Michael Malone - Weebly

construction of a big connector heading north off Route
3, east of the marshlands, on land Ernest Ransom had
sold it—and, no doubt, Haig was certain, had made a
killing on. Workers collected in Madder, crowded a
trailer park with the tawdry household goods of their
transient households; among the workers Maynard
Henry and the two Grabaski cousins, heroes home from
the evacuation of South Vietnam.
But then, as Rumor neglected to mention, at least
she said no words in Haig's ear, construction abruptly
stopped half a mile after it started. Ernest Ransom
bought back the land and, no doubt, came out ahead. It
was always the little guy, Haig was certain, that got
screwed. Now the highway connector connected with
nothing but weeds and broken trees, a short black
tongue stuck out at Nature, who ignored it. Yucca
Boulevard never blossomed, and the last yuck was on
John "Hawk" Haig, who owned a house and thirteen
acres of pine needles on a thirty-year mortgage.
So he became a sportsman, a hunter of small game
on his useless preserve, wiping away with shotgun
blasts the smug satisfaction of his victorious tenants, the