“Just flyers,” Arthur said, whistling between his teeth as he hoisted another crate. “Nothing that needs a reply.”
“You cannot keep running this place alone, Arthur,” I said, looking at the overgrown grass along the fence line. “It is too much acreage for one man.”
Arthur stopped, his hand resting on the dusty green side of his truck bed. He looked toward the empty barn, then back at me.
“We all have to find a way to keep moving, Robert,” he said.
He climbed into the cab and pulled the door shut with a heavy metallic clang.
I watched the green pickup roll down the driveway, the back filled with white feathers and the steady, rhythmic sound of forty ducks quacking into the hot afternoon air.
I pulled the cruiser across the double yellow line of Main Street at two in the afternoon, blocking the lane just enough to make the green pickup halt. The late August heat was cooking the street, making the asphalt soft under my boots as I stepped out.
Arthur sat behind the wheel, his faded canvas cap tipped low against the sun. In the truck bed behind him, dozens of white ducks were shifting, their feathers bright against a large, hand-carved wooden crate made of weathered oak.
“You are causing a bottleneck, Arthur,” I said, leaning my arm on his hot door frame. “The chief is already nervous about the wedding traffic this weekend.”
Arthur gave a cheerful whistle between his teeth, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. “The road is wide enough for all of us, Robert.”
“Where are you going with a mobile aviary?” I asked, looking back at the wooden duck crate. “You cannot just parade them through the business district.”
“They look like they want to see some penguins, officer,” Arthur said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I promised them a trip to the zoo.”
I rubbed my left shoulder, the old joint aching from the humidity. “The nearest zoo is sixty miles away in Toledo, Arthur.”
“Then we had best get moving before the gates close,” he said, shifting the truck into gear with a dry grin.
He pulled away before I could answer, leaving a faint smell of river mud and dry straw in the hot air.
At half past three, David was riding shotgun in my patrol car, his fingers constantly adjusting his heavy-duty utility belt. He was speaking fast, reciting the municipal codes for transporting live cargo on public roads.
