by Gale Massey
The minister stepped away from the pulpit, prompting applause as TJ heaved his big frame up from the chair. The tweed was a nice touch even if the gray tones matched the shadows below his eyes. In the dull light of this dim little church, the man’s face was as colorless as egg white. Judging from the hollowed-out man standing at the pulpit, Garcia thought it could be true what Loyal Elders had said last night, that Keating had taken his soul. But to Garcia, the loss of the man’s soul wasn’t as worrisome as his health. He seemed a little caved in, like he’d been punched in the chest.
TJ was talking now, reading from some notes he’d pulled from his jacket pocket, but the microphone hadn’t been adjusted to his height and Garcia heard only a few words. The air in the church was stale and warm. TJ seemed disoriented, pausing between sentences to swig water from a plastic bottle. Garcia had seen a man pass out from a hangover, but a man that size might take down the whole pulpit. TJ tugged at his collar trying to find his stride. Sweat soaked his forehead and dripped down his temples.
TJ adjusted the microphone higher and held up his fingers. His personal guide to success consisted of three bullet points. “Prepare hard, show up, and trust God.” He dropped his hand to the pulpit and leaned toward the audience. “Success isn’t rocket science. It’s guts and determination.”
The men of the Methodist breakfast club waited for more, and TJ finally got to the story they’d all come to hear. “We were on the fifty-yard line with eight seconds on the clock. Coach called for a Hail Mary. It was a long shot, but it was our only hope.”
That play had made every highlight reel. Garcia had seen it at least a hundred times. TJ was the guy you wanted on your team, the guy who could jump higher than the defenders, the guy who could land on his head and still hold on to the ball. As he talked, spit flew from his mouth and his hair fell into his eyes.
Garcia recalled his own glorious moment on the high school team, the block he’d thrown that allowed the quarterback to connect with the receiver in the end zone. The tackle had cost him a groin injury but had won him the heart of the girl who, for better or worse, would become his wife. But TJ Bangor had won more than a game, more than a girl. He had lived every player’s dream. He paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead, panting as though he had just finished that play once more. He’d been knocked unconscious, but when they’d carried him off the field on a stretcher, he’d still had a death grip on the ball. Now, he pointed at each man, making eye contact with as many of them as possible. “These life lessons can make you a champion, too.”
TJ pushed out his chest and stood as tall as his frame would allow. Garcia had to give it to him. An hour ago he’d probably sucked down a handful of Tylenol and a quart of Gatorade. And he’d probably been thinking about losing that Super Bowl ring.
The men in the audience stood and applauded as TJ walked down the center aisle to introduce himself and shake hands. What a life, Garcia thought, to have grown men pay fifty dollars a pop for breakfast and a good story. Who wouldn’t want that gig?
When TJ got to his aisle, Garcia said, “Quite a speech, TJ.” He reached out to shake his hand, smiling hard to make sure the lines around his eyes crinkled. In his years as a cop he’d learned that if a smile didn’t make it to your eyes, it meant nothing. He clasped TJ’s shoulder, hoping that he’d remember him from last night.
TJ stood twelve inches over Garcia. His size alone was intimidating, teeth the size of marbles and a face as wide as a catcher’s mitt.
“Garcia, right? From last night.” TJ slid his arm around Garcia’s shoulder and turned him away from the crowd. He bent over slightly and lowered his voice. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah, sure.” They stepped away from the others.
“You’re a cop, right?” TJ wiped his face with a handkerchief. “That judge, Keating, you know him?”
“Everyone in town knows him.”
“I asked around. That game’s got a reputation. I don’t think it’s on the up-and-up.”
One of the ushers opened the double doors at the entrance and flooded the foyer with light.
Garcia squinted. He’d heard the rumors.
TJ leaned in. “The more I think about it, the more I think I got played.”
Garcia nodded like it might be possible, though he was reluctant to admit he’d been thinking about that ring all night, too. “Huh. So, tell me, how did you get invited to the game?”
“I’m here to give a speech. Word gets around; I got a call,” TJ said. “You saw what happened. All that whiskey. And betting the ring? That wasn’t my idea.”
“You called the bet, though. No one made you.”
“I was on a roll. I mean, what are the chances he hits a boat same time I get a straight?”
“It happens. I’ve seen it before.”
“I want that ring back. You have no idea how embarrassing it is to show up here without it. I called my daughter and told her to bring my second one, but she can’t get here until tomorrow. I’m going to have to tell them I forgot to bring it with me. People pay to see that ring.” He was whispering now and handed Garcia a business card. “Look, I’m not from around here and I’m not afraid of these boys. Those guys, Keating and his buddy, especially that woman—they paid her to cheat me. They were all in on it.” He squeezed Garcia’s shoulder like he was gripping a twenty-yard pass.
TJ’s ruddy cheeks were blanching again and Garcia remembered how his face had crashed in on itself last night at the sight of Keating’s full house. He could understand the anger, but it was easy for an outsider and a man of TJ’s wealth to make an accusation like that.
“That’s a hefty allegation,” Garcia said. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected it was true, but he couldn’t act on just a hunch. He’d need more proof than that.
“But you were there. What did you see?”
“We’d all had a lot to drink. I wasn’t really sure what happened.”
“Assuming you weren’t in on it, right?” TJ gripped Garcia’s shoulder. “Right?”
“Of course not. I’m just not sure what I can do.”
“You’re a cop, right? Throw your weight around a little. All I want is the ring, okay? If you can’t get it for me, I’ll get it myself, but no one wants this to get messy. Nobody needs to admit anything or apologize. Nothing like that.”
The minister announced that breakfast was being served in the fellowship hall and TJ said, “I gotta go.” He gave Garcia a card. “That’s my cell. Call me anytime.” He straightened and followed the crowd through the door.
Garcia put the card in his jacket pocket. He’d paid to stay for the breakfast, but he’d had his moment with Bangor and the man had asked him for help. He imagined Bangor on the other end of the phone, the surprised relief in his voice when he called—if he could manage to return the ring.
Help out a hero. Be a hero’s hero. Face down a judge and maybe earn some chops on the force. Blind River was such a closed-up system, especially downtown. That had worked in his favor when he’d first moved here. He’d needed the isolation. But the more he thought about it, the more he felt that Keating and Loyal had taken things too far. Everyone knew they ran something on the side. That bogus annual veterans’ fund-raiser was coming up, and what had they ever done with the proceeds but repaint the meeting hall and plant a few crape myrtles on Main? They should have at least planted oaks. Huh, he thought. Follow the money. That might be my angle.
Loyal, the good old boy with the new Dodge Ram. Trucks like that ran, what? Fifty thousand? Where’d he gotten that kind of money? Unemployment in this county was at nine percent, and wages were busted flat as twenty years ago. They were taking good money from hardworking people. And Keating with that ivy-covered Tudor and creamy white Cadillac. Garcia would do some snooping around. Maybe get lucky fast.
He walked to his ten-year-old Toyota, wondering how many Super Bowl rings there were in the world—he guessed a few thousand total—and was struck by the effort required to win
one.
He added TJ’s cell number to his contact list. Then he started the engine. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deep enough to get a hot sting in his lungs, and put the car in drive.
CHAPTER
8
MONDAY AFTERNOON, JAMIE pulled her stocking cap over her ears and left Angel’s house, where she had been holed up since Jack had dropped her off Saturday night. Overhead, the sky was fat and low with another front moving in from the west. She walked to the edge of the field next to the high school and stood at the chain-link fence with her backpack at her feet, her hands jammed in her pockets for warmth. The appointment with Jilkins and the principal had been set for three thirty, after the final bell.
She hoped that Toby was still inside the school, hoped he hadn’t bolted and left her to handle them alone. She’d helped him out plenty of times and he owed her one. They had survived the last eight years by being human shields for each other, and she would need him there later when she told Loyal about having lost the money. That’s how she planned to put it, make it sound like it had been misplaced on accident. He might buy that. Probably not. But the Monday night group were a bunch of laid-back shop owners, and if she told him right before they showed up things might go easy. He definitely wouldn’t hit her in front of them and they would be there for hours. Maybe by the time they left he’d be passed out.
At three fifteen the school bell rang and kids poured through the doors into the parking lot like a flood of minnows rushing through the shallows, climbing over the fence into cars and buses, walking alongside the ditch that led away from the football field. All of them wound up from too many hours spent in a compressed space, most of them in need of a smoke and a couple of unstructured hours. It had been less than a year since Jamie had been stuck inside those walls waiting for life to begin. She remembered the impulse to flee at the end of the day. Now, a year later, she was nagged by the suspicion that those days might have been the best she’d ever know.
Toby was the tallest kid in his class and easy to spot in a crowd. She didn’t see him leave the building. When the last school bus pulled away from the curb, Jamie went inside. She checked the detention hall behind the library, wondered if he was scamming the nurse again, and walked toward the main building to check the infirmary. She saw him through the tall glass windows, slumped on a bench outside the principal’s office, pretending to catnap.
He looked up when she opened the door. “Jilkins is hell-bent on some stupid program.” He rolled his eyes and dropped his chin back to his chest.
The school’s guidance counselor spotted her through the glass walls. She picked up a file off her desk and came out the office door. Ms. Jilkins followed her.
“We were expecting his uncle,” Ms. Hollins said.
Jamie took off her stocking cap and twisted it in her hands. “He’s sick today and sent me instead. Said to say he’s sorry.”
Ms. Hollins stretched her neck impatiently as if she’d expected something like this and said, “I guess you’ll do, then.”
Toby slumped forward, his elbows to his knees, hiding a smile.
“What’s going on? I’m sure Toby will apologize. Right, Toby?”
“Apologies won’t do this time,” Ms. Hollins said. “We’re seeing a pattern of behavior that needs to be addressed. We think Toby is a good candidate for a new program.”
Toby groaned.
Jilkins took the file from Hollins, flipped through some pages, and found a form. She gave it to Jamie. “This is a program aimed at helping young men who show signs of … well, who struggle with social skills. Toby is inclined to push smaller students around, tell them what to do. We’d like to change that.”
“He’s just bigger than most kids his age. He’s not a bully,” Jamie said, not believing her own words. She looked at the form. It was an evening program run out of the school. Toby would see it as nothing more than detention, but all she had to do was take this home, sign Loyal’s name, and this would be over.
“And we’d like to keep it that way. This program will help him learn to manage his temper.”
Toby started popping his knuckles, and Jamie cut him a look. Everything they were saying was true; he was used to getting his way using those long arms and big fists. Most kids kept their distance.
Hollins tilted her head and adjusted her glasses. “With a little empathy training, though, Toby could work this out. He might even become a mentor, a student liaison for this program across the county.”
Jamie asked, “That sound good to you, Toby?”
“It sounds gay,” he mumbled.
Jamie held his gaze. They wouldn’t get out of this until he went along. Finally he stood and said, “Yeah, I’d loved to improve my social skills.”
“Good. Have your uncle look that form over and sign it. Toby, you should bring it to my office tomorrow,” Hollins said.
“Consider it done,” Jamie said, but Hollins wasn’t finished. She pulled out a copy of Toby’s numbers sheet. “And we found out about this today. Apparently, he’s taking bets on the basketball team. This kind of gambling isn’t legal and it certainly isn’t allowed on school property.”
Toby scratched the back of his head and looked toward the front door. “The thing is,” he said, “I didn’t know that.”
Hollins cocked her head at Toby. “Yes, I think you did. You are to return all the money to the students you took it from. And you will get that done by the end of the day tomorrow. Do you understand?”
Toby splayed his big palms faceup like an innocent man and huffed. “Uh, okay.”
Jamie wondered how much of it he’d already spent, how much more she’d have to come up with to cover it. “I’ll make sure that happens.”
Toby walked past the woman and leaned on the glass door at the entrance. “I have a lot of homework. Can we go now?”
Jamie followed him to the door, but Jilkins stopped her. “By the way, Jamie, how’s college?”
“Fine,” Jamie said straight-faced. “Good, fine, it’s all good.” She turned to catch up with Toby, who was holding the door for her.
“Oh, good. I always knew you were a bright kid,” Jilkins called.
Right.
“Me too,” Toby said when they were outside. He loved mocking Jilkins’s high-pitched voice. “I’ve always known you were a bright kid.”
“Shut up.”
“Loyal won’t sign that form. He’ll say it’s for fags.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jamie said.
They cut through the cemetery. Last week’s storm had blown the plastic flowers everywhere. She hated plastic flowers and was glad to see the place torn up. She looked in the direction of their father’s plot, somewhere near the back corner, and thought for the millionth time that she should take Toby there again, at least show him where to look for the headstone. They’d gone there once when Toby was ten. He’d covered the engraving on the headstone with his foot and rubbed his eyes till they turned red. He’d refused to speak to her for the rest of that day and, since then, they’d fallen into an unspoken ritual of silence when they walked by the cemetery on their way home.
Each time a car came up the road, Toby ducked his head and stepped off the curb.
“What’re you so twitchy about?”
“Billy Pivens. He says I owe him.”
A snow tractor had shoveled Main Street, leaving clumps of mud and snow along the curb. Cold, flat air slapped the blacktop dry. She wondered again if she could leave this town if her brother never did.
“Do you?”
“I sold the same square twice by accident and it hit. I paid him half but he wants it all.”
She stopped midstride and swung around to face him. “Jeez, Toby. How’d that happen?”
“I said it was an accident.”
“Christ.”
“It didn’t go like I thought.”
“You got to be tight if you’re going to run a sheet.”
“The fuck you got to tell me that for? I think I
know that now, don’t I?”
She rubbed the back of her neck, sensed a headache traveling up from beneath her left shoulder blade, and switched her backpack to the other side. “Listen, you aren’t the only one in trouble.”
“Yeah, Loyal was pissed when you didn’t show up at Keating’s or all day yesterday.”
“It isn’t just that.” She realized her eyes were dampening. She stopped and, after a couple of steps, so did Toby.
“What?”
“I didn’t get the deposit to Jack.”
Toby stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What the fuck did you do? Spend it?”
“I just needed a loan, for a day or two. Loyal wasn’t supposed to find out.”
He squared up to face her. “How much was it? Can you get it back?”
“No, we went to Mimawa. Lost it all.”
Toby wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked forward. “Jesus. He’ll kill us both.”
“He won’t take it out on you,” she said.
“Right,” Toby said. “Because we both know he never takes it out on me.”
It was true. Toby was the boy and he got smacked harder, longer, and more often.
“He’s been good to us, Toby. I mean overall.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sort of. He’ll go crazy when he finds out about this. He called you all day yesterday.”
“I know. I turned my phone off and stayed at Angel’s house, trying to come up with a plan.”
“Hiding out is more like it.”
Jamie wondered if she should lay low for a few more days or face her uncle now, wondered which option would be less painful. She could show him the laptop, explain how she thought she had the money to cover it, how she had planned to pay him back. It wasn’t her fault the government had shut down the sites.
They turned at the corner of Main and First and slowed to look in the storefronts. The same set of golf clubs had been sitting in the front window of the pawn shop for over a decade. A new gun shop sat between Blind River Funeral Home and the men’s shoe store. Farther down was a wholesale casket store that was perpetually empty.
