks the next time I saw him.

“We’ll just run it back next time we play,” he said, then drove off. He was in a rush to get back to work.

I was in a rush too. I drove as fast as I could to Dina’s and sat down to a big fat burger.

When I returned to the farm, there was a package leaning against the front door. It was one of those orange-gold padded mailers. In lieu of my name, it simply read “Humphries Farm” in block lettering. The return address was Phoenix.

I tore the package open and pulled out the contents. It was a small notebook. A Moleskine. My sister had bought me a similar notebook when I started taking on cases with the FBI.

I thought back to what Mike Zernan said.

Give me three days.

Chapter Fourteen

There was a stain on the front cover of the Moleskine, which had saturated the bottom half of the notebook. I lifted the notebook