“Can I just ask you, sir, whether there was anything unusual in yesterday’s list? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Ah, let’s see,” he says, and he closes his eyes for a second, checking some internal log. “Yeah. Actually. Yesterday he was supposed to go down to Suncook.”
“Why Suncook?”
“Place called Butler’s Warehouse down there, a furniture place. A gal came in for dinner over the weekend, said this place was still piled with old wood tables. We thought we’d scoop ’em up, see if we could use ’em.”
“Okay,” I say, then pause. “He was on a bicycle, you said?”
“Yup,” says Milano, after a brief pause of his own. “We got a trailer hitch on the thing. Like I said, the kid’s an ox.”
He looks at me evenly, eyebrows slightly raised, and I can’t help but read a cheerful defiance in that expression: Am I supposed to believe it? I picture the short powerful man with the wooly beard from Martha’s photograph, picture him on a ten-speed bike with a trailer hitch on a hot July morning, leaning forward, muscles straining, muling a stack of round wooden tables all the way back from Suncook.
Rocky stands abruptly and I look behind me, following his gaze. It’s the kid from outside, the one with the stubbly adolescent beard and the ponytail.
“Heya, Jeremy,” says Rocky, offers the kid a mock salute. “How’s the world outside?”
“Not bad. Mr. Norman is here.”
“No kidding?” says Milano, standing up. “Already?”
“Should I—”
“No, I’m coming.” My host stretches like a bear and reties his apron. “Hey, our friend here wants to know about Brett,” he says to Jeremy. “You got anything to say about Brett?”
Jeremy smiles, blushes almost. He’s wiry, this kid, small, with delicate features and thoughtful eyes. “Brett’s awesome.”
“Yeah,” says Rocky Milano, striding out of the alcove and into the kitchen proper, on to the next order of business. “He used to be.”
* * *
Outside Rocky’s Rock ’n’ Bowl a mangy tabby has insinuated itself under the back wheel of my bike, mewling in terror at the shrill insistent alarm sounding off one of the abandoned cars at Steeplegate Mall. A low-altitude fighter jet whooshes past overhead, fast and loud, leaving a bright white contrail against the gleaming blue of the sky. He’s pretty far inland, I think, extricating the cat and depositing her in a warm patch of sidewalk. Most of the Air Force sorties are closer to the coast, where they’ve been providing support to the Coast Guard cutters tasked with intercepting the catastrophe immigrants. There are more and more of these every day, at least according to Dan Dan the Radio Man: big cargo ships and rickety rafts, pleasure boats and stolen naval vessels, an unceasing tide of refugees from all over the Eastern Hemisphere, desperate to make their way to the part of the earth not in Maia’s direct path, where there is some slim chance of surviving, at least for a little while. The government’s policy is interdiction and containment, meaning the cutters turn back those ships that can safely be turned back, intercept the rest and shepherd them to shore. There the immigrants are processed en masse, moved to one of the secure facilities that have been constructed, or are being constructed, up and down the seaboard.
A certain percentage of the CI’s inevitably escape or are overlooked by these patrols, and manage to evade even the anti-immigrant militias who stalk them along the coasts and in the woods. I’ve only seen a handful here in Concord: a Chinese family, threadbare and emaciated, begging politely for food a couple weeks ago outside the ERAS site at Waugh’s Bakery on South Street. Inside I waited in line for three large rolls and I tore off bits, handed them to the family like they were pigeons or ducks.
* * *
On my way back I stop on the broad overgrown lawn of the New Hampshire statehouse, which is ringing right now with hoots and laughter, a small cheering crowd, spread out in groups of two and three. Small families, young couples, card tables pushed together and surrounded by smartly dressed elderly people. Picnic baskets, bottles of wine. A speaker is up on a crate, a middle-aged man, bald, his hands formed into a megaphone.
“The Boston Patriots,” bellows the guy. “The US Open. Outback Steakhouse.” Appreciative laughter; a few cheers. This has been going on for a few weeks now, someone’s bright idea that caught on: people taking turns, waiting patiently, a nonstop recitation of the things that we will miss about the world. There are two policemen, anonymous as robots in their black riot gear, machine guns strapped across their backs, keeping silent watch over the scene.
“Ping-pong. Starbucks,” the speaker says. People hoot, clap, and nudge one another. A skinny young mother with a toddler balanced on her arm stands behind him, waiting to say her piece. “Those big tins of popcorn you get for the holidays.”
I am aware of a sarcastic counterdemonstration being held on and off in a basement bar on Phenix Street, organized by a guy who used to be an assistant manager at the Capital Arts Center. There, people announce in mock solemnity all the things they will not miss: Customer-service representatives. Income taxes. The Internet.
I get back on the bike and go north and then west, toward my lunch date, thinking about Brett Cavatone—the man who got to marry Martha Milano, and then left her behind. A picture is forming in my mind: a tough man, smart, strong. And—what was Martha’s word?—noble. He must be doing something noble. One thing I know, they don’t let just anybody become a state trooper. And I’ve never met one who left to work in food service.
3.
“So this lady’s at the doctor, she’s got this strange pain, the doctor does all the tests, says, ‘I’m sorry, but you got cancer.’ ” Detective McGully is gesticulating like a vaudeville comedian, his bald head flushed with red, his throaty voice rumbling with anticipatory laughter. “And the thing is, there’s nothing they can do about it. Nothing! No radiation, no chemo. They don’t have the pills and the drip-drip machines don’t work right on the generators. It’s a mess. Doctor says, ‘Listen, lady, I’m sorry, but you got six months to live.’ ” Culverson rolls his eyes. McGully goes in for the kill. “And the lady looks at him and goes, ‘Six months? Terrific! That’s three months longer than everybody else!’ ”
McGully does a big freeze-frame comedy face on his punch line, waves his hands, wakka-wakka. I smile politely. Culverson scrapes honey into his tea from along the rim of the jar.
“Screw you both.” McGully dismisses us with a wave of his thick hands. “That’s funny.”
Detective Culverson grunts and sips his tea and I go back to my notebook, which is flipped open on the table beside our pile of unread menus. Ruth-Ann, the waitress here at the Somerset Diner, has kept the menus meticulously updated, editing them week by week, scrawling in changes, crossing out unavailable items with a thick black marker. McGully, still chortling at his own joke, takes out two cigars and rolls one across the table to Culverson, who lights them both and hands one back. My friends, chomping on their cigars in virtual unison: Middle-aged bald white man, middle-aged paunchy black man, peas in a pod, at their ease in a diner booth. Men in the lap of forced retirement, enjoying their leisure like octogenarians.
What I’m doing is reviewing my notes from this morning, remembering Martha, chewing on her fingernails, staring into the corners of the room.
“That’s a true story, by the way,” says McGully. “Not the bit where she says about the six months. But Beth has got a friend, just diagnosed, forty years old, not a goddamn thing they can do for her. True story.”
“How is Beth?”
“She’s fine,” says McGully. “She’s knitting sweaters. I tell her it’s summer, and she says it’s going to be cold. I tell her, what, you mean, when the sun is swallowed by ash?”
McGully says this like it’s supposed to be another joke, but nobody laughs, not even him.
“Hey, you guys hear about Dotseth?” says Culverson.
“Yeah,” says McGully. “You hear about the lieutenant governor?
”
“Yeah. Nuts.”
I’ve heard all these stories already. I study the pages of my notebook. How the heck am I going to get ahold of a plastic samurai sword?
Ruth-Ann, ancient and gray headed and sturdy, stops by to clear our dishes and slide ashtrays under the cigars, and everybody nods thanks. Besides the oatmeal and the cheese, the main refreshment she can offer is tea, because its chief ingredient is water, which for now is still coming out of the taps. Estimates vary on how long the public water supply will last now that the electricity is down for good. It depends on how much is in the reserve tanks; it depends on whether the Department of Energy has prioritized our city generators over other sections of the Northeast—it depends, it depends, it depends …
“Hey, so, Palace,” says Culverson all of sudden, with practiced nonchalance, like something just occurred to him. My spine stiffens with irritation—I know what he’s going to ask. “Any word on your sister?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
He’s asked before. He keeps asking.
“You haven’t heard from her?”
“Not a thing.”
McGully chimes in: “You’re not gonna try and find her?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m not.”
They look at each other: Such a shame. I change the subject.
“Let me ask you guys a question. How many miles would you say it is from here to Suncook?”
Culverson tilts his head. “I don’t know. Six?”
“Nah,” says McGully. “Eight. And change.” He blows out a thick cluster of smoke, which I fan away with the flat of my hand. The ceiling fan used to carry away some of the smoke, but now the fan is stilled and the thick gray cloud hangs low over the booth.
“Why?” says Culverson.
“A man I’m looking for, he was supposed to bike down to Suncook and pick up some chairs.”
“On a bike? With a trailer?”
“What man are you looking for?” says McGully.
“A missing person.”
“Bike them back from Suncook?” says Culverson. “What is he, a bull elephant?”
“Wait. Hold on.” McGully cocks his head at me, his cigar burning in the V of two fingers. “A missing person? You working on a case, detective?”
I give it to them briefly: my old babysitter, her runaway husband, the pizza restaurant by the Steeplegate Mall.
“Guy’s a trooper?” says Culverson.
“Was. He quit to work at the pizza place.”
Culverson makes a face. McGully interrupts: “What’s this chick paying you? To find her runaway man?”
“I said, she’s an old friend.”
“That’s not a kind of money.”
Culverson chuckles absently. I can tell he’s turning over the other thing, the trooper-turns-pizza-man element. McGully’s not done: “You told this chick it’s useless, right?”
“I told her it’s a long shot.”
“A long shot?” McGully, animated, thumping the table with a closed fist. “That’s one way to put it. You know what you should tell her, Ichabod Crane? You should tell her that her man is gone. He’s dead or he’s in a whorehouse or he’s smoking crack in New Orleans or Belize or some goddamn place. And that if he left her, it’s ’cause he wanted to, and the smart thing to do is to forget all about him. Pull up a chair and get ready to watch the sun go down.”
“Sure,” I say. “Yeah.”
I turn away from the conversation, look down at my hands, at the redacted menus. Dirty yellow sunbeams glow through the murk of the window glass, spreading across the tabletop like wavering prison bars. When I look back, McGully is shaking his head. “Listen, you like this chick? Then don’t give her false hope. Don’t waste her time. Don’t waste yours.”
Now I look to Culverson, who smiles mildly, tapping his forehead with his fingertips. “Hey, I ever tell you guys that my next-door neighbor is Sergeant Thunder?” he says.
“What?” says McGully.
“The weatherman?” I say.
“Channel Four at six and ten. My own personal celebrity.” Culverson starts patting his jacket pockets, looking for something. Culverson and I still wear blazers, most of the time; most of the time I put a tie on, too. McGully’s in a polo shirt with his name stitched across the breast pocket.
“We never used to talk that much,” Culverson explains, “just to say hi, except now it’s just him and me on the block, so I pop in on the guy every now and then, just knock on the door, how you doing, you know? He’s pretty old.”
McGully puffs on his cigar, getting bored.
“Anyway, yesterday Sergeant Thunder comes by to show me something. Says he really isn’t supposed to, but he can’t resist.”
Culverson finds what he was looking for in the right-inside pocket of his blazer and slides it across the table to me. It’s a brochure, slim and elegant, a glossy all-color trifold with pictures of smiling elderly people in a wood-paneled lounge, sconce lit and pleasant. There are photos of heroic-jawed security men in helmets striding sterile hallways. A young couple beaming over a meal: linen tablecloth, pasta and salad. And in a tasteful and understated font, The World of Tomorrow Awaits You …
“The World of Tomorrow?” I ask, and McGully grabs the brochure. “Bull hockey,” he snorts, turning it this way and that. “A dump truck full of bull hockey.”
He tosses it back across the table and I read the pitch on the reverse side. The World of Tomorrow offers berths in a “meticulously appointed, securely constructed, permanent facility in an undisclosed location in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.” The word “permanent” is in italics. There are three levels of accommodation on offer: standard, premium, and luxury.
I lay it back on the table. “Here,” says McGully. “Take a napkin. Dab off some of the bull hockey.”
There is, I note, no admission price listed for this marvelous “World of Tomorrow.” I ask Culverson and he says drily that from what Sergeant Thunder said, it varies from customer to customer. In other words, the price is whatever you’ve got.
“Last night I watched them come and take Sergeant Thunder’s riding lawnmower, his little wine refrigerator, and his microwave,” says Culverson. “This morning they dismantled his brick shed, knocked it apart with those big masonry hammers and carted away the bricks. They wear jumpsuits, these guys. I think jumpsuits are a nice touch, if you’re looking to swindle someone out of everything they own.”
“You didn’t try and stop them?” says McGully, and Culverson rears back, gives him an are-you-crazy?
“Yeah,” he says. “I put up my dukes. You think these guys aren’t carrying?”
I turn the brochure over in my hands. State-of-the-art medical facilities. Gourmet meals. Craps tables.
“Besides,” says Culverson. “You should have seen the smile on the Sergeant’s face.” He leans back and gives us the look, fox in a henhouse. “Grinning like a sex fiend. I’ve never seen an old man look so happy.”
McGully looks agitated. He taps ash into his teacup and says, “What’s the point?” but he already knows the point, and I do, too. Culverson gives it to us anyway. “Maybe it’s false hope you’re giving this girl, your old babysitter—but it’s hope, right? Little spark in the darkness?” McGully makes an irritated sputter, and Culverson turns to him, says, “I’m serious, man. Maybe having Palace working on her case keeps this lady from going nuts.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s—exactly.”
Culverson takes a hard look at me, turns back to McGully. “Hell, maybe it keeps Palace from going nuts.”
I bend back over my notebook, moving on. “If you wanted to make a pizza, where would you go for ingredients? This guy’s boss sends him out yesterday morning for basics, and I presume he means at a rummage.”
“No question,” says Culverson. “No one’s running a pizza restaurant with ERAS cheese.” He doesn’t say the letters, he pronounces it out like most people,
sounds like heiress. The Emergency Resource Allocation System.
“Which rummage, though? Pirelli’s?”
“Hey, don’t ask me. I’m doing fine with my little garden and Ruth-Ann’s hospitality. But my esteemed colleague is a married man and has different needs.”
There’s a long pause then, as Culverson stubs out his cigar in the ashtray and stares pointedly at McGully, who at last throws up his hands and sighs. “Fuck’s sake,” he says. “The old Elks Lodge building. On South Street, past Corvant.”
“You sure?” I’m scrawling it in my notebook, tapping my feet on Ruth-Ann’s floor. “I was just down that way to get some eyeglasses fixed at Paulie’s. The lodge looked like it’d been looted clean.”
“Not the basement,” he says. “The guy was shopping for cheese, for canned tomatoes, olives? Elks Rummage. Dollars to donuts. Tell them I sent you.”
“Thank you, McGully,” I say, laying down my pencil, beaming.
“Don’t forget, you got to bring something.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Yeah, well. Up yours.”
“Deep down inside,” says Culverson, gazing fondly at McGully, “you’re a shining star.”
“Up yours, too.”
Ruth-Ann circles back around, swift and nimble in her orthopedic shoes. I smile at her and she winks. I’ve been coming to the Somerset since I was twelve years old. “How much do we owe you?” asks Culverson like always, and Ruth-Ann says, “A zillion trillion dollars,” like always, and bustles away.
* * *
I get home and dump everybody’s leftovers into a big plastic bowl and whistle for my dog, a puffy white bichon frisé named Houdini who used to belong to a drug dealer.
“Whoa, wait,” I tell him, as he hurls his little body across the room at the food bowl. “Sit. Stay.”
The dog ignores me; he woofs with delight and plunges his tiny happy face into the leftovers. Very briefly, when we first met, I was determined to train Houdini as a search-and-rescue dog, but I have long since abandoned that project. He has zero interest in obeying orders or instructions of any kind; he remains a pure untutored child of an animal. I settle into a wooden chair at my kitchen table to watch him eat.
Countdown City: The Last Policeman Book II Page 3
