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to her, trying to conceal the comical sight I had just witnessed as I heard a piece of metal hit the road. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" she screamed at me. I detected a Yankee accent and wondered what a fine looking lady like her was doing down our way...driving that English car with Arkansas plates and the steering wheel on the wrong side. "Got a phone?" I asked, emphasizing my natural drawl. A hard glare came over her face as she inspected my face for any hint of amusement. "Are you doing that on purpose?" she yelled to make herself heard over the after-work traffic. "Doing what?" I inquired, innocently. "That down-home hayseed accent youre putting on. Ive lived in Little Rock for over two years and I know you dont all talk like that, Its just too...," she stopped in mid sentence as she produced a cell phone from her purse. "Who should I call?" she asked, still yelling but almost civil. Before I could tell her to call the police I heard a siren. It sounded like it was on top of us, a passer by must have already called them. A minute later Barker drove up, lights flashing. He parked behind the MG, got out of the police car and immediately begin ordering gawkers to move along. Barker was about my brothers age, 24 or 25. They had probably been in the same class. He had been on the police force for about 2 years. I tried to remember his first name, was it Jim? no James, he wanted to be called James. "James, hows it hanging," I said, trying to sound friendly as he approached. "License and registration," Officer James Barker demanded. The surly bastard acted as if he didnt recognize me. "Fat James," thats what Chuck used to call him when they were in school. Wonder what he would do if I said, Fat James, hows it hanging?But he had lost weight since joining the police force, James looked lean and mean. We both went to our vehicles and returned with the documents. Officer Barker handed us each an accident report form. "Want me to call a wrecker?" he ask the lady. She nodded, silently, looking as if she was resisting an urge to cry. "Ill do it," I volunteered, reaching for her cell phone. I knew that our local police department always called Huskys, one of two body shops in town. My friend, Freddy was always complaining about how the police cut him out of getting wrecker business. Just then I heard James on his walkie-talkie, instructing his dispatcher to have Huskys come out as soon as possible. "We got us a traffic snarl here," he added. While exchanging insurance information I recorded her name and address, Veronica Perkins, Little Rock, Arkansas. Veronicas age was 28, she was 56" and weighed 112 pounds according to her drivers license. In the photo, her dark hair had been shorter than it was now. I also noticed that she was smiling and


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there was a distinct dimple on her right cheek, a mannerism I had not witnessed in the short time we had spent together. She leaned over the rear of her little car and seemed to be taking pains to record my name and address, my age, height and weight. She reminded me of one of those cigarette ads you see in magazines, shades riding on her head, sweater loosely tied around the neck, shirt with button down collar. I averted my eyes when she suddenly turned with a question, catching me checking out her ass. Placing a hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun, she frowned, "Is that the name of your business?" she asked, pointing to the sign on the door of my truck, Charlies Turkeys, the sign said, which did not agree with the name on my license, Ernest Tucker. "Yes maam, thats my brothers name, its a family business," I explained, not revealing that the business had been named for my father who had started the business and operated it until his death just over two years before. My brother was really Charles Tucker Junior but had never gone by Junior, we had always called him Chuck. Huskys Wrecking Service pulled up about the same time another police car arrived. Skip Husky went to work with a winch while Sergeant Griffin made measurements of the skid marks and snapped pictures of the little car that reminded me of a piglet and its mother, sucking fuel from my trucks gas tank. He put officer James to work directing traffic. Then he interviewed Veronica and me separately. While the sergeant was talking to Veronica, I grabbed a broom from my truck and swept up the glass and stray pieces of metal from the highway. Skip Husky talked to Veronica while sergeant Griffin spoke to me. "How did this happen, Ernie?" Grif wanted to know. He was a few years older than me but everyone knew everyone else in our small town. Some you liked, others you didnt. Grif was okay, for a cop. "A school bus stopped suddenly in front of me so I stopped, she ran up my butt," I summed it up for him. "Thats not what shes telling me," he warned me, speaking of Veronica. "I know, shes pretty upset about the whole thing," I acknowledged. "Which school bus was it?" he looked at me closely as if he didnt believe the story I had given him. "What would a school bus be doing out here at 5 p.m.?" he said to himself. "Dont know for sure, she drove off while I was looking in my mirror," I said. "She?" he asked, "who was the driver?" Grif wanted to know. "Dont know for sure," I repeated, trying to recall who was driving school busses this year. Nearly all the drivers were female but I hadnt seen more than the hair. "They all look alike from the back," I shrugged, helplessly. Grif gave me a disgusted look and took a few steps away. When I