they're a helluva lot worse

"Today?" "Yes, I, uh, well, I can't go back to Memphis." He lowered his head and ran his fingers through his long hair. "Somebody looking for you?" "Yeah," he nodded. "Bad guys." "Not cops?" "No, they're a helluva lot worse than cops." "Do they know you're here?" Ray asked, glancing around. He could almost see heavily armed drug dealers hiding behind the bushes. "No, they have no idea where I am." Ray stood and went into the house. Like most folks, Oscar Meave remembered Forrest well. They had worked together in a federal detox program in Memphis, and while he was sad to hear that Forrest was in need of help, he was nonetheless delighted to talk to Ray about him. Ray tried his best to explain the urgency of the matter, though he had no details and was not likely to get any. Their father had died three weeks earlier, Ray said, already making excuses. "Bring him on," Meave said. "We'll find a place." They left town thirty minutes later, in Ray's rental car. Forrest's Jeep was parked behind the house, for good measure. "Are you sure these guys won't be snooping around here?" Ray said. "They have no idea where I'm from," Forrest replied. His head was back on the headrest, his eyes hidden behind funky sunshades. "Who are they, exactly?" "Some really nice guys from south Memphis. You'd like them." "And you owe them money?" "Yes." "How much?" "Four thousand dollars." "And where did this four thousand bucks go?" Forrest gently tapped his nose. Ray shook his head in frustration and anger and bit his tongue to hold back another bitter lecture. Let some miles pass, he told himself. They were in the country now. farmland on both sides. t,