by Joe McKinney
“Thanks,” she said, trying to look like she wasn't clamping her hands down on her squirming daughter. “Do you like it? Really? It's gotten so hard to find enough to do the job in one shopping trip. I usually have to buy a little each week until I have enough.”
“It looks great,” I said.
Connie was slipping out of my grip. “Honey,” I said, “why don't you and June go out back and kick the soccer ball back and forth?”
“That's a good idea, June,” said Gloria. “You two could stand on opposite sides of the yard there and really kick it hard.”
June gave Gloria a look, and I realized that they must teach all six through eight year olds that look.
Gloria and I let go of our daughters at the same time, and it was like watching two greyhounds bolt out of the lists. I never knew Connie could run that fast. We watched them go nervously, both of us making furtive little grabbing motions at the window that looked out over the backyard every time the girls got too close.
“Hey,” said Billy, “you guys coming in with the rest of us or not?”
“Coming,” I said. Then, to Gloria, “Shall we?”
“Okay. I can't wait to tell you about the tomatoes I'm growing. You know I've killed so many since all this dreariness started, but I think I've finally found the knack. I have three great big green ones. I can't wait to bring you some.”
“Fantastic,” I said, and led her into the kitchen.
Back when I first met Gloria, she had been a product marketing specialist for one of the big department stores in the Rivercenter Mall downtown. She was an impressively driven and well-organized woman, the kind who excelled as team mother for a girl's soccer team or Girl Scout den mother and still managed to look fabulously put together.
Then, in late May, shortly after the first cases of H2N2 were reported, she lost her husband Steve to the flu. She managed to keep her youthful face and figure, and her smile that makes every man in the room focus on her, but the rest of her fell apart. It was like the driven, purposeful part of her mind just stopped working. She lost all trace of seriousness, and became hopelessly flighty, vain, and distracted. She was, in a way, a living train wreck, the saddest kind of memorial to the way things used to be.
I introduced her to Chunk, who was eager to have someone to talk to who didn't want him to pose nude with a white bear skin rug draped over his manly parts.
Gloria giggled as she shook Chunk's hand.
“Wow,” she said. “Oh wow.”
“Hi,” Chunk said, smiling uncomfortably, probably thinking, Christ, out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“You're a police detective, aren't you?” Gloria asked him. “Lily, this is your partner, right?”
“That's right,” I said.
Gloria's eyes walked all over Chunk's biceps and shoulders. “Wow.”
Chunk was trying to get his hand back from Gloria, but not succeeding.
“So tell me,” Gloria said, “do you really investigate murders? That sounds so dangerous to me.”
“Well,” Chunk said, but didn't get a chance to say anything more about it.
“I just couldn't do that. And I bet you see so many frightening things, don't you?”
“Well, most of the time—”
“Look,” Gloria said, suddenly breaking contact with Chunk's hand and sticking her hand into the middle of our little huddle, “I broke a nail today.”
We all looked at her broken nail.
“I couldn't believe it. There's so much to do around the house, you know? And you just can't call somebody like you used to.” She put her hands on Chunk's bicep. “And with no man around the house ... well, you know how it is.”
She batted her overly done eyelashes at Chunk. Chunk smiled awkwardly, then gave me a look that screamed: For God's sake, Lily, save me from your friends.
We moved from the kitchen to the living room and set Connie up at the head of the table, the chocolate cake in front of her. I lit all six candles and everybody else gathered around to sing “Happy Birthday.”
I tried to ignore the fact that we were all wearing surgical masks, but I couldn't quite shake the idea that we looked like doctors about to operate.
With sheer will I pushed the image out of my head, because that was the only way to keep from crying. Little girls’ birthday parties shouldn't feel like a scene out of a horror movie.
When the song was over, Connie leaned forward to blow out the candles. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the others taking an unconscious step back. I couldn't really blame them. Paranoia was, after all, the order of the day. Still, my heart broke a little more.
Connie didn't notice, or if she did she didn't make a big deal of it. She was too focused on the candles. She blew four of them out on the first huff before she ran out of breath and went after the other two. I wondered if she would remember this as the birthday she couldn't blow out all her candles because her face mask got in the way.
After the cake, Connie and June went out on the patio to play. Connie was showing June her binoculars, and the two of them were scanning the line of oak trees between our house and the creek. Looking for birds, I guessed.
I didn't like how close they were standing. While Avery and Lynn were hounding Chunk with all things liberal I slipped away to separate them. Gloria had the same idea, for we reached our daughters at the same time and gently nudged them apart, so there was a few feet of space between them.
Gloria's eyes met mine and we both flushed with embarrassment.
“Mommy,” Connie said. “Stop it.”
“Oh, look, honey,” I said, pointing over the tree line. “Is that a hawk?”
“No, Mommy. That's a buzzard.”
“Oh,” I said.
Gloria and I tried not to look at each other.
The power came back on just before it got dark and the party really started to pick up. Coke had been plentiful the last time Billy went shopping and he had bought two cases. When the lights came back on, Billy and Chunk went into the kitchen to cut limes. I went to the closet and pulled out two bottles of sugar cane rum we'd had left over from our Superbowl party earlier in the year. We brought the Cokes, the limes, and the Bacardi together in the dining room and made Cuba Libres.
Midway through our third round of drinks, the party drifted out to the patio where we could enjoy the evening breezes carrying the scent of cedar down from the hills. It was turning into a beautiful night, not too hot, no clouds, and lots of bright stars over the uneven line of dark hills to the west.
The dollop of shaving cream was still hanging from Avery Cameron's nonexistent chin when he got up on his soapbox.
“It's Republican sponsored racism, if you ask me,” he said, his voice slurred. The rest of us groaned.
He waved his drink around negligently as he spoke. “Seriously, remember when all this started? Remember then? The President on the TV saying how boxing us in here was for the good of the nation? How he'd do everything he could to preserve our dignity?”
Avery stared around the room, looking for someone to challenge him. No one did. Only Lynn spoke, and that was just a grunt of support.
“Dignity,” he said, nearly spitting the word out. “Crap is what we got, not dignity. Just crap. And you know why?” He leered at us, swaying badly, the dollop of shaving cream holding on tight. “I'll tell you why. It's because San Antonio has got so many Hispanics. You think if this happened someplace else where the population was all white the Republicans would be sitting on their butts like they are? No, of course they wouldn't. It's racism, that's what it is. Republican sponsored racism.”
Billy laughed at that. “That's bullshit, Avery.”
“Billy,” I said, and pointed at the girls with my chin. “Little pitchers, remember? You put bad stuff in, you get bad stuff out.”
“Sorry, Lily.” Then, to Avery, he said, “There's no such thing as Republican sponsored racism. You do know that, right?”
“You're blind, Billy. You've bought t
he crap they sold you. It's like New Orleans all over again. Nobody gives a crap so long as the people getting the mean end of the stick are poor and brown.”
“Oh come on, Avery. You can't possibly compare what's going on here to New Orleans. That's the biggest load of—”
“Can one of you nice fellas get a girl a refill?” Gloria said, cutting right between Avery and Billy and handing her glass out to Chunk. I saw her eyelashes beat up and down shamelessly.
Chunk groaned, but took the glass and got up.
The party ran late. Connie and June fell asleep on the living room floor, and Billy and Avery argued politics, making less and less sense the more they drank. Finally, I couldn't listen to them anymore. I went in to the kitchen to save Chunk from Gloria and Lynn. Both women seemed determined to get him to take off his clothes. Chunk had hated it when he was sober, but now that he had plenty of rum in him, I think he was starting to enjoy the attention. My new mission became saving Chunk from himself.
When I went into the kitchen, Gloria was running a finger down Chunk's chest and staring up at him with doe eyes that were supposed to make him melt. It looked like they were doing their job fairly well.
“So do they really call you Chunk?” Gloria said, and giggled. Neither of them had their masks on.
“They sure do.”
“Why is that?”
“Well,” Chunk said.
Gloria bit her bottom lip coyly.
Chunk said something to her that I didn't hear and she giggled again. She put a hand over her lips when she laughed, the way some women do.
“Don't cover your mouth like that,” Chunk said. “You're pretty when you laugh.”
Gloria beamed. “I like you,” she said. “You're so interesting. We never meet interesting people around here anymore. Everybody's so damned worried all the time. I just hate to worry, don't you?”
That, I thought, from the woman who spent all night chasing her daughter around the yard.
“I sure do. You know, I read just a couple of days ago that 60 percent of all women worry about the way they look naked. Can you believe that?”
Gloria batted her eyes and summoned up a believable school girl blush. “60 percent, really? Well, it is a hard world to be a woman in, you know.”
“I believe it,” Chunk said.
I could swear his voice was getting deeper by the minute, Chunk trying to sound like Barry White.
Chunk said, “Seems to me it's got to be a confidence thing. Like a woman needs to feel right with herself, but also with her man. You know what I'm saying? She's got to be shown she's beautiful, and not just because she put her hair up fancy or put on makeup. The man's got to step up there and validate her.”
Gloria nodded with every word. “You are so right,” she said, and I imagined her as a fish with the hook firmly caught in her mouth. “You know women so well, Mr. Dempsey.”
“Call me Chunk.”
He put a hand on her hip and she giggled again.
I had heard enough. I cleared my throat and the two of them straightened up like a pair of kids whose parents had just walked in on them. They both slipped their masks back into place.
“What did you guys do with Lynn?” I said.
“She went to the ladies’ room,” Gloria said. “Mr. Dempsey and I were just having the sweetest conversation. Did you know, Lily, what a charmer your partner is?”
“Oh yeah, he's a charmer all right.”
I looked around the kitchen. There were about a hundred wrecked limes all over the place and the linoleum floor was sticky.
I said, “Are you guys going to be okay in here? I'm going to check on Lynn.”
“We'll be fine,” Gloria said, then bit her lip and moved her shoulders back and forth as she looked up into Chunk's face.
“Great,” I said, and left them to it.
I found Lynn in the hall bathroom, passed out in the corner between the bathtub and the toilet. I helped her to her feet.
“You feeling okay, sweetie?” I said.
“Oh yes,” she said.
“Why don't we go check on your husband?”
“Good idea,” she said, then hiccupped. “Let's go see the boys.”
With Lynn's left arm around my shoulder and my right arm around her waist, I carried her down the hall, through the living room, through the kitchen, and into the dining room.
Billy was there, a bleary-eyed look of victory in his eyes.
Avery sat in the chair next to him, passed out. His hands were in his lap and his head was tilted all the way back so that the little dollop of shaving cream pointed out at us like some kind of bony finger.
“Billy,” I said, “I think it's time we helped the Camerons home. What do you think?”
Billy slapped his thighs with his palms and smiled. “Yep, I reckon so.”
“Fantastic, cowboy.”
He winked at me, then stood up to help Avery to his feet.
“Wait,” said Chunk. He was behind me, coming into the room. “One second. This has been bugging me all night.”
He went over to Avery and flicked the hardened shaving cream off of Avery's chin with a snap of his fingers.
Gloria slapped Chunk's bicep when he went back to stand by her. “Bad boy,” she said. “So bad.”
We got the Camerons to their feet, out the door, and pointed them toward their house. Meanwhile, Gloria picked up June and carried her outside.
“I should be getting home too,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Chunk asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately, yes.” She shrugged with June in her hands. “Got to get her to bed. You got my number though, right?”
“I could walk you home,” he said.
“Another night,” she said, and worked her eyelashes up and down to let him know she meant it. “Call me, okay?”
“Okay. I'll call you.”
“Cool.”
Just like that, the party was over.
I put Connie to bed while Chunk and Billy cleaned up the piles of limes in the kitchen.
“She get to bed okay?” Billy asked.
“Yeah,” I said, and kissed him.
“It was a good party,” Chunk said. “Lots of interesting people.”
I threw a wad of paper towel's into the bag he was holding and said, “Mmm hmmm.”
After most of the mess was cleaned up, Chunk said, “So when do you think it'll be ready?”
Billy said, “Soon. Tomorrow, maybe the day after. It'll have to be soon. Before the patrols discover the hole.”
“So, day after tomorrow then? Around sunset?”
We all looked at each other, the air around us thick with the mood of conspiracy.
“Sounds good,” Billy said.
He looked at me. I nodded.
“Okay then,” Billy said. “Day after tomorrow. We meet here right after nightfall.”
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* * *
Chapter 22
The next morning, shortly after dawn, Chunk and I checked out a light green Chevy Malibu with a banged up front right fender from the Scar's fleet yard and headed to the shallow west side to see Treanor. We were both hung over and glassy-eyed, neither of us prepared for the lingering chaos that still shrouded the area where the riot had been at its worst.
At the corner of Bandera and Woodlawn, a pair of baby-faced patrolmen waved us down and checked our IDs.
“We're only passing people who live in the area or who are part of emergency agencies,” one of the patrolmen said. It sounded like he was apologizing.
“It's okay,” I said.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, and waved us through.
We passed the checkpoint and were greeted by the sounds of still crackling fires, the slapping of high-pressure hoses spraying water onto smoldering buildings, and shouting policemen and fire fighters.
Behind us, morning broke over downtown, backlighting the skyline with a vague glowing line of pink and green and gold. It w
as beautiful, not anything like the streets ahead of us. My first thought was it looked like a hurricane had rolled through.
Demolished police cars had been abandoned in the street, and everywhere columns of gray and black smoke rose into the air. Not a single window anywhere had been left intact. Broken glass glinted like coins on the sidewalks and in the street. The weapons of choice of most of the rioters had been stones and bricks, and great heaps of both were everywhere. As we crept down the street, never getting faster than ten or fifteen miles per hour because of all the obstructions, glass crunched beneath our tires.
In the end it had taken a little more than three hundred officers to contain the riot, and now an eerie calm had prevailed over a roughly twenty block area. Every street, every alley, was blocked by orange and white-striped sawhorse barricades and watched by officers still wearing parts of their riot gear.
Strangely, the only things that remained untouched were the hundreds of orange warning notices that the Metropolitan Health District people had posted on walls and poles and fences. Here and there they rustled in the warm, sluggish morning breeze.
Many of the officers we passed looked tired and bored. They leaned against their cars, most of which were damaged by rocks, while others leaned against barricades. They eyed our Malibu closely as we drove through the debris.
The line of stores in the one-storey building in front of Treanor's office was a gutted and charred mess. Fire from gas cocktails and pipe bombs had torn it open from the inside out, like a body on the autopsy table. Still smoldering pieces of the frame poked up from the debris like blackened ribs. Already, at the end of the block, Public Works off-loaded bobcats and earth movers to clear away the mess. Chunk gave the building a sideways glance and said, “Your friend was nice.”
“Which one? The one that wanted to take naked pictures of you or the one who just wanted to take you naked?”
Chunk grunted. “Your next door neighbors are nuts, you know that?”
“They're good to Connie. And they're sweet in their own way.”
He grunted again.
Treanor's office, nestled behind the row of burned stores, had managed to escape being damaged. I figured that was probably because it didn't look like what it really was. If you didn't know any better, you'd think it was an abandoned adult bookstore. There were no windows on the bottom floor, no signs saying what was inside. Just a single faded green metal door in a pinkish-white granite-walled building.
