The Spoils
Photo: The U.S. National Archives. A night in early March in the town of Wequaquet, the ceaseless cold sailing in from the bay, the last stubborn mounds of snow on the ground, absurd hope and optimism running through the veins of the town, and Sam Caudwell was feeling giddy, childish, somewhat queasy even, as he pulled up to the old Cape cottage that had been converted into a real estate office, the one his friend Murph owned and operated. The one he had stood in front of for a photograph taken by Murph’s wife, Melissa—of himself, Murph, Porter, and Jenkins—when the four of them had gone into business together twelve years ago.
Caudwell had to roll down the window of his Ford Taurus and open his door from the outside. When he got out of the car, the sensor lights lit up the cottage, and he saw a kid hanging out the window. Caudwell lunged and grabbed the kid’s ankle just as he was about to get into the office. The kid bucked and kicked back, but he was puny and light, and Caudwell was able to drag him down through the rhododendron bushes and onto the lawn in front of the office. He had holes in his ears filled with black plugs, and three thick dreadlocks hanging from one side of his head otherwise shaved head.
“What’s wrong with you?” Caudwell said. “Don’t you know this is a private building? There’s nothing worth stealing here anyway, unless you’re in the market for some office supplies.”
The kid was balled up in the grass like a snail.
“Get up will you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The kid stood up. He had dirt on his face from the fall. His hands shook ever so slightly and he quickly put them in his pockets.
“You live around here?”
“No.”
“Are you on those pills?”
The kid laughed and snorted. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred twenty pounds.
“How old are you?
“Are you going to give me some money or not?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Sixteen.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why do you care?”
Caudwell took
