Chapter 12
1
“Grampa trashed his car on Main. Hit Lazarus…that’s what Ange said.”
Adam hadn’t seen grampa. He heard his parents talking. Heard his mom crying. But that was sometimes par for the course. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but he could always count on the continued pulse of the rumor mill to keep him up to date. And that pissed him off. Grampa was nowhere to be seen at breakfast, and he wanted to joke around about the stupid BBQ that had Creekers and Corners doubly excited to get drunk one last time before summer disappeared entirely. But now he understood why. He was probably embarrassed and didn’t want his daughter, let alone his grandson, to look at him after what he’d done.
“You think it was on purpose?” Pug asked. Chels nipped at his heel. They were standing under the willow at Croak’s place. The shadow threw out into the street and splayed along the asphalt, rustling this way and that as a breeze flicked through.
If he actually did it. If this isn’t just bullshit, then yes. He absolutely did it on purpose. Adam thought he understood something about his grampa’s lie the other night. The lie that Lazarus was nothing but a hippie out to score a few bucks. He didn’t tell the guys, no, because he didn’t want to scare them, especially considering what they were going to do today when the grilles started. Adam had already watched a group of guys hauling in propane barbecues and chaining them together at the end of the block. Their trailers all read: PURE ETHANOL.
“Jesus, Adam, cat got your tongue?”
Adam looked at Danny. This was their last Saturday of the summer; it was also the beginning of something else. Something dangerous. If grampa hit Lazarus with his Tercel on purpose, then he would have only done it for one reason: to protect these boys. And yet here they were, devising a plan with a clean cut Hopson who just now was inside sitting over a breakfast of soggy cereal with the girl down the block the boys set him up with in order to coax a little participation.
“He’s old.”
“You think it was an accident?”
“I think it doesn’t matter what I think.” And he truly believed that now. Because now his grampa was playing a game he didn’t want Adam to know about.
“Well, Lazzie’ll be more than pissed when we talk to him. You think grampa did this cause he knew what we were up to?”
“We’ve been pretty careful. Haven’t been to Fenway. Played by their rules.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Danny said. “Grampa’s different cause he knows what we know. He’s seen the tape of Wilson. Shit, all we know, there’s a tape of the dude from the paper. The janitor.”
“What?”
Pug and Croak dug their feet into the grass. It was bad news lately in the Post. Pug heard his parents chatting about it, and Croak saw his mom reading the headline, wondering if she ever dated the poor sap. The picture in the paper suggested otherwise…hell, even his mom had standards.
“Janitor from the plant was found yesterday. Overdosed or something. So I bet there’s a tape of him. Maybe in his last moments. I bet there is.”
“Not something to bet on,” Pug said.
“Oh, so now you think we’re being morbid. Think about what we’re doing here. We’re setting up a plan with Croak’s asshole brother—”
“I’m an asshole now, eh?”
The boys didn’t even hear the front door open. Randy stood on the front porch with Ange, her hand in his.
“Shit…I didn’ mean…” Danny’s words were muddled and his face flushed.
“Oh can it man, I don’t give a shit what some Jew thinks about me.” He ran his hand through his short hair and pulled out his pack of Winstons. “So, let’s hash shit out then so I can go on my merry way. Ange and I want to take a walk out to the low-rent ghetto and see if the cops are still there bagging any more drug addicts.”
“I’ll see you in twenty. See ya, Horace.” Ange bent down and gently tugged Chelsey’s scruff and then took off home. Randy watched her walk for a moment, those parts of his mind he’d somehow turned off last night ignited with full force now, the way it often happened with boys when their best behavior was no longer required. She had come over of her own volition; she’d knocked and Randy’s mother opened the door to this lovely young lady, and though there was an initial discomfort, something Angela may have noticed, at a near unconscious level, when the woman shared a crestfallen guilt in her eyes, the awkwardness was pulled away by the tide of her gracious welcome as she invited Ange in. Croak was surprised as hell when he came downstairs for Frosted Flakes only to find Pug’s hot sister and his brother (a boy who rarely woke up before lunch) already seated at the table in the middle of conversation. When he called the guys to meet him out front, he was trying at the same time to eavesdrop on the two talking about the doped up janitor, wondering if he got his shit from Lazarus.
“You sure you aren’t adopted?” Randy asked, still looking at Angela but directing his question at Pug.
“I’m a late bloomer.”
“Quick on the take. I like that. Ugly ducklings need a sense of humor.”
“Randy, knock it off,” Croak blurted.
“No offense, obviously.” He pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips, letting it sit there for a moment. “So what’s the deal then? You guys thought I was too big a fucking loser to land a date with that prized pony, and here we are.”
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said. And I’m doubly sorry you think we pitied you by setting up this date. You proved us wrong on all counts.” Danny, ever the diplomat, spoke with a crisp and germane clarity that probably got him out of a few scrapes in New York. When you were skinny, when you were small, you learned to talk big when you couldn’t hit. That was your fist. It was an assumption one made about big city boys, especially a city as big as the Apple, and Danny proved it in spades.
Randy lit his smoke and inhaled. “So, how do you want to do this, then? I figure you want to keep it hush hush, right, what with your parents at the barbecue.”
“How does it work? How do you get a hold of him?”
“You guys are just full of assumptions. First I’m too ugly to get the girl. Haircut fixes that. Then you expect because of the hair that I’ve met Scarface for a score.”
“Have you?”
Randy looked at the boys. He flicked his smoke against the tree indifferently: “You page him. His number’s around if you know where to look. Word on the street is some ornery old fuck totalled the guy’s van. Ange heard the whole shebang from some dipshits at BB’s Rental and said Main was mostly locked down with the clean-up. We saw the busted van last night when we stopped for ice cream. Saw the cops sweeping up glass. I don’t know what this means for you, I don’t, but I’d suggest caution. I can only expect he’ll gouge you. Call it a First Time Sampler, or some such shit. I don’t know. I’m not going to stop you. Like I told Cory; it’s about time you dummies get in trouble around here.” He ran his hand through his hair again. His short hair.
“So you’ll page him?” Croak asked.
“Deal’s a deal.”
2
“You crazy son-of-a-bitch.”
It was the diner on Main. Something Lewis understood had become a part of the habitual pulse of the Creek. So it wasn’t such a shot in the dark he’d find the deputy here. He pulled out the chair and sat down across from Allen Webster.
The cop dropped his fork in his eggs and sat back. The seat groaned. “You’ve got a set of balls on you, old man. But let me set something straight here, cause Stevenson told me you were looking for some sort of friendship in me. When I saw you totalled Scarface’s Chevy, when I saw you in cuffs, I knew you’d somehow taken from our brief conversation that I thought it might be a good idea to do what we cannot. And you know damn well that wasn’t what happened.”
“You finished?”
Allen Webster smiled. He looked better this morning. Put together. The diner was just on the verge of its breakfast bustle, and Lewis was certain Saturdays brought in a good chunk of business. He wondered if anybody in here now, anybody sitting to eggs and toast or just a simple coffee, knew he was the crazy old coot who’d shut down northern Main last night. He knew news spread. That wasn’t such a shock, especially in a place like the Creek, but for now the news was just oral and any guy with white hair could be a suspect. He could live with that. “You want a coffee? Some sunny side up?”
“I’m fine.”
“Goddamnit, ol’ man. You’re a spirited son-of-a-bitch, you are. I figure you knew to find me here the same way you knew I’d find a bunch of coke in that brazen fucker’s van. Old habits and all. When you were on the beat, you stop by places like this for a free joe?”
Lewis only nodded.
“It’s why I face the street. Especially on Saturdays. It’s gotten busier with the Corners crowding the nooks and crannies. They’re easier to spot than the regulars, especially in here, cause they actually look at the fucking menu. Creekers just know. It’s routine for them. They know what they want for breakfast. They know the coffee tastes like piss in the afternoon so they come early to catch the morning roast. I saw your eyes last night. It breaks my heart to think you’re judging me. It does. I respect you. That guy over there.” He nodded toward an older fellow, sitting with his own coffee and a copy of the Post, its front page decorated with the photograph of a homely janitor. “Been here for forty years, I bet. Farmer. Then the feds come around with these promises. At first they seem pretty great. Lucrative’s a word being thrown around. Why are you farming wheat, ol’ timer, when we’ll pay you to turn your crops to corn? So he does. Takes the subsidy with the promise a new industry will find its roots in this Podunk cesspool where folk like me spend our weekends getting drunk in the woods. For a while he likes what this means. For a while he doesn’t bother coming here, to this shitty diner, cause he can afford his own coffee maker, something European, but then ground breaks on this new opportunity where his corn is becoming something important to people outside of the Creek. Becoming fuel. And that money, that promise, it doesn’t seem so great anymore because what had at first been something isolated, something that allowed him to plow without overseers breathing down his back, and allowed him to hit the Depot for a six-pack at night to catch the game, well, it turned Reedy Creek into something that it isn’t; it turned Reedy Creek into a facsimile of New York, and Jews and blacks, they started moving in because the promise of business was good, so this old timer, this old farmer set in his ways, now he’s faced with a modern dilemma this Podunk fuckall never had to face before and his little town turned into a sewer with big city problems.” Allen pressed his forefinger against the top of the Post sitting beside his breakfast. “Guy OD’ed on some pharma-shit. Sheriff said it’s the same stuff that croaked ol’ JFK’s Monroe herself. Big city problems.”
“I don’t know what that means?” Lewis said, obviously perplexed, but realizing Webster had a grander point to make.
“Maybe I suspected you were looking to find me and I wanted to be found.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Make it easy on you. You’re a Corner. Your son-in-law’s on the council. A big shot, big city writer, right?”
“In another life, yeah.”
“But you’re a Creeker through and through, ol’ man. Even if the place is just a way station for you. It took goddamn balls to decide to do what you did, and if it looked like I was scolding you out there, on Main, it’s cause I didn’t want any of Napolitano’s loyalists to see me applauding. Cause a bunch of us wanted to. Trust me there. So you’re here for either two things: you want a categorical understanding of what we found in the G20 so you can impress it upon your grandson not to fall for the pusher’s hype; or you’re looking for a different kind of favor that needed asking far enough away from the station that it wouldn’t put me in any kind of hot water.”
If he was Creeker now, if his badge of honor was temporarily crippling Lazarus, Lew was happy to oblige. He knew Betty thought differently; he knew, in spite of everything he was beginning to understand about this place, that Betty still believed in some semblance of order, of rationality, and what he was planning would not amount to anything that might solve his own confusion. Because his was a confusion that had its roots in something indefinable.
“I need a gun, Allen.”
The deputy’s eyes were cross for a moment, his brow furrowed. He folded his arms and rocked gently, the chair groaning again.
“You look upset.”
“Surprised. Genuinely surprised. I figured you’d have one. A stash.”
“My son-in-law’s against guns. Daughter too by association.”
“Sounds like our dear Sheriff from Philly.” He patted his own holster. “If it was truly up to him and not tradition, he would have mandated some sort of gun control policy that had us wielding night sticks and harder flashlights. Why?”
“Because I totalled a madman’s van. You didn’t think there’d be consequences to that?”
“What happened?”
Lewis thought about what he could say; he thought about sitting down with his daughter wishing he could express to her that he knew about the secret she was hiding, about the goddamn eventuality that would soon turn her into something she was not, something like her mother as time and mortality became ineluctably entwined; he thought about telling Webster about the crows that had fallen dead from the sky, and about the man in the fedora at the old farmhouse that might have been similar to the homestead bearing that poor old racist farmer’s memories of a Reedy Creek before the promises and opportunities turned it into a sewer. You did this to her.
“He threatened my family. After I left the station, I had to take a walk. Had to. And the bastard knew where I lived. And he waited for me. Would have waited all night if I’d just decided to depart this morning instead of looking for some fresh air last night. I used to smoke. Bought a pack recently because they help. Just having them can help. A coping mechanism, I guess. I brought that pack with me and held it with conviction, and that son-of-bitch was waiting in the trees and he came out. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“My God.”
To say he had Webster hook, line, and sinker would have felt wrong because the lie was so incredibly pronounced he was beginning to believe it himself. “He wanted it to be visceral. He wanted me to be comfortable. Like watching the news at home and seeing your folks were in a car accident on the screen. Sitting somewhere familiar where you can still smell them, can see the empty beer can your father left on the table, the implications and their finality can hit you harder. The bastard wanted me on my street when he told me he would cut my daughter’s throat.” His heart was racing, because maybe a part of what he was saying had been in his dream. Or just a fragment of his dream. Lazarus was a doorway now. “I want to put a bullet in him if I ever see him on our property.”
Allen took one last sip of his coffee and pushed the mug away from him. “Andy’s a nitpick. Some of the guys call him a liberal loon. Not sure exactly what that entails, but he’s got a pretty secure hold on forfeiture seizures and contraband in the evidence lockers. He once had us on a detail scouring the farms for unlicensed firearms. Found some boys in the woods shooting cans. No permits cause the guns were licensed to one of their fathers. There’s so much red tape these poor fuckers sometimes just leave the seizures in lock-up instead of taking the time to seek release with the district attorney. I got the feeling the kid didn’t tell his dad he took the guns, and I’m sure the ol’ guy didn’t know his boy and his friends took ‘em either. Napolitano called it a victory cause they were three or four firearms taken from private circulation. Gun control through evidence lock up.” Webster leaned forward, his elbows resting on the Formica tabletop and pushing his plate of cold eggs toward Lewis. “Three or four. Could even be five. Who’s to know, right? It’s all hearsay outside the lockers, and I know the clerk’s lunch schedule.”
3
Most of the public officials were gearing up for the barbecue that was meant as a conciliatory effort to ingratiate the immigrants to the born and bred Creekers. It was a community event, something that had been set up on bulletin boards around town, and then broadcast on mailers. Ned wasn’t against the idea. He’d broken up a few brawls at Up the Creek at night, when the farmers threw some punches at the big city migrants who may have scoffed at an accent or argued the flyover red state politics shit that so decisively drew lines between people. For that reason alone he didn’t mind that he was in uniform. Well, not alone. He supposed he preferred when Cole saw him this way. The uniform was tight in the right places. Ned had arms with just the right striations; his shirt was short-sleeved, and he would have been lying if he said he didn’t do any push-ups by the cruiser, scuffing up his palms on the asphalt just to get a minor pump into his biceps.
“So he understands he’s a suspect?”
“Well, maybe not a suspect, but a person of interest. I like that better. I didn’t flat out accuse him. I let him know I was thinking about him.”
Cole nodded. They were walking along a path in the woods, just off Cole’s street where a small brook made its way through ruts. There weren’t any joggers or cyclists.
“He got defensive.”
“That your diagnosis?”
“Well, yeah.” Ned decided that it was. “Serkis started using college words. The bigger the better, he figured. Said Clayton Miller was some sort of narcissist.”
“Didn’t look like one.”
“Somebody who sexualized his illness then. For attention.”
“That right?” Cole looked at Ned. He was studying him.
“Those were his words. Not mine.” Ned felt uncomfortable. Cole’s eyes, though studious, were judgmental. And maybe even a little skeptical; it was a damning look, something that said: I should have just talked to the doctor so the cop didn’t screw it up. Or maybe that was Ned’s own paranoia. He’d been running a ton of errands for Moore, and how he’d find excuses to cover up the mileage he burned following Trevor Kramer left his mind wandering. Andy Napolitano wasn’t usually burdened with the minor details, but when the end-of-month expenses came due, he was certain a few questions would be asked.
They stopped for a moment. Cole’s attention wasn’t completely on Ned. He expected that, of course. This meeting wasn’t planned, but after having met Norris in person he felt it was necessary for the check-up. Just to see what he was expected to do. Cole was watching somebody else.
Across the creek, and on a raised embankment with a newly paved path, a large man in a white silk shirt and black slacks was pushing what looked like his grandfather in a wheelchair. The pusher’s hair was ebony and slicked back with enough product to leave him one bright pinpoint beneath the trees. The man in the chair wore sunglasses and headphones. He was listening to a Walkman. He was old and terribly thin. His hair was long and white, but thinning at the temples. He had a white beard. Ned realized, for some strange reason, the man had shaved his mustache. He looked Amish. The man in the chair was whom Cole called the Saudi. Out for his daily walk.
“What we know so far: Clayton Miller had neuralgia. Nothing terminal, but enough to incite Serkis’s attention. Runs out of Nembutal, goes to the pharmacy without a prescription, is told to scram, calls Serkis for a re-fill, and you find him in his chair a few days later, front door unlocked, with a needle in his arm.”
“Sheriff’s calling it a suicide.”
“Because an overdose is bad press when you’re trying to appeal to backers like that.” Cole nodded toward the Saudi.
“Backer?”
“Not your problem,” Cole said.
“So what is?”
“The council’s your only concern, Ned. Or should I say deputy? You’re not usually in full regalia when you’re playing turnkey.”
“Ok, then, so we’ve got two players now. Two head-scratchers.”
“Two?” Cole arched his brow.
“Well, first you’ve got me driving to Davenport to follow Trevor Kramer, a goddamn bestselling author, mind you, slumming it here with us in the Creek. He and his wife go to the medical clinic. Why make that trek when we’ve got Dr Serkis here? Scratcher one. Two, a body Andy’s calling a suicide cause he’s most likely covering up what Serkis did.”
They were walking again. Ned wasn’t sure if the Saudi and his bodyguard, somebody whose own arms in that silk shirt trounced his own as they flexed pushing the chair up any hills, noticed they were being watched, and by an officer at that, but that didn’t matter. He figured small town cops like him were just busybodies, habitual familiarities, to men who garnered the sort of power that had guys like Cole Moore so deeply obsessed. Because guys like Cole Moore weren’t really writers for the Post.
“So you’ve looked up our friend Kramer, have you?”
“Thought it would give us something more to talk about.”
Cole smiled. “The council is a puzzle of curiosities, isn’t it?”
“Big time professor and writer in Massachusetts. New York Times bestseller. The Population Problem. Some tree hugger shit if I may say so myself. Debates some economist in a televised debate and blammo. Here he is with us. A fuckin’ Creeker.”
“No, here he is with us, a fucking councillor. Trevor Kramer was a dualist, a man who led two lives. Both contradicting each other. So they cancelled each other out. Idealist and father. When you are a contradiction, you are nothing. Sometimes ideas are all one has. And his flickered out. He drifted, tried to fill himself with different purposes. Or maybe even absolutions, if you prefer that. He gave himself to causes the only way he could. With money. His book money. He deferred his residuals to common causes. One in particular. Project Mother Gaia. And Paul Holdren perked up, cause these donations were big. And when he did finally go broke, that contradictory nature broken as well, he re-entered a system he didn’t truly believe in the only way he could without compromising his principles. He borrowed money illegally from people he should not have. And when that amount came due, Reedy Creek saved him. He’s not slumming here with us, Ned. Kramer’s here for a very simple reason. Paul Holdren is his savior and the council is his redemption. Reedy Creek is the council’s Last Supper and we’re being crucified because of an idea. That’s why we can condemn Serkis for being on the other side of that needle. Because no matter what, we’re just ants under a magnifying glass.” Cole looked up. There was a camera in the tree ahead and Ned understood what he meant.
“How do you know all of that?”
“Because somebody has to, Ned, or their ideas will win. That’s what the game’s always been. Good ideas and bad. We’re in a goddamn Cold War because of them.”
Ned considered that for a moment. He touched the butt of his gun. For a moment he thought it was just to feel safe, to understand if some prick tried to stick him as well, to flood him with Nembutal he had a bullet with the killer’s name on it, but that wasn’t particularly true, was it? Because taking a life was a hell of a lot more difficult than thinking of comeuppance; the act itself would take the persuasion of instinct over rationality. And what did you first think when you saw Serkis? You thought of Robert Redford, you faggot. He tried to close his mind to that accusatory tone, but he couldn’t. Because it was true.
You could just blow the whistle. Go to the mayor. Maybe even call the national press. But would they believe you? Would they believe a few random car accidents and an overdose were the result of some grand conspiracy in a pissant town with a burgeoning industry by a bestselling author, doctor, sheriff, and an environmentalist? Really, Ned? And then maybe Robert Redford himself will suggest a ménage trois with you and Serkis while the three of you shoot up Nembutal on a fuckin’ La-Z-Boy.
He wanted to chuckle. The earnestness in Cole’s tone and the outlandish nature of the claims were their own contradiction, weren’t they?
“You ever consider telling all of that to the New York Times or the Washington Post?”
Cole looked at Ned again with those judgmental eyes. “A conspiracy is only as good as its evidence.”
“But you’ve got some on Holdren, don’t you?”
“I’ve got my own Cold War with Holdren. He’s a worthy adversary covering his tracks. So we trigger his associates.”
“Who else knows all of this?”
“There are suspicions, I’m sure. You can’t flood a town with immigrants and not set off any red flags.”
Ned thought about the old man last night, the one who smashed into Lazarus’s van. Trevor Kramer’s father-in-law. He was on the penumbra of this game, was he not? He’d recognized the cameras, knew Napolitano kept an asset in the drug dealer as some sort of fall boy. He probably had his own suspicions about Trevor. He thought about how Cole had asked him to confront Norris in person, but not to throw any accusations. Cole wanted the good doctor to know he was on Ned’s radar, not the Creek PD’s. He could just as well confirm as much with Napolitano and have the suspicions wiped for his council affiliation. No, Cole was playing his own game of espionage in his Cold War with Paul Holdren, and poor Ned was his fucking proxy; he was the mousetrap. What Henry Kissinger might even call the Containment Honey Pot.
In his little war with Holdren, he wants you to invade fuckin’ Serkis like he’s Korea an’ Kramer like he’s Cuba. Get it?
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’ve planted your own idea now. So we wait and see what Norris Serkis does next.”
4
“So we duck out early after hot dogs. Meet Scarface off the street, maybe near the woods while everybody’s waiting for the fireworks. That work?”
Adam had only nodded his head. He knew the Jew could tell something was wrong. And he knew he could read it had everything to do with his grampa. Adam couldn’t believe he had to hear about the accident through the grapevine, that Pug’s stupid sister had to play telephone with the man’s reputation, leaving morons like Randy to call him a senile fucktard, or whatever it was the guy was thinking. And now grampa had gone AWOL. He couldn’t stay with the guys. Not now. Pug had suggested they try a game of pick up at the school, figuring the older boys would be too busy following in Randy’s footsteps to check the rentals near the plant for more overdose prospects. “If we do play, I’m Terry Steinbeck. Might as well be an Athletic. I figure they’re going to the Series this year. What with the Bash Bros.” Pug pretended to swing a bat.
“Nah, count me out.”
“You okay?”
“Worried, to be honest.” And he was. He could tell Pug was concerned. Danny was indifferent and Croak was huffing a Winston he must have pulled from Randy’s pack when his attention was on Angela. “I mean, I didn’t even know. And here word’s already spreadin’ that grampa’s lost his mind.”
“Nobody’s saying that.”
“Not out loud.”
“Come on, Adam,” Danny finally piped up. He stole a drag from Croak’s smoke and flicked the ashes. “It was an accident. Probably coincidence.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Danny said nothing and just handed the Winston back to Croak. Because Danny didn’t believe a word of what he’d just said. He was trying to be careful. To make sure Adam didn’t sniff out what he and everybody else was already thinking. That maybe grampa Lewis was a little crazy, that maybe bringing him into this little circle of trust had been the wrong thing to do. And Adam was starting to believe Danny might have been right all along.
“Don’t listen to what the idiots say, Adam,” Pug said, watching Chels chase up ahead the street where the party prep was in full force. Creek officials were already setting up long tables and foldable chairs; there were stacks of paper plates already starting to pile and grilles were being lined up against the gutter where they’d organize the buffet lines.
But he would listen regardless. Because he was starting to believe what the idiots were saying. The boys separated, agreeing to meet when the barbecue started later in the afternoon. “It’s Shabbat, but my dad’s being extra lenient,” Danny said.
“So your God takes days off for a wiener?” Croak jibed.
“Fuck you, beanpole!”
Adam wanted to pretend everything was normal, but he couldn’t; he couldn’t shake what he’d heard and what people were most likely saying now. He wanted to go to Main, to check out the crash site himself. But he figured it would be gone by now. Plus, he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth. So he headed home.
He didn’t know exactly what he’d say. He opened the front door expecting to be angry, expecting to find the man in front of the television in his ratty PJs, maybe just gulping booze while he watched an infomercial, indifferent to what he’d just done and to what people outside were already claiming about him. “What the hell were you thinking? What if Lazarus had a gun? What if he shot you for being a hero? We both know he’s a crazy asshole! And here you are smashing into his van with him in it! Did you know we’re meeting with him today, is that it? Trying to scare us off with your life?”
The house was quiet. No TV.
But that wasn’t quite true, was it? No. The television wasn’t blaring, making up for what grampa could and could not hear, but the house wasn’t quiet. He heard somebody crying.
Patty?
No, his brother’s cry was recognizable; it was the sort of wailing shree he’d be able to identify for his entire life. He supposed that very memory of Patrick would prove to be one of his strongest as the two of them grew up.
It was his mother. She was sitting alone at the table. Her eyes were red and swollen. Like she’d been sitting there for some time. When she saw Adam she quickly wiped her eyes. It was as if finally seeing him proved she wasn’t alone, that maybe in this state she didn’t even hear the front door open. She feigned a smile.
“Mom?”
“Hi Adam.”
“You okay?”
She tried to laugh. The sound that came out was just a hoarse grunt. “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t, and he knew that. He was sick and tired of his parents’ bullshit; either his dad was off ignoring him or his mom was pretending the life they led was normal. Pretending what happened in Suffolk was make-believe. He understood a part of her was just trying to protect him, but she had to know he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He was old enough to talk to. “This about grampa?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Mom, I heard what he did.” Now he wanted to cry. He bit his lip instead. “Everybody’s talking about what he did. About crashing his car. Mom, people are saying he’s crazy.”
“Do you believe them?”
“What?” It was an odd question for her to ask. But at the same time it seemed right. It didn’t matter what people were saying about him. If they’d seen what he wore around the house, they’d sure as hell come to the same conclusion, wouldn’t they?
“Do you believe grampa’s crazy?”
“No…I mean, of course not!”
“Then don’t worry what anybody might say. People will always say things. People say things about your father. It’s just their nature.”
“Then why were you crying?”
“Because sometimes their nature can get inside.”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. His mother had a beautiful smile. And right now she seemed far more human. Not just that prim and proper statue revelling in the shadow of his father. Adam had always regretted the way he felt about her, the way he pretended grampa was his true parent. But that wasn’t her fault. That came down on Trevor Kramer the Scholar. That came down on the man that had ruined their lives. The man that brought the Low Breed to them.
“Your grampa did something silly last night. He’s old, Adam. Misses gramma, and that sort of yearning can lead to inattention. I know you don’t remember her much. But he does. I do. And sometimes when Patty goes down for a nap, sometimes when it’s quiet enough, it gives you a moment to think. And maybe that’s what happened. Maybe I sat down to reflect and I got carried away. Sometimes memories are good. And sometimes they’re sad.” She paused. “You don’t buy that?”
Adam knew she could read his own expression. He sat down at the table with her.
“Well, maybe I don’t quite buy that either.” She reached across the table and touched Adam’s hand. It surprised him. “Do you ever think about…home? About why we left?” He never once thought to consider how she felt about moving to Reedy Creek, about supplanting the life she built to come here because his father made a mistake. He didn’t know much about what happened to Trevor Kramer the Scholar beyond the bad guys he somehow got involved with, but he realized there were certain steps that led to the choices he’d made. “It’s hard to believe how old you’re getting. About how grown up you look. Maybe I’m crying about time. About what time’s done to grampa, to your father, to you. To me, even. Maybe it’s just this place. Reedy Creek. You’ve made some good friends here, Adam, and maybe I partly envy you for that. Even with grampa here now, with Patty, this change, it’s still lonely.”
“I miss home too. I miss going to Fenway,” Adam said. “The real one, I mean. I miss the franks. I miss Craig and Shane and Mitch. I even miss Carol, that girl down the street who always tried to kiss me. I miss the old gang. But I understand why we had to leave, even if it was so hard to say goodbye.” He never once stopped to think about how alone his mother felt here.
“Because of what happened to your father.” She arched her brow. “Do you still think about that? Do you still have those dreams?” Her hand was still on his, kneading his thumb with her forefinger.
“No. Not anymore.” Was that a lie? Perhaps partly it was. Because he would never forget those men. He would never forget his father’s screams, his begging, or the man that found them in the closet, found him and his mom, pulling her by the hair and throwing her on the bed. The man with the balding crown and just the tiniest sheen of sweat on his brow. The man with brown eyes and the hint of peppermint on his breath.
“That’s good. You’re lucky. That place was home for so long I won’t ever stop calling it that. It doesn’t matter how long we stay in Reedy Creek. But it’s that yearning that will always have me remembering…that life.”
“Well, it did bring grampa here with us.”
“That it did.” She nodded her head. “You really love him, don’t you?”
“I can’t imagine my life without him.” And maybe now Adam did want to cry. Because he understood what that statement implied, and right now, after everything, he didn’t think it was wrong to strike his mother while she was down. “He’s what I wish dad could have been.”
He’d never truly been so honest. Not about that. Not with his mother. Grampa knew, and it had become a joke between them that so great a boy could have come from so little a man. Even in spite of his grampa’s apologies upon saying it. But he saw the darkness in his mother’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. No, it was something else. Self-doubt maybe.
“Adam…I…” Her voice was swallowed into her throat.
“No, I’m sorry mom. I just—I—you’ve always told me his priorities were different and I, I saw what my friends had and I guess I was jealous too. I guess I wish it was my dad who took me to Fenway, and not Shane’s. If grampa’s gonna do something stupid, I just want him to think of what he’s leaving behind. Who he’s leaving behind. I guess now that’s my biggest fear. I may not dream about those men from Boston anymore, mom, but I do think about what might happen when grampa’s gone. What might happen to me. It will be like Suffolk. I’ll be the bastard kid again.”
Patrick started crying upstairs. It was good timing. His mother exhaled, staring at him with hurt.
“I better get ready for the barbecue.” Adam stood and went to his room, leaving his mom in silence. Patrick cried while Adam pulled out his backpack and looked at the VHS tapes. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Lazarus about them, not yet, but he had to tell him that what his grampa did was an accident. He just didn’t think Lazarus would believe him.
Because Lazarus would have already watched the surveillance footage.
5
“Since when does a pity date turn into a morning after stroll to the apartments?”
“I dunno.”
“So a fuckin’ punk cuts his hair and suddenly she thinks he’s Depp. The deal was one night out and her fat brother would destroy the pics of us.”
“I dunno, Brad, like I said. Who cares?”
It was Brad again. The kid in the Indians caps. The kid he’d already followed once before. This time Lewis was looking for him and he figured the—what would Adam call him?—spaz would be scoping out Main to check if anything from Lazarus’s Chevy fell into the gutter. At least that was the assumption. If he was putting on his detective’s cap, he’d have to think like a kid again, and if rumor had it some old putz drove his car into a known drug den, curiosity would impel said kid to prowl the site for any missed contraband. As the saying went, the Creek PD would have missed crack rock for bitumen. Or something like that. The two boys were heading north on Main, passing BB’s Rentals, the Hobby Shop, the places to which Adam had grown so accustomed and spoke about with such excitement while Lewis had just resorted to the couch.
Jesus, Lew, it’s like I don’t even know you anymore.
At the moment he could convincingly ignore Betty, but that wouldn’t last for long. She had a pestering persistence, if you’ll forgive the alliteration. From what he could gather, Allen Webster was a new fan of his work. So much so that he’d agreed to his own errand and then the dominos would fall as they may.
“Fuck him, Dave.”
“Yeah, and what are ya gonna do?”
Brad was silent. Lewis thought he’d let the boy finish his thought; he was pissed about something. Of what Lew was uncertain. And didn’t care. Kids were always cussing out something. In the end, those somethings amounted to very little in the grand scheme of things.
“Yo, you two.”
Brad and Dave, or Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee, turned indifferently and checked out the old man on their tail. Why Brad wore the Indians hat was a goddamn mystery, and maybe today Lew would solve it. Or maybe not. Did he really care?
“Who, us?”
There was such derision in Brad’s tone. Such disrespect. I watched somebody die who looked just like you. Minus that goddamn hat. He wasn’t stupid enough to cheer on Cleveland. He had some self-respect. He was a few years older than you, but those few years had him serving his country, and then some fuckin’ gook took off half his head. Yeah, even with half a head Cpl Ray Majors was a better man than you, Brad, Tweedle-Fucking-Dum!
“I was hoping you could help me with something.”
Brad laughed. Lew wanted to grab him by the collar of his white tee. Even with his arthritic hands he figured he could teach these yahoos a lesson. But composure was the name of the game.
“Sorry ol’ timer, Lazy Meadows Home is out west. Just follow the stink of the piss bags.” The other boy, Dave, laughed, but his face was red. He didn’t have the balls of his friend Brad here. So he’d let Brad do all of the talking, and if the mood should strike, he’d gratify him with a few guffaws.
“I’m not in a fuckin’ home you little twat rag.”
Dave stopped laughing. Lew thought it was a good one. But it was Brad’s face. Under the gloating smile of that indian above his bill grew the morose, and momentarily scared, mug of a kid whose elder spoke back to him. Sorry, Lew, I don’t agree with this, but that was damn funny! He could imagine Betty adding her own heap of epithets. The boys had stopped and were just staring at him now. Lewis tried not to pant. Catching up with the guys was a challenge in and of itself. He didn’t know what his approach would entail at first; he’d visited Allen Webster the same way. Blind. But now with reactions in order, and what he figured were his assumptions confirmed by the direction of the boys’ travel, maybe doling out a little truth would be beneficial.
“Geez, sorry mister.”
“I seen you before. You in the cap. The Indians, really?”
“What’ve you got against the scalpers?”
“Not a thought, really. Maybe they ought to put a few scalps in the W column. That’s not the point. I’ve seen you with Lazarus. In his van.”
“So? You a cop?”
Lewis laughed. He loathed the boy, yes, but he admired his balls. The other kid was just a follower. There to pad Brad’s ego. “Do I look like a fuckin’ cop? I’m a year or two from diapers.”
This time both boys laughed. Dave a little more cautiously than Brad.
“I’ve heard the guy peddles something potent. If you got close enough to me, you’d see the cloudiness in my eyes. What docs call glaucoma. It’s why I got in an accident last night. Totalled my fuckin’ Tercel. And for what? To walk up and down Main harassin’ kids till anybody with balls has the voice to tell me how to find the ugly bastard for a little satisfaction.” He sounded like Mick Jagger. Or maybe he hoped that.
“You totalled your car last night? Shit, Dave, shit, it’s him! We heard all about it. We were headin’ there right now. Jesus, man, do you know who you hit?”
“Like I said, kiddo,” he pointed to his eyes, “the marbles ain’t what they used to be.”
“I doubt Lazarus would sell you anything if he knew you hit up his van. We heard the thing was a write off!”
“I bet money’s money to a cut-up like that Ugly Duckling. And if he charges a premium above what my insurance will undoubtedly be covering, hell, I’m old enough to be considered wealthy to some folk. Either way, I thought I’d ask you cause you’re in the know. Where can I find Lazarus? You know where he lives?”
“Where he lives? No. We’ve got a pager number. You want it?”
“Never seen where he goes at night?”
“Like I said. No. But I bet it’s some farm with a hella big field. The dude’s got weed comin’ out his asshole. Geez, ol’ timer, I can’t believe you smoked Scarface. Holy shit.”
Some farm. Lew you senile old coot. He’d known all along, hadn’t he? Maybe it was just some reasonable part of his brain, an area where Betty had found permanent residence, that kept reminding him of the crows. Falling dead from the sky.
Don’t go there, Lew. Please.
It’s for Barbara, Betty. It’s for our daughter.
“You alright, ol’ timer?”
Lewis looked at Brad. For a moment the boy was wearing a fedora and his eyes were the ebony beads of a crow, reflecting his soapstone face back at him. But then that was never really there. It was always the Indians cap. Always.
“Shit man. You ever wanna smoke a bowl with me, I’m down. You’re alright.” Brad took Lew’s hand. Gave him some skin as the kids said.
Now he just needed the gun.
