Chapter 13

1

They opened the barbecue with an introduction by a man named Bob Arnold. He gathered quite a large convocation near Pug’s Tudor where a convoy of trailers were parked, all flashing the PURE ETHANOL logo. It was sort of a background tie in to provide a basis for why they were all here on this hot summer afternoon. The affair was far more professional and official than the mailers might have implied.

            Bob Arnold, a black engineer who worked as general manager at the distillation plant, and who actually lived a few houses down from the Nelsons on the corner lot with the view of the park, stood on a rickety makeshift podium where the organizers had already stacked plastic utensils. He wore a white shirt, like the bulk of the volunteers representing the Corners, that said E85 on I66. It was bordered by an interstate sign.

            “Look, I just wanted to thank you all for coming out today. That’s what this event really is. I know there can be some understandable tension in a venture like this. Unfamiliar faces starting to crowd out what used to be familiar. I get that. We all at the plant get that. We’ve been in operation for about a year now and it dawned on me: you’ve all seen the smokestacks up north. You’ve got friends who’ve sold their land, or have even taken fed subsidies for plowshares in corn. And so it was understandable that divide was created. The Corners and the Creekers. We’ve all heard the nicknames. But we’re all in this together, and maybe that’s why this particular idea was a long time coming. We’re all part of a boom here. A revolution. We at the distillation plant formed a joint venture with the E10 Council here in town, those well-travelled scholars here to lay our groundwork and inform the incredible national PR for our work. Just, will you guys give us all a nod if you’re here? Councillors Paul Holdren, Norris Serkis, umm, Sheriff Andrew Napolitano. Principal Hector Perez. Who am I missing here? Oh, right, Mr Trevor Kramer and Mrs Mary Napolitano. Thank you.”

            Somewhere in the crowd, Andy and Trevor did bow.

            “In conjunction with the honorable Mayor Jenkins, to whom I should thank for the blessing of standing in front of so large a crowd to offer my gratitude, I think it’s important to explain what Reedy Creek has become. On the national and global stage. Just a few years ago the Creek was a formidable farming community. The bedrock of the great American agricultural industry that has kept this nation fed. Much of the farming and ranching here was on federal leased land, so it was a no-brainer when the industry’s leading thinkers sought to break ground on what, we can only surmise, will become an inspiring and important breakthrough in common use energy. I’m not going to stand here and tell you we’ve invented something new. No, because most of you are informed enough to know the corn and wheat you’re growing could be fermented to make ethyl alcohol, and which for many of you has kept you comfortable over cold winters when you’re sitting by the fire with some whiskey to keep your bellies warm. No, ethanol’s been a fuel since Henry Ford devised and ran his quadricycle, since Standard Oil’s mixed it with gasoline for increased octane right about the time Europe was re-building after World War I; it’s a part of our national war effort, our Nebraskan co-opt with the US Army to keep our boys progressing against the Nazi War Machine and their Axis. We’re a part of a heady tradition here. But we’re a part of change, as well. And you should all be very proud of the sort of change we’re inspiring. We’re looking to foment and sustain domestic production. To keep jobs in America. And believe you me, ethanol will boom our farming industry, will keep you and your families kept and secure for generations. Remember the heartache of the 70’s? Nixon’s price controls on gasoline, the rations, the line-ups at the pumps that provoked the sort of animosity that would turn neighbors on neighbors, all because of OPEC’s hold and control of foreign oil stockpiles. What we’re doing here, what Reedy Creek represents, is the reduction of Iran and Saudi Arabia, of Venezuela, deciding upon their geopolitical advantages how to manage American interests. We’re keeping American energy consumption American.”

            There was a general cheer among the growing crowd on Deermont. The roads in were already blocked off, and the volunteering deputies on patrol were re-routing traffic to park nearer Main and walk into the community. Bob Arnold had created the sort of fervor he was meant to. He’d written the speech on Wednesday night and read it to his wife. She’d suggested he tweak a few things. Her most poignant point was about riling the patriotism so prevalent among what she called the flyover farmers. “You get them forgetting what they think of you, that you’re some nigger, some leftover of the Fugitive Slave Act, and you get them thinking they’re a part of the solution to the Arabs, and you’ll have them eating out of your palm.” Bob re-wrote and emphasized the last part, standing in the bathroom where the acoustics were best to gauge how his voice carried, and on which portions he should truly focus the crescendo of his speech.

            “You’re all a part of this transformation. Remember that. So this is a thank you for all you’ve done. Whether you’re out on the farm, or serving the interests of us newcomers in the plant, this effort could not have been conceived of and carried out without your cooperation. So please, enjoy some burgers and hot dogs, some cold brews and root beers for the young’uns. On us. Your hospitality has not gone unnoticed, Reedy Creek. Thank you.”

            There was applause. And then Deermont Road filled with the smell of cooking meat and the intermingled tango of conversation.

2

Pug spotted Croak with his mom standing at the foot of their willow. He had Chels on a leash, and she was frantically sniffing through the crowd. He’d never seen his street this busy, and there were more people constantly flooding in. They’d already started a few lines for the barbecues, and people stood patiently waiting for their free burgers.

            “Bob’s an impressive man,” his mom said.

            “He runs a tight ship there at the plant.”

            “Be that as it may. He gives a great speech.”

            Pug could only be witness to his parents’ brief conversation. At the moment his mind was on other things. Soon he and the guys would be leaving the barbecue behind to solve the summer’s greatest mystery. At least that was the hope.

            “There’s Croak,” he said, hoping his parents would cease their adult discussion for just a moment to let him off his own leash. It was his mom’s idea to do the family as a barbecue. “But Ange isn’t here.” “Well,” his mom replied, “Ange is older than you and Wendy.” As if to say: she’s done her time. It was a stupid excuse. One he wouldn’t ultimately let slide, especially if his parents knew with whom she was spending her time as summer made way for autumn. That lanky kid down the block with the smoking habit. Even Wendy made the same stink, but it was useless.

            “That’s such an awful name,” his mom said, looking down at him.

            “Sorry. Cory.” He didn’t think he’d tell them both the epithet his friends had come up with for him. “Let’s go over there. It’s less crowded.”

            His folks followed him through the throngs, nodding their heads to people they knew, sometimes introducing themselves with the simple salutary hi to those they didn’t. Pug didn’t care about the strangers. He’d recognized their faces, of course. That guy, Bob Arnold, he’d said something to the effect that this entire escapade was just a means to what, ingratiate the Corners to the Creekers, as if a few burgers and beers was enough to soften the blow of an exponential population explosion in so small a town. Pug wondered if Adam’s dad would write a book about it. But the idea seemed to be working. There were people all around the street talking. And those introductions when you meet somebody new, those initial musings about where you’ve come from and where you’ve been, once those were gone what was left? Pug remembered those terribly burdensome salutations from church. Always the questions about what his favorite subject at school was, or who his favorite prophet might be, and because he wasn’t exactly a leading scholar on Mormon history, he’d always fall back on his default, Joseph Smith, because the answer always seemingly led to the most agreeable smiles. And why wouldn’t it be? He did translate the Book of Mormon from the Golden Plates.

            Croak’s willow threw out a canopy of shade that felt forgiving in the climbing heat. And with the growing mass of people buying into Bob Arnold’s bellowed Thank You, there was a sticky humidity that could only be emitted by the tangled aura of so many corralled in so tight a spot.

            “Guy’s voice is louder than a megaphone,” Croak said, giving Pug a high five. “Should probably lead the next pep rally.”

            “Hey Horace,” Croak’s mom said. The woman turned her attention to Pug’s parents. “And you must be the Nelsons. I’ve heard so much about you both. It’s crazy to think, after all this time, and what with us so close and our boys virtually inseparable, I haven’t once gotten the idea to trudge on across the street to introduce myself.”

            Pug thought Croak’s mom was pretty. She reminded him of Molly Ringwald. Both had a sort of innocent appeal, the kind of look you expected of a mother, certainly, but who could also pull off the bombshell appeal of the lady that made you double take once you passed her. He’d seen her gussied up for a few of her Saturday night jaunts, and though he never once told Croak since they first met in the spring, the first few times he did ever come to their house to see what ol’ Cory was up to, his intentions were to catch a glimpse of Ms Hopson. She in her deep red lipstick.

            “That idea shouldn’t have been yours to make,” Pug’s mom intoned. It was her natural deflection. Pug knew, because of church, that his mom would take the burden of blame here because it was her Relief Society-informed duty to peg the sociable disposition at all times, and if that meant being the butterfly fluttering from door to door to say hello, then so be it. “I’m Brenda Nelson.”

            “To be honest. I put the blame on Bob Arnold. He gives a good speech, but he manages a mean schedule. I’m Avery Hopson.” She smiled. She wore the same E85 on I66 shirt as the volunteers, but hers was really only a badge to prove her employment and Corner status. She wasn’t handing out burgers. Saturday was her day off and she was not going to put her name down to herd lines and make sure the ice buckets were full. Hell no.

            “I told you,” Pug’s father said, first turning to Brenda then taking Avery’s hand in his own. “Bob might as well be in the navy for the ship he’s running. I’m Norman. Norm, really. I’ve seen you at the plant, I think.”

            “Probably. I scurry to and fro. Sometimes represent in those E10 briefings. I’m with HR.”

            “Ah, yes. Those bloody minutes we all have to read Monday mornings. I’m in Chemistry there. Work the labs.”

            “So you’re one of the alchemists, as we call you.” She smiled, glancing down at Pug for a moment. It was weird to think his dad worked with Croak’s mom. To think they led a life away from them. The cameras around here made one focus more and more on that world. On the world behind closed doors. And here was another of those interactions. Two should-be strangers revealing the world actually is quite a bit smaller than one might suppose.

            “So to speak,” Norm laughed. “This is our middle child. Wendy.”

            Wendy smiled. She was obviously either on the lookout for Ange or a cute boy. It was never certain.

            “So this is Reedy Creek. I got here sometime in April. Or May, was it? Who’s to know anymore? Time gets so hazy.”

            “It was April, mom,” Croak said.

            “Ya see. That’s why we have kids. As reminders. If I haven’t written it down, Cory’s there. My oldest isn’t here right now. In fact, my oldest could be with your oldest. Angela. Such a nice girl.”

            “Your boy is Randy?” Brenda asked, not quite with indignation but with perhaps a reserved judgment. Pug knew the tone oh-too-well. He hated it.

            “I should thank you both. You’ve raised a daughter with enough encouragement to get my boy to the barber. I hadn’t seen his face since he grew his hair out like one of those terrible singers, and then yesterday, there he is. The boy I’d forgotten had it not been for his voice and the shirt I just pulled from the dryer.” Pug saw on her face exactly what Croak had told him about; it was a woman coming out of her shell. Of a woman witness to something she’d since written off.

            “He did look cute,” Wendy said, her cheeks blushing when her mother glared down at her.

            “Well, like Bob runs a tight ship at work, we run one at home.”

            “It’s paid its dividends,” Avery said. Pug wondered if she could sense the uncertainty in his mother’s tone. If she could tell her last comment was one of derision. Croak had once mused what it might be like to have Mormon parents. Maybe his dad wouldn’t have upped and left like a coward. Maybe Randy wouldn’t have rebelled the way he had. It was all a chain reaction to one very specific event, and Pug knew his parents abhorred divorce or those choices that might lead one to disavow the oath taken as man and wife. But if Croak’s mom did notice the judgment, the derision, she didn’t react. “Look. It was a pleasure meeting you both. Well, officially now, Norm. I’ve got the shirt so I’m on the clock.” It was a lie. Pug knew it. But it was a getaway, and quite a good one at that. Because it was amicable.

            “I look forward to reading your minutes on Monday,” Norm said. He smiled and watched Avery disappear into the crowd. Most likely to join a line for some free grub.

            “You didn’t say Angela was out with Cory’s older brother, Horace.” Brenda turned her attention to him now. He expected it, of course. When he was caught stinking to high heaven of cigarettes, he knew the only reliable scapegoat upon which to pin the blame was Croak’s older brother. So he did. And his parents had put the ol’ bullseye on him ever since.

            “I didn’t even think to.”

            “He’s ok, Mrs Nelson. Ange has whipped him into shape,” Croak said.

            Brenda only nodded. Pug could see the anger like lit fuses in her eyes. A part of him wanted to laugh. He loved his mom. But he disliked her quirks. And one of them was her indefatigable need to put up the Mormon front: that face behind which she could hold her many judgments but remain stoic enough not to assail her targets with lectures on modesty. He knew Wendy was thinking the same thing. “Cory, always a pleasure. Norm, shall we?” She took Norm’s hand and she left the kids in the shade of the willow to fleece through the crowd in a different direction than Avery.

            “Fuck me, Pug, I thought your mom was gonna blow her gasket.”

            Chels only lazily looked up from her perch in the grass, her nose mostly buried in her forepaws, when Croak said Pug. It was the name she likely preferred.

            “Thank your lucky stars you’re not Mormon,” Wendy said. “It sucks the fun out of everything.”

3

“You didn’t bring all of them?”

            “Thought it best to hold onto a few. Slid ‘em under my bed. What if we get there, he sees the tapes, sees we have all of them on us, and decides to pull a gun or something, tells us to fuck off or he’ll leave us in the hospital? Or worse yet, in coffins.”     

            “Jesus, you think he might have a gun?” It was a thought Adam noticed the Jew hadn’t considered. And he thanked his lucky stars that he did think about it as he packed his bag. For a moment he did consider bringing each of those catalogued tapes. And then he thought about possible scenarios.

            “I expect he might. I mean, think about what he does here, Danny. Think about the role he serves.”

            “And you still think this is a good idea?”

            Adam had tempered his own expectations. He figured he had to after everything he told his mom. He felt guilty about what he’d said. But he also felt lighter. As if he’d been holding onto something for so long it had become a burden. He avoided her when he left the house with his bag. He could hear her with Patty, and she very well might have called out his name, hoping to clear the air, maybe even looking for an apology, but he shut the door before she could. And he hoofed it to Deermont, meeting the Jew before Bob Arnold got up on his high horse and tried to convince everybody the barbecue was about creating community and not selling the idea that ethanol (or PURE ETHANOL, as each of those damn trailers blurted in upper case bluntness) would save and preserve American jobs. It sounded like a bunch of what his father would call Reagan Hoo Ha, which he’d always considered meant bullshit. He didn’t understand everything Mr Arnold said, but it had the feel of an inauguration of the sorts. Danny had said: “Shit, that guy should be on television tellin’ folk his book is the only way to get into heaven.” Adam had laughed at that because, after thinking about it, he did seem like the Pat Robertson type, the guy you’d flip the channel on Sunday mornings when you were searching for a cartoon or football.

            “You getting cold feet, now?”

            “I’m just being cautious, Adam. As you should be. Shit, man, I know not to walk down a dark alley alone.”

            “Look, we’ll all be together. And Randy will be tagging along. We’ll be fine.”

            “You say that as if Randy’s got his shit together. He got a haircut to impress Angela. For some reason it worked. It won’t intimidate Lazarus. Especially if you think he’s got a gun.”
            Adam knew Randy was only a means to connect and a possible failsafe should anything go wrong. He certainly seemed like a bruiser…or at least acted like one. He’d given Croak a few whoppers in the summer. Enough to leave his arms discolored when they played ball at Fenway, inviting a few questions about what had happened and how they could all help to stop it. But their ploy worked to get him involved. Adam liked how it was his idea. What he didn’t like was what bringing his grampa into the fold had meant.

            “This is our answer to the cameras, Danny. The only way. Don’t you want to know who’s been watching, and why somebody would be interested in seeing your parents?”

            “And not yours,” the Jew added. “You know I do. But what if the answer is worse than the question?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, what if my folks are on a watchlist? What if Croak’s mom is up to something, something she shouldn’t be? Same with Pug’s parents. What if something’s going on that we don’t want to know about because knowing will change everything?”

            “I don’t like living in the dark.”

            “That’s an easy answer for you, Adam, cause this doesn’t affect you.”

            “Doesn’t affect me?” Adam bit his tongue for a moment. He’d said enough at home, released the valve so to speak, but maybe not all of it was out yet. Maybe there was still some burdensome weight left to drop. “Fuck you, Jew. My dad is an asshole. He’s done things I’ve never told you about, Danny. Never, and I won’t. Because talking about it now won’t solve anything for me.” He was thinking specifically of the Low Breed; he was thinking of the reason they even came to Reedy Creek. “Mr Arnold thanked my dad up there. Not yours, not Pug’s. If anything, he’s knee-deep in this shit, so maybe he’s not being watched. Maybe he’s doing the watching. And I ask, which is worse?”

            Danny was silent for a moment. Deermont was hustling and bustling, loud with conversation, and the two boys, standing near the curb across from the food table close to Pug’s place, neither showing the inclination to line up for a burger, remained invisible to the world of adults as grown up conversation surrounded them. Talk of world affairs, of oil, of Iran and Iraq, of God and Country. Danny and Adam didn’t matter. The VHS tapes didn’t matter. Because the world of grown-ups was mired by the incomparable worries of responsibility and accountability, something adults often concealed or escaped by pursuing Lazarus’s trade, snorting away their problems with temporary relief.

            “Shit, Adam, I’m sorry. I mean…I know your dad’s an asshole. We all know that. Hell, our folks know that. Whatever he’s doing here, whatever brought him to the Creek, it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is he brought you. Ok. And that’s fine and dandy, even though you like the Sox. Look, we start school on Monday, so screw it. Let’s see Scarface. Maybe the answer isn’t as bad as we thought. Right?”

            Adam would have said right too. He would have also added his own thanks to the mix, because Danny’s sentimentality was agreeable, to say the least. But Adam said neither. Instead he leaped forward, just missing an overweight woman carrying a paper plate with two hot dogs and a smatter of chips. She stepped forward and grunted.

            “Grampa!”

            Adam’s voice was most likely drowned out. It was loud here. He yelled again, this time really puffing out his chest. “Grampa!”

            He saw Lewis near the table where Mr Arnold spoke. There was a group already lined up near there, many of them wearing those interstate sign shirts he was certain the plant would put up for sale, figuring their clever amalgam was marketable. Lewis was pushing his way through the crowd, some humming and hawing at the coot trying to plow through, so it was possible grampa didn’t hear him. Right? Right? If he was trying to convince himself, trying to avoid the possibility his own grampa was avoiding him, Danny didn’t buy the ruse.

            “Jesus, Adam. He looked right at you.”

            He did. Lewis looked right at Adam. He saw him. Because both boys recognized the look in his eyes. They were the not-so-subtle oh shit of one being busted by those he was adamantly trying to evade.

4

He could appreciate what they were trying to do here. The BBQ was a Creek event meant to ingratiate the newcomers to the settlers. Deputy Webster’s brief monologue in the diner was of a man who recognized the collision of two worlds, and he was partly trying to keep the peace. It wasn’t just the big city vices hitting the Creek. No, the truth was, attached to those vices were the personalities of holier-than-thou cosmopolitan yuppies, and the politics of the coasts were far different than the mainland. Lew knew that. He understood the implications of that sort of cohabitation, and the results were always caustic. Always.

            The speaker on the table was smart about it. It was the sort of speech he and Betty would have recollected with a few eye rolls in bed, between a cigarette or two. At least he’s trying to be peaceable.

            Betty wasn’t talking to him much now. That was just a quick rejoinder, something echoing in his shadowed cerebral caverns to keep him feeling guilty. On top of Lazarus’s quick fix, we gotta keep these coming Corners happy with accommodation by putting up with their liberal bullshit. That was the gist of Arnold’s speech. Bringing the boondoggle full circle with the nationalist disarmament of political differences by ensuring whatever these Dukakis-fucks said wasn’t meant to offend Reagan’s faithful, but to test the actual fortitude of American pride that was the bond that kept places like the Creek glued together. The corn boom was like the economic Cold War, something to unite the Corners and Creekers in a stalemate. And everybody seemed pretty convinced. Lew had looked around at the crowd; they were hooked by the sales tactic. And above them all, lining the streetlamps, were the cameras. So blind and willing they all were.

            When Bob Arnold stepped off that table, the crowd dispersed like moths from an extinguished flame. He supposed the analogy wasn’t incorrect. Arnold most likely saw himself, saw what he and the feds were doing, as some form of higher purpose. In some ways the Coastals had made finance their indisputable god. He pushed his way through the revelers, most looking for the shortest line-up. If shit’s free, people swarm like locusts.

            Now you’re getting unoriginal, Lew. Two insect metaphors in the space of a few breaths?

            He chuckled. Even when Betty wasn’t talking to him she had a sense of humor.

            And he saw Adam. Just beyond the crowd standing by the curb. He and Danny. For a moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than going to the boy. Going to his grandson. But at the same time he understood what that would mean. He understood the stories the boy had undoubtedly heard, that his batshit grampa had intentionally trashed a G20 van, that the apothecary-on-wheels had left certain unmentionables in the gutter for curious gawkers to go hunting, that he was most certainly off his meds, that the world ought to take all licenses from the senile. The list was endless. Adam would have his concerns. And he’d be angry. Because what he’d done to Lazarus was proof that he lied. Lied to his grandson’s face.

            Then go to him and be done with this, Lew. Go to your grandson, or do you actually believe the nonsense your imagination is peddling?

            “What happens if I’m right?” Betty didn’t answer him. Because she knew what happened. Every part of Lewis’s soul knew what happened. And the conversation he’d had with Trevor wouldn’t have mattered. You saw the crows fall dead. You saw them. You heard them hit the ground. That isn’t a coincidence.

            Lewis turned and went the other way, through a throng of drinkers and eaters, until the very broken sound of his own name being called was drowned out by conversation.

            “You look like you seen a ghost.”

            Lew felt his arm being pulled to the side. Webster was in uniform, standing with a paper plate and a half-eaten burger.

            “Shocked as shit all of Reedy Creek showed up for what’s amounted to a glorified wiener fest.”

            Webster laughed, chunks of burger flinging from his mouth. “You could open for Carlin.”

            “You were right. What you said. Place is ready to boil over and the Corners can read it. Do you think free burgers and beer will smooth over the hostilities?”

            “I don’t think it matters what I think. What I know is that entitlements wear out but want for them does not. So if that fucker Bob Arnold and his ilk think a summer fiesta is enough to win over the Creek’s finest, then he better keep the grilles on Deermont.” Allen nodded his head to a lady who walked by. He was crass, but Lewis liked that about him. Trusted him because of it.

            “Did you have any luck?”

            Webster finished his burger and threw out his paper plate. “You want to know if I can wipe my own ass as well? See that pretty lady over there?”

            Lewis followed Webster’s quick gesture, a flick of his wrist and a point of his finger. A woman was standing in the line-up, empty plate but already nursing a chilled beer.

            “County clerk at lock-up. Like I said, I know her schedule.”

            “It here?”

            “I’m not daft, old man. You want anything to eat? I doubt you can take your pills on an empty stomach.”

            “I’m good. Actually looking to escape this sooner than later.” Not even a chuckle. He was worried Adam might have been clawing his way through the stampede to search for him.

            “Good to know. I wasn’t so fool-minded to bring an illegal to a party.” He nodded at a few more people. Most thought it was in their best interest to play kind with the police. Lewis remembered that respect from back in the day; it was the sort of default reaction the badge expected. “Follow me.”

            Lewis followed Webster through the crowd. More people were filling in Deermont from the tribs leading back toward Main where volunteers were helping to herd. It reminded him of Disneyland. People coming and going, complete and utter madness but with a seeming order to the chaos. There were a few cruisers pulled over on the boulevard. Their lights were flashing, beckoning any stragglers from the town proper to come and help finish the beef horde.

            “You know how this works, old man. We didn’t talk about this, and you didn’t get this from me.” He opened his car door. The flashing red and blue was annoying. Lew remembered reading something about light-induced seizures and he only turned his back. Looking at the trees lining the street, the light posts. He saw a few cameras. He supposed there was always somebody watching. It was the Creek’s motto. Webster was holding a towel; it was tucked and folded precisely. “Serial number’s scratched off. It won’t match what we’ve got on file, so if you’re busted, it’s your ass. It’s unregistered now. You know what that means.” He pulled it back from Lew’s waiting hands. “Don’t be a fuckin’ dummy with this. Don’t make me regret it, Lew. Don’t. No matter what that asshole said to you, they were only words. This is to protect your family. And if I hear word of you actively going after you-know-who, remember I’ve got my own piece and I won’t hesitate to draw it on your scrawny ass to make an example of you.”

            Lewis smiled when the man finally handed him the heavy rumpled towel. He held it against his chest, could feel his heart beat through the pistol. The nerves he expected to blare never made an appearance; instead he was overcome with a significant longing to pull the gun free, to feel it as it was meant to be felt. If he was a younger man he supposed he would be as stiff as a board.

            “You comprehend, or should I be worried?”

            Lew did smile now. And something about that settled Webster. He was a good cop and he was doing something wrong. Lew would never forget that.

            “We’re aces.”

            “Ok, Dirty Harry.”

5

Andy was in uniform but he was still nursing a beer. His order to those deputies helping to herd incomers and keep some semblance of peace was to hide the booze away from public eye while the badge was exposed, but a few sips here and there wouldn’t hurt anybody. Since he was top brass, he figured a few of the eventual and inevitable complaints that made their way to the station wouldn’t amount to anything but a slap on the wrist from Mayor Jenkins, and even he probably wouldn’t make the stop in himself cause he knew where the money was coming from. No, assholes like that sent town officials to relay the message, and then a game of operator would set in when Andy told the messenger to fuck himself. Bureaucracy and all that.

            “I don’t like it. None of it.”

            “Shit, Trevor, sometimes you’ve gotta nod your head and smile along.”

            “So you’re okay with this? You’re okay with the plan?”

            Andy was silent for a moment. Trevor Kramer brought his own beer to his mouth but stopped short of his lips. He still hadn’t taken a sip.

            “What if it’s him? Her?” Trevor pointed at a random man and woman walking by. “What if Grimwood sends a tape of that guy over there cause he runs stop signs, cause he speeds down Woodvine, cause he—”

            “Then we’ll deal with it when we get there. Like we always have. Jesus, of everybody here, I thought you’d be the happiest. You’ve been handed the golden goose. The golden ticket. The government is insisting there is a problem. Global warming. Think about those implications. Think about your next bestseller before Ehrlich jumps onto the bandwagon. Shit, you can write about Reedy Creek the moment the feds actually sanction what Holdren is asking. Because there’s a problem. A real quantifiable problem, and it’ll perk up the PHE conservationists. Your book’ll read like a thriller. A Ludlum. And you’ll have consensus on your side, right? If this data is NASA approved. I mean, how many things have you gotten wrong? How many? God, your book talked about global cooling, didn’t it? A new ice age. Prophets have to make some sort of corrective guess or their life’s work turns to shit. Right?”

            “So we’ve replaced due process now. Unilaterally?”

            “Look, just vote the way you feel. Holdren said it has to be unanimous. We can put any contested efforts to a debate.”

            “They already know who’d vote nay.”

            “Cause you put the idea into their heads.” Andy finished his beer and chucked it into the bin near the table, nodding his head at a passerby. “You riled Paul’s attack dog, Trevor. Social experiments are usually predicated on shaky grounds, so I’m allowing some wiggle room based on those growing pains. I am. But you went headfirst into the shallow end and called out Norris. The motherfucker was Paul’s muscle in Project Gaia. He stormed the ROTC at Columbia with the Black Panthers. He beat the shit out of a naval reserve officer because he wanted the place re-named after Malcolm X. The guy is for the cause. Is the cause.”

            “What he did with Clayton Miller was calculated.”

            “No. What he did was reactionary. And I think he’s sick of whatever red tape the experiment’s put around the Creek. He made a judgment call cause he couldn’t get the council together on a whim to make a vote. Plus you were incommunicado. If you’re going to start throwing accusations, Trevor, you better get ready to defend yourself against the same.”

            “What is that supposed to mean?” Trevor realized he’d raised his voice and then noticeably settled. This time he did take a gulp of beer and wiped his lips.

            “It means you and your wife have been making unscheduled trips to Davenport for a few weeks now. If we decided to backlog surveillance, I’m certain I could amend that to months. I’m not accusing you of anything, but Norris might.”

            “Let him. If my wife and I can’t take drives to get the hell away from this fish tank, then I’d rather move back east.”

            Andy looked skeptical. And he probably was. You didn’t escape one shithole for another, no matter the new scenery. There was a reason for everything, but Andy wasn’t going to pass judgment unless it was passed on him first. So he had his ammo. Trevor finished his beer in two swallows and clutched the bottleneck between his fingers. “I know what you’re thinking.”

            “No you don’t.”

            “I do. That I have secrets.”

            Andy looked up at the camera on the nearest light post. “We all have secrets. I’m just saying any sort of protest would put the focus on you. And maybe you don’t want it there—”

            The momentary tension was broken when Bob Arnold threw his arm around Andy’s shoulders from behind, pulling the sheriff close to him.

            “Ah, my E10 comrades. How are ya, how are ya?”

            His breath reeked of alcohol. Trevor wasn’t sure how the man could have downed so much since climbing off that makeshift podium, and if he hadn’t he was convinced he acted the best sober public speaker he’d ever seen.

            “Bob, hell of a speech. Tugged at the right places.”

            “I’m glad you think so. I am.” He looked from Trevor to Andy. Back and forth. It was the dour, almost delayed reaction of one thinking far too deeply about what to say next. “But a damn great idea, Trevor. Fantastic idea. And look at everybody. They’re having a good time, no. Even if a black man officiated the whole fuckin’ thing.” He laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh, from the pit of his considerable gut. “Maybe in spite of it. But if a black guy gives you free beer, maybe he gets the Santa pass. Alcohol doesn’t have a color. Well…I guess it does. Doesn’t it? Yellow maybe. My grasp of metaphor was left on the stage.” He laughed again.

            “You made your case. Creek PD couldn’t have asked for a better negotiation. Maybe tonight we won’t have to clear out the pub and fill the drunk tank.”

            “Christ, we should hope not. Plus, the drunks will want to stick around to watch the fireworks. You guys enjoy the evening. I have to find the Honorable Jenkins to kiss a little more ass.”

            Trevor watched Bob Arnold stagger toward the food line-up, shaking people’s hands as he went. Forever the diplomat, like any great manager should be. A knack for the bullshit, Paul once said, convinced he was the right guy to seal an alliance with and create broad channels into the deeper distillation plant politics.

            “He cheats on his wife,” Andy said, almost to himself. “Every Tuesday night he tells her he has a process review. And then he fucks his assistant.”

            “What?”

            “His assistant’s a man.”

6

He’d taken Ange to see the apartments up north and hopefully, as grim as it seemed, catch a glimpse of the body bag being carted out, but the area was cleaned up by the time the two of them ventured close enough. And they weren’t the only ones who’d had the bright idea to check out the overdose case. It was a nice day. The walk was enjoyable if only because Angela took his hand as they went. “You think a haircut would have fixed the janitor’s mug for a chance with you?” It was the sort of morbid joke he’d relied on, especially back at home with his friends, his old friends, the ones he was forced to leave when his mother got the transfer and said they were moving to Podunkville, population: corn. When the shit hit the fan, you used humor to soften the blow. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a boy thing, but it had become a Randy thing. When the Challenger exploded, he’d been watching the launch in social studies class. The teacher set up a television so the students and the vice principal, including for Mr Nosh’s Language Arts class who squeezed into the dark room, could watch as the shuttle took off, as the rocket booster shot the thing into the Florida sunshine. And then it exploded. Right there. Those astronauts, that teacher onboard, they all died. And Randy could only snicker, hopefully not loud enough to trigger Nosh’s or Mrs Calvin’s terse consternation, because he could only see a banana, its peels the bifurcated white smoke of burning fuel, and he’d whisper to Jake, oh Jake, that metal head who understood how it felt to have a father walk out, that it looked like the shuttle had slipped on a banana right there in the sky. That a stupid visual gag ended the lives of those astros, and Randy was self-congratulatory because he saw a banana and was quick enough on the take to let Jake in on the joke.

            So Clayton Miller, who probably hadn’t even hit the morgue yet, was a case of a haircut and a leather jacket away from baggin’ a looker like Angela Nelson.

            “Yuck,” was her only response. So they headed back to Deermont to hopefully score some beer from a grown-up just tipsy enough to hand over a couple without any questions. They’d just made it into the neighborhood as Bob Arnold was finishing his pep rally. Randy stood in line for burgers, listened to the chatter, and though luck didn’t afford him any hops, when Ange saw her parents talking to a fat lady wearing white gloves, as if part of any social gathering required of her the sort of etiquette that made any event formal, she pulled him away from the crowd and toward her house. A few people were using the driveway to sit and talk, though tables and grilles were set against the curb to discourage people from trespassing on private property. Angela didn’t seem to care. She brought him inside and kissed him.

            “I’ve wanted to do that since this morning.”

            Was that a Mormon kiss? He didn’t say it out loud. But there wasn’t even the flick of a tongue; it was just the dry-lipped peck she probably offered Pug if she was in an especially grateful mood. Beyond holding hands last night, the option of a kiss was so far from his mind he didn’t attempt the maneuver when he walked her home. And not because he expected the Mormon part of her would have shied away from the idea, but because nerves had wrestled his gumption to do so. Plus, the hand holding made it all seem real. He didn’t need the kiss. He didn’t require it to make the way she looked at him seem authentic.

            He pulled her close to him again. She smelled like the woods. Like the pines. It was a summery smell. He would hopefully hold onto that memory. Not much had come of the Creek for him, but this was a fine substitute for Jake and the Wiggam Street Bunch, who said he was irreplaceable even though he knew they were eyeing a little shit named Sandy to take up his spot in the band and try to keep tempo on the drums. He pressed his lips to hers, and this time he did sneak in his tongue, just to gauge how receptive she was to the idea. He wasn’t forceful, but there was enough pressure that he could feel the hardness of her teeth. When she did open her mouth, it was only partially. Just enough for him to taste her breath, to feel her own cautious tongue brush back, as if she was new to this. And maybe she was. He’d had some practice. Not enough to brag about, but enough to buttress the bravado of his stories. Enough to prepare Cory should the little shit ever look over his baseball mitt at any girl staring back at him. He felt his face flush; it was right. The moment. The feeling.

            “The boy next door,” she whispered, her face still close to his, her breath hot on his neck. “All summer the boy next door, and we’ve been missing out.”

            They sat on the couch for an hour or so. She turned on the television but neither of them really paid attention. She kissed him again. And for just a moment he touched her in that spot where his mind often wandered when he stood behind the willow and watched her in her two-piece. His buddies would have called it second base; he would have lied and said he’d gone under the shirt, but he didn’t figure that sort of confidence would have applied here. Not now. She just purred when he rubbed her over her cotton top, feeling how supple she was, how firm. She didn’t say no. But he felt a sudden guilt anyway. He could feel her heartbeat. Could feel it racing, underlining her anxiety, prompting her to retreat. But she just moaned. And he felt her breath hot against his earlobe, thrusting his blood like hot lead into his lap.

            “I should page Scarface for my brother.”

            He had to break the moment. Because the moment could go too far, and that was just another guilt he didn’t want to have to confront. Maybe he respected her too much to taint what they were building here. He liked that. He could live with that.

            The light was starting to fade outside. He wasn’t sure about Ange’s parents, but his own mother had probably downed a few and was looking for a hook up. It frustrated him how much she relied on the goddamn validation of strange men to somehow give her a sense of worth. He hated his father. Hated not just what he’d done to him and Cory, but what he’d done to her. What he’d turned her into. But now was a better time than any to break away from the party and score some bud for the boys before the school year started. Because the grownups in Reedy Creek were occupied.

            Angela turned around and looked at Randy as he went to the phone. “You promised. You don’t let my brother touch the stuff.”

            “You have my word.”

            He dialled.

7

“These are signs. I mean. First you’re telling me you didn’t bring all the tapes so you wouldn’t provoke Lazzie to pull a gun on us, and now you’re pissed at grampa cause he saw you but ran the other way?”

            Adam said nothing. He only stared at Pug. They all had paper plates with burgers. Pug even grabbed a hot dog. But none of them were really eating. It was the nerves. Because the time was coming now, and they all knew it. They sensed something was affront. It was like watching the slate gray clouds skirting the horizon, watching them roll forward over the fields like a great tide, understanding just what was in store once the darkness finally roiled over their homes and bellowed God’s anger.

            “What do you mean signs, Pug? Now you sound like a televangelist, and I didn’t think Mormons had their own doomsday-is-near show.”

            “I mean, are we doing the right thing meeting up with him?” Pug looked at the Jew crossly and then looked back at his plate. He would have tossed Chels most of what was left, but Wendy had borrowed her to see if she could stake any interest with cute guys. It sounded like a tactic a boy would use, but with Ange busy with Randy, Wendy probably wanted her share of the pie. “If grampa pile-drived the guy’s van to kingdom come, it makes you stop to wonder if he knows something we don’t.”

            “Who cares what he might know? Or might not know…I mean, we listened to him and stayed away from Fenway all the while he’s casing the mark like he was still a cop. It’s bullshit. And as far as I’m concerned, he knows I’m mad about it. He does. And he doesn’t want to face me. If he’s afraid of me but not Lazarus, then why the hell should we be uppity about meeting the guy?”

            “Bring ‘er down a notch,” Croak said. “You start saying that name around grownups and we may just get some unneeded attention.”

            “They don’t give a shit what we do,” Adam said. “This night’s their excuse to play just as much as it’s ours. And they won’t let us ruin it.”

            “He’s right,” Danny said. “My parents used to throw some parties in New York, like, adult parties. Have people over for dinner. And I’d just be in my room. And when I did see my parents or their friends, they weren’t normal. They didn’t really see me either. Once you get them all together in a group, we don’t matter anymore.”

            “Well, my folks aren’t like that,” Pug said.

            “You Mormons are a dry well in the middle of a lake,” Croak jibed.

            “Whatever that means,” Pug added, trying hard not to smile.

            “Well, you guys can do what you want. But tonight’s it. School’s on Monday, and what we have here, what we had, it’ll be gone. The adventure will be over.”

            “That’s sad, Adam,” Danny said.

            “Maybe it is. But you’re pussying out the moment things are getting real.”

            “Hey, I didn’t say I wasn’t going.”

            “Me neither,” Pug said, looking at Danny and then turning to Croak.

            “I’m with you guys. Thick or thin and all that jazz.” Croak smiled. Soon that nickname would go the way of the dodo, because soon the broken voice of puberty would be replaced by something like Randy’s timbre.

            “Good, cause there’s your brother.” Adam nodded toward the crowd. The adults were drinking. Revelling. Lost to the responsibilities that would soon return once Sunday reared its ugly head. He couldn’t fault the grownups for wanting to live it up. His mom and dad were invited to a ton of junctions back home, back when his dad was somebody special. Before he cried in his reading chair as the man in the black suit pulled back each of his fingers, one by one, until he could hear the snap of the bone and cartilage and the resulting scream that was somehow worse.

            “Okay fuck nuts. It’s time.”

            They followed Randy away from Deermont. Away from the grownups. Toward the obsidian woods beyond the veil of streetlight.