Earl did not know a soul at a scrap yard in Zanesville. He knew exactly one man who did.
Dale Voss was loading a rusted hay rake onto his trailer when the Crown Victoria pulled into his drive. He did not stop working.
"Come to arrest me?"
"Come to ask for help," Earl said. "I think the can went out with the fryer oil. I think it's in the bin the county hauled to Zanesville this morning. And I think you're the only man in this county they'll stop a crane for."
Dale straightened up slowly. He looked at Earl for a long time.
"You want me to help find the money they're saying I stole."
"I want you to help prove you didn't."
Dale wiped his hands on his jeans. "I'll drive. That car of yours won't make it up their lane."
The yard sat off a county road east of town, acres of gray steel under a gray sky. Trucks lined up at the scale. A magnet crane swung over the piles, dropping fenders and bedsprings with a crash Earl felt in his teeth.
Dale walked into the office like he owned it. The foreman, a big man named Lonnie Briscoe, came out from behind the desk and shook his hand.
"Dale. You're early for Tuesday."
"Calder County's bin come in this morning?"
"About an hour ago. It's on the light iron pile." Lonnie looked at Earl's badge, then back at Dale. "You in trouble?"
"Not yet," Dale said. "Depends what's in your pile."
Lonnie did not want to stop the crane. Every hour it sat cost money, and he had six trucks waiting at the scale. Earl understood that. He did not argue or wave the badge around. He just told him plainly what had happened, and who the money was for.
Lonnie was quiet a moment. "My dad was Navy," he said. He keyed his radio. "Ricky, hold off on light iron. Twenty minutes."
They went into the pile with gloves and a pry bar. Dale knew what he was looking at. He could tell a county load from a farm load by the rust on it. He pulled out a bent mailbox, a lawn chair frame, and a tangle of old downspout.
"County bin's this layer here," he said. "It came in last, so it's on top."
Earl found the first coffee can. It was empty and greasy. So was the second.
Dale found the third one wedged under a busted grill grate. It was heavy. When he turned it over, Earl saw a stripe of white paint, then red, then blue.
The lid was still taped. One side was dented where it had hit the bottom of the bin.
Dale held it out like it might bite him. "You open it. I'm not having anybody say I touched the money."
Earl cut the tape with his pocketknife. Inside was a bread bag folded tight around a stack of bills and a sandwich bag of change. On top was a note in Lloyd's square handwriting. Four hundred twelve dollars. Christmas boxes. Post 4417.
Dale let out a long breath and looked off across the yard.
"Liquid oil never sets up hard," he said at last. "Harlan should've known."
"Harlan's hauled those cans for thirty years," Earl said. "First time anybody ever put money in one."
Lloyd Hersh was at the post when they got back, sitting alone at one of the long tables with a cup of coffee gone cold. He stood when he saw who came in behind Earl.
Earl set the can on the table. "Four hundred and twelve. I counted it twice. It went out the back door with the fryer oil Saturday morning. One of the kids stacked it with the others. Not one dollar was stolen."
Lloyd looked at the can. Then he looked at Dale.
Dale stood by the door with his cap in his hands. He looked ready for a fight and a little sorry he had come.
"Dale got a crane stopped for it," Earl said. "Lonnie Briscoe wouldn't have done that for me."
Lloyd was a proud man. Earl had watched him stand at attention in the rain every Veterans Day for twenty years. It took him a long moment.
"I said things," Lloyd said. "In front of people."
"You did," Dale said.
"Then I'll say the other thing in front of them too. Friday, at the fish fry." Lloyd cleared his throat. "Supper's on the post. If you'll come."
Dale turned his cap around once in his hands. "I don't eat fish."
"We've got hush puppies."
Dale almost smiled. "I'll think about it."
The block-letter notes came off the Feed and Seed board that afternoon. Earl did not have to take them down. Somebody had beaten him to it. In their place was a card in Lloyd's square handwriting saying the can had been found, and who had found it.
Friday night, the hall was full. Lloyd stood up before the blessing and said his piece. He said it plain. He did not dress it up, and he did not make it short.
Dale sat at the end of the last table with a plate of hush puppies and coleslaw. For a while, the men at his table looked at their plates. Then Harlan carried his own plate over and sat down across from him.
"Thirty years," Harlan said. "Never had money in a grease can before."
"So I heard."
"Liquid oil doesn't set up. I ought to have known that."
"I told the sheriff the same thing."
Harlan nodded. After a minute, he slid the ketchup across the table.
Earl watched from the kitchen door with a cup of black coffee. Lloyd had a new can on the pass-through. It was painted red, white, and blue all the way around this time.
Across the lid, in Lloyd's square black letters, somebody had written two words. NOT GREASE.
