“We could go swimming,” suggested Jake halfheartedly. Gangster’s Pond, as everyone in town called it, was somewhere between emeralds and pea soup. It was almost inviting on a day like today.
“You kidding?” spat Troy. ” The pond stinks like goose turds and rotting fish. Plus, you know there are bodies on the bottom, right?”
That was the legend anyway, a relic from when a home near the pond actually housed a bootlegger.
“Dare ya,” smirked Jake.
“Fine,” said Troy, who shed his shorts, jumped in, and stubbed his toe on a cash-filled suitcase.