Текст книги "Poisoned Soil"
Автор книги: Tim Young
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
Chapter 16
Some people’s lives seem preordained at birth. As youngsters, they pass time playing with other children, absorbing what teachers and preachers have to say until they’re old enough to accept their destinies. Sheriff Lonnie Jacobs was one such person.
He was born and raised in Rabun County in an area the locals called Chechero. His backyard playground was Rainey Mountain where he roamed the woods as a boy, learning to shoot by the time he was eight and hunting alone with his shotgun by the time he was eleven. Like most boys he knew, he learned how to use a gun responsibly and scoffed at the liberal media reports he would see from time to time that proclaimed guns as unsafe. He knew guns were safe, if treated with respect, and were deadly if treated with negligence. Just as a motor vehicle is, just as a knife is, just as baseball bat is. “Heck,” he had recently told a friend over coffee at the Clayton Cafe when debating the subject, “the banjo is legally considered a deadly weapon under Colorado state law. It’s true!”
Lonnie first learned the word sheriff from Mrs. Welch, a Sunday School teacher at the Bull Creek Baptist Church. She was reading a passage from the book of Daniel that said, “the king sent to gather together the princes, the governors...the judges...the sheriffs, and all the rulers of the provinces.” Lonnie wanted to become one of those leaders, those rulers. Becoming a prince was out of the question and he had no interest in becoming governor since he’d have to move to Atlanta. Nor was he inclined to sit behind a bench, so he ruled out becoming a judge. He thought long and hard of becoming a pastor when he was a teenager, but also felt destined to become one of the sheriffs.
He had learned his way through the woods, knew how to hunt, how to track, what to eat, what to avoid. Lonnie also knew how dangerous the north Georgia woods could be to anyone unfamiliar with them. Fortunately, most folks in his county knew that all too well since most of them were born and raised there. No local in his or her right mind would just wander into the dense woods unprepared or without knowing how to get out. Certainly two locals never would, he thought to himself as he turned his new SUV into Blake Savage’s driveway.
The sheriff’s office had only recently begun using the SUVs, and Lonnie thought it was about time. Most of the sheriff’s territory in Rabun County was rural and lightly populated. Old dirt roads, washed and rutted by rains racing down steep mountainsides, were the norm. Blake’s driveway off Hale Ridge Road was no exception, but just getting there was the real battle.
Hale Ridge was one of the most isolated, least populated areas of Rabun County. The gravel road itself was in decent shape, Lonnie noted, with only a few bumpy ruts causing him to slow to a crawl. When it rained hard, however, it was a different story. Roads such as Hale Ridge became quickly impassable no matter what you were driving and were low priority for the road maintenance crews. Heavy rains would bring down huge trees, generally right over roads and power lines. To make matters worse, each side of the road was lined with terrain so steep a car could tumble off. If the drivers were sufficiently injured they may not be found or known about for a very long time, if ever. Hale Ridge road was wider than a one-lane road but not as wide as a two-lane road. It was rare for cars to meet on the road. When they did, they would each have to snake just along the edge of the road until they passed. Lonnie hated to think what that task would be like if the ground was waterlogged.
Lonnie knew Blake, but not very well. Like most folks in and around Clayton, Lonnie went to the Wildcat football games on Friday nights and had cheered as Blake dominated defenses until the rising star graduated in 2000. Lonnie himself had graduated from Rabun County fifteen years earlier before heading off to Georgia State College in Atlanta, where he majored in Criminal Justice. He hadn’t cared for the city lights of Atlanta much and mostly kept to himself in his dorm, with one exception. Turner Field was within walking distance and he could buy tickets for Atlanta Braves games for only a dollar in the cheap seats, something he did several times a week when the Braves were in town. When Lonnie finished up at Georgia State, he headed back to his home on Rainey Mountain to pursue his life’s calling just as he knew he always would. Ten years later he was elected Sheriff of Rabun County.
Lonnie parked in front of the house next to Blake’s F-150 at 8:10 a.m., got out, and shut the door quietly, as was his practice. He straightened his hat and walked with purpose and authority to the door at the center of the A-frame, and rang the doorbell.
Blake sat on the sofa when the doorbell rang, having just finished a heated call with Nick to discuss the delivery Blake would make later in the day. He looked toward the door and exhaled deeply. Angelica, if you’ve locked yourself out..., he thought to himself with exasperation as he got up and walked to the door. As he reached for the handle he could see through the stained-glass door that it was not Angelica. The figure loomed large, with the morning sun casting a large shadow over its wide-brimmed hat. Blake’s throat dried and his pulse quickened as he opened the door.
Lonnie gave a professional smile. “Mornin’ Blake.”
“Mornin’ Sheriff. How can I help you?”
Blake immediately wished he hadn’t said that. It was so formal, so distant. Not something you say to someone you know, someone you want to be friendly with, unless you want to appear uneasy. Blake had never been friendly with Lonnie. He was much older and Blake’s gang in high school, while not troublemakers, had always steered clear of the law. Lonnie tuned in to Blake’s demeanor and took the lead.
“Well,” Lonnie began with a slow mountain drawl, “I just wanted to sit with you a minute and ask a couple of questions. That’s if you don’t mind, Blake.”
In the second that it took Blake to respond, the worst thoughts raced through his mind. What does he want? What does he KNOW? Am I in trouble? What should I do? The rage began to boil within Blake as he knew that only someone who has something to hide would think such thoughts.
“Sure Sheriff, come on in.”
Lonnie walked in and, to Blake, appeared to notice nothing other than the bar stool he sat on. But Lonnie was a trained observer, both in the natural world and in the manmade one. He took a quick inventory of the environment before him, noting nothing unusual. A flat screen TV, a shotgun on the wall and a handmade walking stick leaning next to the sofa. Everything was in order, Lonnie surmised.
“I’m looking for a couple of fellas that live around here, Blake. They’ve been missing for going on a month now and, well, I’m just asking around to see if anybody knows anything that might help.”
“I ain’t seen ’em, Sheriff,” Blake blurted.
“Seen who?” Lonnie asked.
“Seen...whoever’s missing. I assume you’re talking about them boys I heard about.”
“Well, what’d you hear?” Lonnie asked as he watched Blake wrench his hands.
Blake was nervous and was sure the sheriff knew it. He shouldn’t have answered so quickly, so abruptly. He felt out of control, as if he was being interrogated in his own home. SETTLE DOWN! He told himself, the same way he used to when it was late in the game and he needed to lead a scoring drive.
“I just heard at the coffee shop that some boys were missing,” Blake said. “Folks figured they ran off or something.”
Lonnie nodded and reached into his shirt pocket, slowly retrieving a pen and note pad. He opened it and wrote a note reminding himself to stop by the hardware store on the way home. Blake watched the sheriff write and his pulse quickened even more. What is he writing? Blake realized he couldn’t just stare at the sheriff so he surveyed the room, noticing the empty coffee pot. He realized he should offer the sheriff some coffee.
“Would you like me to make us some coffee, Sheriff?”
Lonnie looked up from his pad, and then looked at his watch. “No, thanks anyway. I gotta be heading back. Got some other folks I need to talk to on the way.”
Lonnie stood up and began walking to the door. Blake breathed a quiet sigh of relief, walked ahead and opened the door for the sheriff. Lonnie walked through, stopped in the middle of the opening and turned to face Blake, their faces only a foot apart.
“Do you know them boys?” Lonnie asked. “Jesse Simmons and Shane Dixon?
“No,” Blake said quickly and firmly.
“Hmmm...” Lonnie said, and then stood silently, his nose inches from Blake’s.
Blake thought about what, if anything else, he should say. The moment dragged out just as the sheriff wanted and just as Blake feared.
“What?” Blake asked finally.
“Well...it’s just that them boys don’t live too far from here. Jesse’s folks are dead and he lives with his uncle over on Sarah’s Creek. Shane lives over on Earls Ford Road. His folks said he was doing some work for a farmer up on Hale Ridge, or ’round them parts. Ain’t many folks that mess with farming up this way ’cept you, so I figured you might know ’em.”
“I just deliver stuff for farmers and wineries to restaurants in Athens,” Blake said.
“Yeah,” Lonnie said, looking Blake squarely in the eye. “So you don’t know them boys, then?”
Blake couldn’t remember ever having felt so scared. Oh shit, he knows! But, knows what? What is there to know?
“No,” Blake said.
Lonnie walked on through the door and pulled out his pad again to scribble a note. He glanced to his left at a woman walking up the path.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” Lonnie said as Angelica approached.
Angelica was surprised to see the sheriff, but not alarmed. She was generally happy to see anyone and would never suspect, or dread, that she was in any trouble. “Good morning, Sheriff,” she said with genuine enthusiasm.
Lonnie turned back to face Blake.
“All righty then. Well, good talking with you, Blake.” Lonnie glanced at Angelica before looking back at Blake, making sure she also got the message. “Let me know if you hear anything about them boys, will you?”
“Of course Sheriff,” Blake said. Now please LEAVE! He thought.
Lonnie tipped his hat to Angelica, got in his car, and pulled away slowly.
Blake turned and stormed into the house. Angelica stood in the driveway. The peace and calm she had felt while knitting and watching Ozzie and Tammy gave way to unease. Seeing the sheriff and watching Blake storm off brought her morning nightmare back to the foreground.
She walked into the kitchen and closed the door. Blake sat on the sofa, his chin resting in the palms of his folded hands. His mind was elsewhere, unaware of her presence. Angelica turned on the water faucet, filled the coffee pot, and poured it slowly into the coffee maker. Opening the can of Maxwell House, she put two measured scoops into the filter and turned the machine on.
Angelica stood in the kitchen and studied Blake, feeling in her gut that something was wrong but not sure how to approach him. He had become so distant, so irritable recently, that Angelica felt she had to tread cautiously when approaching him. Yet, at that moment, she realized how much she needed him. She didn’t work or have any way of producing income. Blake provided almost everything. Angelica did inherit some money from her parent’s death that she put alongside the money Blake’s lawyer won him for the car accident. Together it had been just enough to pay cash for the house, furnishings, land, and Blake’s truck. They had a great health care plan that would provide everything the baby needed if there was an emergency, but it was a plan that Nick provided to Blake by putting him on The Federal’s payroll for a nominal salary. Angelica had been thrilled, even proud of Blake, when he explained that Nick had agreed to it as part of Blake doing so much for him. With no mortgage, no car payment, and no health care costs, Blake only had to earn enough to pay utilities, a little bit of food, and minor expenses.
But what if something’s wrong? Angelica thought while watching Blake. What if he’s in trouble? What will happen to the health care? To the money that he makes to pay the bills? What would I do? What would WE do when the baby comes?
Blake sat in silence, fearing the worst for himself. Angelica stood fifteen feet away, in silence, fearing the worst for herself and for her baby. The coffee maker stopped dripping and Angelica took a cup, filling it with black coffee. She walked around the bar and stood before Blake before speaking softly.
“Mornin’ sweetie. Here’s your coffee.”
Blake looked up at the cup before him, at the woman before him. He saw what he had once seen, but had lost sight of. He saw an angel. He stared without expression into her eyes through the smallest of tears that threatened to flood his own eyes. How could I have lost sight of her? Of our baby? Of what’s important? What the hell is wrong with me? Blake was in shock, both at Angelica’s grace and beauty and at his own greed, his own stupidity. How had he gotten himself into this mess?
“Blake?”
He realized that Angelica was still holding the coffee.
“Sorry, sweetie,” he said lovingly. It was all Angelica needed. She seemed to have no capacity to hold grudges, to stay angry. She had only the capacity to forgive, to comfort. To love. She smiled at the first truly kind words Blake had uttered to her in months. As she sat beside him, Angelica placed her left hand on his right knee. She wanted to know what the sheriff wanted but feared it would upset Blake if she asked directly, so she took another approach.
“Is everything okay, hon?”
Blake looked at her and quickly looked away. He felt himself losing control, tearing up, and didn’t think he could keep his composure by looking at her. In that moment it felt less like she was his wife and more like she was maternal, someone who would understand, would comfort and tell him that everything would be just fine. That’s all he wanted to hear, that everything would be hunky-dory but he knew that Angelica couldn’t make any of his troubles go away. Only he could.
He sat beside her in silence and thought for a moment. He needed to tell her the truth and then to get out of the mess he felt he was in with Nick. To walk the straight path with her at his side, just as she wanted. She was right, he needed to go to church with her and he would, this Sunday, he told himself. Turning to Angelica, Blake took her left hand, opened his mouth, and prepared to tell her everything. To confess and give himself some peace.
“Angelica, I have to talk to—”
A series of loud knocks pelted the kitchen door, interrupting Blake. Blake and Angelica turned quickly to see the door rattle and to hear the voices of two little girls cry: “Auntie Angelica, Auntie Angelica!” Blake stood and pulled his suit of armor back on. Angelica put her hand on Blake’s shoulder.
“Everything will be okay,” she said.
Blake walked to the kitchen and poured his coffee into a travel mug as Angelica walked toward the door. He turned and said, “I have to make a delivery to Nick. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
Angelica opened the door and the girls rushed in, pink ribbons in their hair streaming. They nearly knocked Angelica down as she knelt to hug them. Blake walked past and out the door, seeing Rose walking in from the car.
“Hi, Rose,” he said politely.
“Hi, Blake. Where you off to?”
“Athens,” he said. He continued walking before turning around at his truck. “Oh yeah...have a good vacation,” he added.
Rose smiled, but said nothing as she walked inside.
Chapter 17
After leaving the isolation and dense forest cover that overhung most of Warwoman, the small town of Clayton emerged as something of a rural metropolis after Blake snaked through the morning fog along Warwoman Creek. Turning south on 441, he drove past Regions Bank, Bi-Lo groceries, Chick-Fil-A, the new Super Wal-Mart and Home Depot, thinking of all the businesses Clayton now had where he could likely get a job. Places he would never have considered working before. He always thought he was far too good for them then, wanted way more out of life than they could ever offer. Now, they dangled everything that he wanted. Stability, honesty, security. More than anything they could provide a place to hide, to blend in, and be somebody by being nobody.
Blake drove under the nameless overpass that led southbound cars to Rabun County High School and recalled how he had once daydreamed that the overpass would be named after him. You’re now passing under the Blake Savage overpass, he said to himself in a mocking manner, realizing how foolish and insignificant a dream that had been.
He continued on 441 past Tiger and Wiley, surveying all the businesses run by good, honest people. Respectable people. People doing what he now felt he should have done. But no, he had sought riches and glory. Fame.
After he was forced to surrender his football dreams, he became intoxicated with the notion of becoming a celebrity farmer, a ridiculous notion that made Blake chuckle when Nick had first mentioned the idea to him. Nick had told the stories of how his own father was a famed charcuterier in Spain, as was his father before him. Both had raised the revered black-footed pigs in the mountains, fed them acorns and cured the highly prized Jamón Ibérico de Bellota hams in mountain sheds, letting them hang for two years. Even in Spain those hams can cost over one hundred dollars per pound, Nick had said. Lured in by Nick’s grand vision, Blake imagined doing in northeast Georgia what no one else was doing anywhere in America, creating what chefs across the country craved. Reproducing the mountain-cured hams from acorn-fed, black-footed pigs and selling to Nick’s line of exclusive restaurants. He knew that Nick would get the glory, but Blake figured he would still be in the game, so to speak. And richly rewarded. Nick was as fascinated by the idea as Blake was, partly because there were hordes of pigs that descended from the Iberian pigs, right here in Georgia.
“When my people, the Spaniards, came through a few centuries ago,” Nick had explained to Blake, “they brought the black-footed pigs with them and left them on an island near Savannah. That way, the next wave of Spaniards would have something to hunt, something to eat. At some point we stopped coming, and the pigs took over the island and thrived. All you have to do is get some off the island, raise them in the woods, and cure them in the cool mountain air.”
Nick had made it sound so easy. So seductive. And he was so persuasive, partly because he was willing to pay a lot to get the real thing, not the inferior industrial version that other restaurants were able to get. Once the USDA had approved the process of allowing some Spanish hams to be imported they had basically been ruined. Sure, they had the name Jamón Ibérico and were quite good compared to American hams, but comparing them to his father’s hams was like comparing drug store champagne to a bottle of vintage Louis Roederer Cristal. Both could claim to use the champagne method, but one taste of the latter would uncloak the former as mere toilet water. Nick wanted the absolute best for his restaurants and for his new 50-Forks club, and he was willing to pay for it to be made the right way. The way his father and his father before him made it, not the way the USDA would have it cooked and salted to death. But he needed an accomplice...someone to do the dirty work, Blake now realized. And Blake was only too eager once Nick did the math for him. Now, Blake began to do the math once again as he drove south, paying no attention to the SUV that had pulled into the lane behind him and now followed him.
I’ve got 200 hams hanging now, about fifteen pounds each. That’s 3,000 pounds. Nick will pay me seventy dollars a pound when they’re ready, that’s just over $200,000, not counting the other parts...the shoulders, bellies and so on. Half the hams are ready now but they won’t all be ready for another six months at least. I gotta get Nick to take everything now, or maybe take some to other chefs... Blake was immersed in his thoughts as he approached the Tallulah River. Delivering hams for the 50-Forks dinner was just the beginning. Nick wanted hams cured the way his father had done it and on a regular basis. And he wanted to make sure that no other chef had access to those hams, those rare black-footed pigs. Blake exhaled as he tried to figure a way out of having to continue working with Nick.
He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw a rack on the top of the car behind him. Blake looked more closely to see that the rack was actually the lights of the sheriff’s vehicle. Instinct forced him upright. He corrected his posture and lifted his left hand to the wheel at the 10:00 position to face his right hand in the 2:00 position. He caught his breath and didn’t exhale, his throat instantly parched. What the hell do they want?
The car stayed on Blake’s tail about one hundred yards back, keeping its distance precise. Blake slowed a little and continued south. The sheriff’s car slowed to match Blake’s speed and stayed behind him. A trail of cars now followed the sheriff’s car as no one dared pass, even though Blake was now driving five miles per hour under the speed limit. He looked at his speedometer and pushed the accelerator slightly, increasing his speed to fifty-five. The train behind him kept pace.
Blake saw the fog rising from the Tallulah gorge ahead of him indicating that he was close to crossing the bridge, where he would leave Rabun county and enter Habersham County, out of the sheriff’s jurisdiction. JUST GET OFF MY TAIL! Blake screamed to himself. His pulse was rapid and his face was flush as he tried again to calm himself.
What do I have to be afraid of? What have I even done? Even if something happened to those boys, how is that my fault? I didn’t do anything!
Blake tried all the logic he could muster, but his rational thinking was no match for his inner voice.
What about what’s in the back of your truck that you’re taking to Nick? How will you explain that if the sheriff asks?
In the mirror, the sheriff’s car zoomed closer, right on his tail now as the bridge approached. Jesus! Blake crossed the bridge and entered the fog. He slowed and turned on his lights as the fog thickened. Slowly, he began the winding ascent up and around Tallulah gorge. Blake exhaled as he passed the sign for Habersham County and flicked his eyes to the mirror. The fog lights from the sheriff’s vehicle stayed tethered to his truck, matching it curve for curve.
Jesus! What the hell does he want? Blake thought about pulling over at a gas station, a tourist stop...any place. Instead he continued, concentrating on the road. He took one hand off the wheel, wiped the sweat from his palm on his pants, and then repeated with the other. Blake glanced down at his pants to see the momentary stain left by the sweat and looked back in the mirror. There was nothing there. No sheriff, no cars.
What the–
Blake couldn’t see where anyone had gone. The rapid curves and hills offered no more than a view of a hundred yards or so at many points without the fog. In the fog Blake was lost, alone. He just wanted out, to see that he was safe. He wanted Angelica, to be by her side. He admonished himself again for letting his life come to this. That’s it...I’ve had it! Blake pounded the wheel furiously. I’m telling Nick that it’s over. I’m done with all this! This Sunday, I’m going to church with Angelica and getting some peace back in my life.
As he crested the last hill of Tallulah Falls, Blake accelerated out of the fog as 441 straightened. He drove the speed limit straight to Athens.
***
Vans and other vehicles crowded the parking lot of The Federal when Blake arrived at 11:02 a.m. Far more than usual, but then again this wasn’t a normal Friday morning for Nick Vegas. This was the day before his opening series of the 50-Forks dinners that would be held simultaneously the following day in ten cities. Nick would be the host chef in Athens at a private residence, since that was where the Food Channel camera crew would be. The dinner would be the first installment of a new Food Channel series called Underground Chefs and would air weeks later.
Blake backed his truck up to the kitchen entrance and walked inside. He knew his way around The Federal’s kitchen but always felt uncomfortable there. He passed the pastry prep area where dough was being rolled out and bread was being made, and continued walking into a sea of stainless steel. An orchestra of cooks...chefs! Chefs, sous chefs, assistants, line cooks, servers, and others without titles each attended to a task under the occasional direction of the conductor, the head chef. Pork bellies were being cured, fresh picked arugula was being sampled and inspected.
A local cheese maker had just come in with her assortment of cheeses for the Saturday dinner and the ensemble gathered for a team tasting. Yellow paste oozed from the white mold, raw-milk Camembert when the sous chef sliced into them, each cast member oohing and ahhing at the flavor, using descriptive phrases like “I can really taste the farm” and “it has the slightest essence of chocolate and lemongrass.” The cheese maker, chasing fame in her own right, Blake reckoned, explained it was due to her farm’s unique terroir. The chefs all nodded knowingly, as did the servers who would no doubt pass on that vague expression to diners so that they could feel better about parting with so much of their hard-earned money. Or inherited money, perhaps. Blake snorted to himself and continued walking. He saw two young busboys that weren’t too busy and asked them for help. He watched them hoist several large coolers from the back of his truck and pack the contents into the walk-in coolers before returning the collection of coolers to Blake’s truck. With the delivery unloaded, Blake strolled through the kitchen he knew so well to look for Nick.
“Can you tell me where Nick is?” Blake asked one of the sous chefs.
“Last I saw he was sitting at the bar.”
Blake walked through the double doors and into the rear of the dining room. Past the plastic palm tree, he could see someone sitting at the bar talking on his phone. It was Nick. Blake walked around the perimeter of the room to approach. Nick saw Blake approaching. He buried his smile and ended the call.
“Blake,” Nick said, looking at his Rolex. “What’s up?”
Clearly, Nick had either no time or no interest for small talk, for an unscheduled visit.
“I need to talk to you for a minute,” Blake said.
“Look, it’s a bad time—”
“It won’t take long,” Blake interrupted.
Nick stood and crossed his arms in front of him.
“What is it?”
Blake drew a deep breath and prepared to go down the list he had practiced on the ride down the way a pilot might check items off a pre-flight checklist.
“I just dropped off your centerpiece for tomorrow night’s dinner,” Blake began. “I delivered the cured hams you needed on Wednesday and FedExed the others to the other nine restaurants on the same day.”
“Yes, I know,” Nick said. “I’ve spoken to the chefs.”
Blake took another breath. “Nick...” Blake paused. What do I want to say? What am I trying to say?
“Blake, let’s talk some other time. I have a ton to do before tomorrow.”
“No!” Blake said, surprising both himself and Nick with his assertion of authority. “I mean...Nick, I’m done. Finished. I need to deliver everything to you as soon as I can. Everything. I’m done with all this.”
Nick surveyed Blake, trying to detect what might be the problem so that he could choose the best response from his arsenal. He cast a line into the water. “What’s wrong, Blake?”
“I’m just done, Nick. I can’t do it anymore. My own wife doesn’t even know what I’m doing!”
Nick saw his opportunity to take control and began to assert himself. “And why is that, Blake?”
“BECAUSE, Nick,” Blake began and then quieted his voice. “You know why. It’s illegal. Everything I’m doing up there. The animals weren’t taken legally and the meat you had me cure for you hasn’t been inspected. And, it’s not even my land! You know that! I didn’t want Angelica to have anything to do with that!”
As he stopped talking Blake realized he had blurted all of that naïvely, as if talking to himself alone in the car, something that had become habit. Nick said nothing. He kept his arms crossed and stared Blake down. Blake dropped his eyes and continued.
“It’s over. Half of the hams are ready. I’m sure the others are good to go too,” Blake said, “since they’ve been curing for a little over a year now.”
“That’s no good, Blake. They have to go through that second cool autumn and winter to fully develop, that’s crucial. I’ll take the hams when they are two years old, just as we agreed,” Nick said. “And not a moment before.”
Blake stood tall and prepared to call Nick’s bluff. “Fine. Like I said Nick, I’m done. Take them now or...I’ll offer them to someone else.”
Blake hadn’t meant for the demand to sound as threatening as it did, but it was too late now. Nick grinned slightly, slyly. He sat down on a barstool and appeared so relaxed, so completely at ease. He reached his arms forward, interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles as they pushed out toward Blake.
“You know, Blake,” Nick began, “now that I listen to you describe what you’ve been doing, wouldn’t that be considered a violation of the Federal Meat Inspection Act? It’s just like that farmer in New York that got caught selling meat last year that wasn’t inspected, isn’t it?”
“Nick, you know what we agreed to! I’m selling you live animals, not processed meat. You don’t need a permit or inspection to sell live animals. We agreed that I would cure the meat for you as a friendly service, but you bought the live animal and that’s not a violation,” Blake said, but not as confidently as he would have liked. The truth was he didn’t know how the laws would be interpreted, and didn’t want to find out.
