The Book of Joby

by Ferrari, Mark J.

  “Nothin’,” GB muttered.

  “Come on, what?” Nacho pressed.

  “It’s stupid.”

  “I’m not gonna laugh.”

  GB looked away and mumbled something too quickly and quietly to make out.

  “What?” Nacho said, too intrigued to let it go now.

  “I said, ‘Golden Boy.’ ” GB sighed, looking mortified.

  “Your name’s Golden Boy?” Nacho blurted out despite himself. “Your real name?”

  “My parents were . . . kind of strange sometimes.” GB gave him a look full of earnest appeal. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourself. I . . . I go by GB, and—”

  “Hey,” Nacho interrupted, “your secret’s safe with me. Geez. Golden Boy. That sure sucks.”

  “You’re telling me,” GB said as they headed toward the street.

  30

  ( Golden Boy )

  Dear Sheriff Mansfield,

  While I remain grateful to you for sending us Officer Donaldson, I am writing once again to plead for further action. As our county sheriff, I know you share my escalating alarm at the continuing increase in serious crime that threatens this entire rural county’s economy by eroding Taubolt’s viability as a premier resort destination.

  Since summer alone, Taubolt has endured five murders, numerous arson fires, several extremely suspicious disappearances, uncountable acts of vandalism and petty theft, and now, the torching of three more cars belonging to trusting visitors. I might also add that there is increasing anecdotal evidence of escalating drug use among Taubolt’s teenagers. While Officer Donaldson performs his tasks with exemplary diligence, no one man can hope to address such an overwhelming challenge alone.

  Locally, one hears increasing curiosity expressed as to why this crime spree has been greeted with such apparent indifference by our county’s top officials. I am sure that assignment of more appropriate resources to this urgent crisis would go far to rouse the kind of respect and gratitude a man looking forward to reelection would value. Come next year’s election campaign, I will happily throw the full weight of my resources behind any man who can demonstrate a credible willingness and ability to restore the peace and security that this charming town took for granted not so long ago.

  Appreciatively,

  Agnes Hamilton

  Franklin stood behind the counter of his hardware store, absently cleaning a case of glass lamp chimneys with an old rag, while watching Taubolt’s new policeman stand across the street in the blowing drizzle, writing up some kid who’d dared to skateboard past a few of Shea Street’s shops in daylight—not that there were any customers to scare off in such weather. It had blown sheets of rain for three days straight now.

  Seemed an awful waste of law enforcement to spend so much time writing kids tickets and taking their toys away, though, in sad truth, this was probably the only so-called crime in Taubolt even twenty Donaldsons stood any chance of tackling. Wasn’t much use calling in police to deal with demon mischief.

  He shook his head, wondering how much longer he could stick around here watching Taubolt go to seed. Their once pleasant village was nothing now but a brawl of kiddie crime fighting, yuppie refugees, “infrastructure issues,” rising violence, dying children, and incarnate demons virtually undetectable (until they vandalized your business or firebombed your car), among the horde of clueless tourists still expecting to be pampered in an active war zone. Franklin would have gone already except that everything he’d ever had or cared about was here, and there was nowhere it made any sense to go. Not until the Cup was found. If it ever was.

  “Hey, Franklin. How are you doing?” Tom Connolly waved halfheartedly as he entered the store, accompanied by gusts of damp air and the sounds of power saws and pounding hammers from farther up the street. Molly Redstone’s abandoned shop was being repaired and renovated as the new police substation. Redstone had left suddenly the month before, claiming the devas had directed her to some new “mission” in Colorado.

  “What ya need, Tom?” Franklin replied, setting down his glassware.

  “A few of those big yellow notepads,” Tom said, coming to the counter, “and some manila envelopes.” He looked out at the street with a sour smile. “I see he’s at it again. Ever vigilant.”

  Franklin nodded. “Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night can close that man’s ticket book. I feel safer every day.”

  “Hamilton doesn’t seem to,” Tom said, heading back to the stationery aisle for his things. “You read her latest letter in The Lighthouse?”

  “I did,” Franklin replied, going back to wiping down his chimneys. “Sounds like she expected ’em to station the whole platoon out here, don’t it?”

  “Sounds like,” Tom agreed. “Seems to me she ought to be happy, though. He hasn’t wasted any time zeroing in on the worst threats to local safety, has he?”

  “No, sir,” Franklin said dryly. “Don’t know how we ever got by without ’im.”

  Suddenly, across the street, Donaldson ran to lean in through the open window of his car, then jumped in and sped off with lights blazing, as the kid he’d been accosting watched in openmouthed surprise.

  “Looks like something big’s gone down,” said Connolly, drawn back to watch with Franklin.

  “Hamilton’s probl’y caught some of those damn delinquents lookin’ at dirty pictures.” Franklin smiled humorlessly.

  Suddenly, the door flew open, banging loudly on the stop as Blue leaned through it in a breathless panic. “They’re cutting down the Sacred Circle!” he shouted.

  “WHAT?!!” both men exclaimed in unison.

  “They’re chainsawing the trees!” Blue wailed. “Nacho’s tryin’ to stop ’em! And that new kid, GB! Everybody’s runnin’ down there telling ’em to stop, but—”

  “We’re comin’!” Franklin cut him off. Already running for the door one step behind Connolly, he was stunned that even demons would try such a thing in broad daylight.

  Bridget O’Reilly was last to arrive, delayed by “issues” at school, she claimed. But it was to Joby Peterson that she apologized for being late, Donaldson noticed, though this was Donaldson’s conference room, and, officially, his meeting. In reality, of course, this whole powwow had been Peterson’s doing, as was the guest list, kindly forwarded to Donaldson ahead of time with brief explanations of local position and importance beside each name, just to help him understand how deep a pile he’d stepped in, no doubt. Why was it always the littlest things that bit you? A touch of routine security clearing on virtually undeveloped public land. Who’d’ve thunk?

  “If we’re all here then,” Donaldson said, “I’d like to start by thanking you for making time to come down here and help us all understand each other better.”

  “I’m not goin’ to mince words with you, young man,” said Franklin Holt—owner of the hardware and grocery stores— old Taubolt businesses, Donaldson recalled from Peterson’s helpful little list. “I’m hopin’ you’re gonna understand us better. That’s what this meetin’s about. You were brought to Taubolt a month or two ago by people who’ve only been here for a couple years. My family has lived in Taubolt for five generations, Mr. Donaldson—five generations—and those trees you started cuttin’ down last week were old back when my great-great-great-grandfather got here. Can you understand how ill-mannered it was to chop into five generations of this community’s life without so much as consultin’ anyone who belongs here?”

  Two minutes in, and Donaldson already felt like a ten-year-old bent across his daddy’s knee with his pants yanked down. Personally, he’d have preferred just to apologize and get this all behind him, but, in a town this small, one careless apology could cost him all appearance of authority—especially with Taubolt’s cocky kids. He’d be finished here then. “Believe me, Mr. Holt,” Donaldson said, trying to look charmingly disarmed instead of just red-faced, “no one regrets that misunderstanding more than I do. Though it pains me to say so now, that ring of trees looked like noth
ing but a tangled clump of wild old cypress to me then. Had that been private land, I would, of course, have consulted with the owner first. Unfortunately, those trees are on undesignated county property, so the county’s who I went to.”

  “But, who told you that law enforcement was about landscaping to begin with?” asked Alice Mayfield. “I understand you were intending to mow and limb the entire headlands. We like it ‘wild,’ as you put it, Mr. Donaldson, as do the tourists on which this town’s economy depends. Taubolt’s wild beauty is part of what they come to see.”

  “Ma’am,” Donaldson said patiently, “I appreciate that point, but my job here is to create a safe and secure environment for this town’s residents and those same tourists. Apprehension of wrongdoers becomes extremely difficult, especially working without backup here, when they can just run a block in any direction and hide in the long grass and dense thickets currently surrounding this site. I thought it wiser to deprive Taubolt’s criminals of that advantage. In addition, I’m sorry to say, such ready concealment also serves to induce your kids to all kinds of illegal behavior.”

  “Such as?” scowled Alex Carlson, Nacho’s father.

  “Much as you may not want to hear it,” Donaldson said, “those thickets provide perfect hideouts for kids who want to sit around smokin’ dope.” He shrugged. “Prune the limbs to five or six feet above the ground, cut some of that grass, their concealment’s gone, and lots of people might consider the landscape beautified.”

  “Ain’t you been payin’ attention?” Franklin growled. “We don’t want our landscape beautified! Like Alice said, it’s plenty beautiful already—for better or worse.”

  So much for risking reasonable suggestions, Donaldson thought wearily.

  “First of all, Officer Donaldson,” said Bridget O’Reilly, “the idea that anybody’s smoking dope in that ring of trees is ridiculous. I would certainly know if anything like that were happening a hundred yards behind my school.”

  Donaldson suppressed a smirk at such naiveté.

  “And second,” O’Reilly said, “I’m disturbed by the implication, both here and in your conduct elsewhere, that our kids are the ‘criminals’ you were sent here to suppress. I’m told you’ve been harassing skateboarders on my school grounds, where I’ve welcomed them to skate, and even said things to undermine my authority at school.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” Donaldson said, agitated, if unsurprised, that such dirtbags had been lying about him, “but, while I did ask one very rowdy group of boys there to disperse, I don’t recall saying anything at all about you.”

  “You didn’t tell them that my permission was beside the point?” she pressed.

  The littlest damn things, he thought, recalling his remark with cross chagrin. “They’ve taken that statement completely out of context,” Donaldson said. “In fact, I encouraged them to show you more respect by insisting they call you Mrs. O’Reilly instead of Bridget, as if you were just another of their buddies.”

  “Students here are encouraged to address all their teachers by first names, Mr. Donaldson,” she replied coolly, “just as we address them. We practice mutual respect here. I’ve been teaching since before you were old enough to drive, and I’ve never encountered a single shred of evidence to suggest that being thought of as a friend by my students made me less respected, or less effective.”

  No wonder these kids are so completely out of control, thought Donaldson. “Well, I’ll have to take your word for that, Mrs. O’Reilly,” he said aloud. Then, in a flash of diplomatic inspiration, he grinned and added, “Though one look at you suggests that your assertion about our relative ages is pure exaggeration.”

  “Whatever you may think, Mr. Donaldson,” she replied sternly, “flattery gets my students nowhere either.”

  Mayday, mayday. Am surrounded and outnumbered, thought Donaldson. Urgently requesting backup.

  “It seems to me we’re ganging up on you a little, Officer Donaldson,” said Peterson, as if reading his mind, “and I assure you, that’s not what we came here to do.” He directed a solicitous glance at his compatriots before continuing. “I have no doubt that you’re doing a very difficult job as conscientiously as possible, and we just want the same things you do, I think. A safe, secure community where people get along the way we did all the time here just a few short years ago.”

  The puppet master speaks, Donaldson thought. Having let the “bad cops” do their work, Peterson was weighing in now as the peacemaker. He was good, Donaldson had to admit. Better than Hamilton, who employed her troops with all the subtlety of a fire-crazed cow, but did Peterson really think this game was going to fool a trained officer?

  “I think we’re all on the same page about the headlands now,” Peterson went blithely on. “The more important issue, for me, is this business with Nacho and GB.”

  “Out of my hands,” Donaldson quickly insisted, seeing where this was going now. “Those boys instigated a full-on brawl, Mr. Peterson.”

  “Trying to prevent irreparable harm to a local landmark,” Nacho’s father interjected, “which, I think we all agree now, was being damaged in error to start with.”

  “Your boy and his friend broke the nose of a county employee, Mr. Carlson, and destroyed county property, namely two valuable chain saws. I had no choice but to arrest them. It’s a court matter now. You’ll have to take it up there.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Peterson said. “But what confuses us is your decision to recommend lengthy jail time, and to have them hold GB without bail before his trial. This seems neither proportionate, nor constructive.”

  “Assault is a very serious crime, Mr. Peterson,” said Donaldson, irritated to be told his business by a schoolteacher—especially one from such an undisciplined school.

  “Whose assault?” snapped Franklin. “Good Lord, you are quick to forget your own errors, aren’t you! Why can’t you be so forgiving with others?” When Peterson shot the man a pleading look, Franklin drew a deep breath, and said more quietly, “This is a damn good boy we’re talkin’ about. A bit puckish, yes, but I’ve known Nacho all his life, and if he’s got any business in jail, I’ll eat three copies of your whole report on this matter.”

  Donaldson smiled despite himself. The man clearly had no idea how much paper was actually involved. “As for having the other boy held,” he continued, overlooking Franklin’s tempting bet, “he’s an obvious flight risk, and frankly, I’m unclear why we’re discussing him at all. A drifter here for less than two weeks? What’s he to any of you?”

  “Nacho introduced GB to several of us,” said Tom Connolly, who’d been silent until now. “He seems to be a good kid who’s just had a very rough time. His folks are dead. He didn’t come here to make trouble. He was looking for a job and an apartment to rent as soon as he had an income.”

  “I’ve had the chance to get to know him too,” said Peterson. “He came to me, hoping to get back into school. The juvenile justice code is full of talk about ‘the best interests of the child,’ and rehabilitation, I believe. Does throwing GB into jail just as he’s seeking education and a job in a community that wants him seem like the best way to pursue that? However misguided their actions may have been, they were seeking to protect their community, not stealing a car or robbing a liquor store.”

  Geez! thought Donaldson. That kid had sure worked them good! These gullible bleeding hearts wouldn’t last ten seconds in the real world.

  “All we wish to suggest,” Peterson pleaded, “is that, while little seems likely to be accomplished by throwing two wool-headed kids into prison for six months, where they’ll likely learn to be real criminals, a great deal might be accomplished to improve this community’s relationship with you, and their cooperation with the law you represent, if we could find some more constructive punishment that you felt as comfortable recommending to the court.”

  “You ever think of becoming a lawyer, Mr. Peterson?” Donaldson smiled, careful to make it sound like a compliment.

>   “I find teaching adventurous enough.” Peterson smiled back.

  “Well, I appreciate what you’re saying,” said Donaldson, “but I’ve already told you, this is a court matter now, and it’s the judge you should be saying all this to. I’d like to help you, but at this point I’m nearly as far out of the loop as anyone else.”

  Unfortunately, once Peterson bit into something, it seemed he held on like a dead python, and somehow, half an hour later, Donaldson had agreed to change his recommendation of jail time to probation and eighty hours of community service for each of the boys, repairing damage done by skateboards around town, public apologies, and a bit of free expert computer service to the school tacked on for Nacho. Just terrific, Donaldson thought, smiling daggers at Peterson’s departing back. There went the one thing he’d done since coming to Taubolt that had truly satisfied Hamilton.

  As he sat correcting papers, a knock brought Joby’s eyes up to find GB standing shyly in the entrance to his classroom.

  “GB!” Joby said, getting up to greet him. “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Peterson.” GB smiled uncertainly.

  “It’s Joby.” Joby grinned. “Mr. Peterson’s my father, remember?”

  “Yeah, okay.” GB smiled as they shook hands. “It’s just still weird, callin’ teachers by their first names.” He ducked his head. “You know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Joby. “It all seemed weird to me when I first got here too. In fact,” he said, nostalgically, “it was about this same time of year. You’re going to like Christmas here, GB.”

  “I wanted to come thank you,” GB said quietly, “for helping me so much. The Carlsons told me everything you did while we were driving back. And getting me that job. You don’t know what it means. I thought for sure they’d just kick me out of town.”

  “You belong here,” said Joby. “We weren’t about to let that happen. Have you been over to see Muriel yet at the Heron’s Bowl?”