The little stall, just a white tent with four aluminum legs, had three baskets of fruit.
Blackberries were the only ones Agnew recognized.
Didn’t recognize the young woman selling them, either.
Next to her stall were some fake leather wallets and belts, and then some oils and incense, but not the kind of oils Farrakhan’s guys sold on the corner of Schoolcraft.
A band played on some pallets, with some black tablecloths hanging off the corners.
“I’m not familiar with this stuff,” Agnew said in general, but kind of to the fruit girl, who was pretty without seeming to try.
“It’s okay for folk-punk, I guess, the fruit vendor said.”There’s a really great metal bluegrass band next.”
Agnew started to ask, then thought better of it. He would be embarrassed if he didn’t understand the answer.
He took a winding route back toward the store. Said hey to a few people, didn’t know many of ‘em by name.
One of the vendors had an Illinois plate, last four numbers were 0369. Agnew thought about playing that in the lottery.
“Yo, Ag.”
Crunk was leaning against the mailbox rack of the Kilburn Arms. He had an unlit half-smoke dangling from his lips like he was saving it.
“What up doe, Crunk?”
“Same, “ Crunk said, “‘cept, my oldest gettin’ ready to have a kid. Gonna be a grandpa. Spoiling my grandbaby at these silly hippie fairs we seem to be having every other weekend now.”
He smiled.
“Congratulations, Crunk, that’s a big deal. I’m gonna call you--”
“Cedric!”
Crunk’s wife was calling from the second-floor window, overlooking the parking lot, less visible than she was audible.
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