The Lightning Rule

by Brett Ellen Block

  “We don’t do that, dear,” she scolded, tugging the boy away from the display case by his sleeve.

  “Eww. What’s wrong with that man, Mom? Look at his arm. It’s all messed up.”

  The woman’s face reddened. “Nothing, sweetie. Nothing. Help Mommy carry these, won’t you?” She thrust her purchases at the boy, then hustled him out of the store.

  “Kids,” the butcher commiserated. “Whadaya gonna do?”

  Meers had a few ideas.

  “You want the usual, sir?”

  “Please.”

  “Three pounds of prime rib, comin’ up. How are those dogs ’a yours?”

  “Excellent, thank you. They’re remarkable animals.”

  To keep the butcher from becoming curious about his large and frequent orders, Meers had told him that he raised hunting dogs and asked for a quantity sufficient to feed three, full-grown bloodhounds. Meers had never actually owned a dog. His father didn’t like them. Be it a pure breed or a feist, the mongrels employed by some to locate small prey and keep them bayed, dogs diluted the purity of hunting. “A man who gets a dog to do his work for him is wasting his time and the dog’s. If you’re gonna cheat, why bother?” was his father’s maxim. Meers didn’t condone cheating either. The only edge he had in his hunting was foreknowledge of the sewer tunnels, but he believed the inability to use both of his arms tipped the scales back into balance.

  “These are some nice ribs. Cut ’em myself this morning.” The butcher presented a tray of marbled slabs from the display case.

  “Perfect. Would you kindly trim them for me?”

  The butcher obliged, slicing white ribbons of fat from the meat until each slab was pristine. “You must really love them dogs,” he said. “Hell, I’d sleep in the doghouse myself to get this much prime rib.”

  “You’d have to do more than that,” Meers told him.

  Uneasy, the butcher laughed off the comment, wrapped the meat in paper, and calculated the tab. “That’ll be seventeen bucks.”

  The meat for Meers’s imaginary dogs cost a small fortune. He didn’t hesitate to spend the money. He would soon reap the returns.

  “May I have a bag? I have difficulty carrying things.” He played up his infirmity to embarrass the butcher, who fumbled to load the parcels into a paper sack.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

  Meers luxuriated in the butcher’s guilt as a beautiful woman would the stares of men on the street.

  “Those dogs’ll be happy tonight,” the butcher said, still blushing.

  Happy wasn’t the word Meers would have selected, but it would do.

  His lunch break was almost over and he had to get the prime rib on ice. He went straight home. On the way, Meers got stopped at a roadblock. A National Guardsman in fatigues was going from car to car, inspecting the drivers. If they were white, he let them through. If they were black, he directed them to pull to the curb and wait to be interviewed. Meers zipped through the blockade unquestioned.

  A three-floor walk-up off Passaic Avenue was where Meers called home. It was the same apartment where he had lived since he and his father relocated to Newark. The building canted to one side when they moved in and had been slanting farther from vertical each year. The two-room apartment was at the rear of the building and got direct sunlight for just a few short hours a day. Even with the lights on, the rooms remained gloomy. There were more shadows in the apartment than possessions.

  Meers put his three pounds of prime rib into the refrigerator, which was all but empty. He didn’t eat much, an egg and a piece of toast for breakfast, broth and crackers for dinner. A small amount of food could satiate him. For lunch, he would have a plain ham sandwich. That would be plenty.

  He fixed the sandwich and ate it standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the back of another apartment building. Pots of withered plants teemed on the sills, strangled by the heat. Meers ate without tasting, chewing automatically to get the meal down. He had lost his taste for all things. Food, like the rest of ordinary existence, had become bland. Only one endeavor could coax him to hunger, and that was hunting.

  He rinsed the plate in the sink, dried it, and replaced it in the cupboard. With minutes to spare before he had to leave for work, Meers went into the bedroom. He reached under his bed, removed a set of loosened floorboards, and pulled a mahogany jewelry box out from his special hiding place between the joists.

  Inside the jewelry box, on the top tier, four human fingers lay on the red felt lining. They were his jewels, rarer than diamonds or rubies. Meers admired each of them, their differences and eccentricities. Some had deep wrinkles around the knuckles or torn cuticles or filth beneath the nails, all unique. Though each was from a different boy, the fingers ascended as they would on a single hand, from the pinkie to the ring to the middle, sloping downward at the pointer. Meers was almost finished with his first set. There was space for one more finger on that tier and room for more on the tiers below. He rubbed the empty spot, giddy with anticipation. He would soon fill it with Calvin Timmon’s thumb.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Life had come to a standstill at Emmett’s house. When he got home, his arms full of grocery bags, Mrs. Poole and Edward were in the exact positions he had left them. She was sitting on a kitchen chair and he was acting as sentinel at the bank of windows in the living room. It was entirely possible that they hadn’t moved the whole time he was gone. The television was tuned to a soap opera. Neither was paying attention.

  “I’m glad you’re such a talented cook, Mrs. Poole, because it was slim pickings at the market. They were all out of everything on your list.”

  At each of the three different grocery stores Emmett had gone to the entire stock of milk, juice, meat, and eggs was already bought out. Coolers for frozen foods sat bare, and the dry goods had been whittled to a limited selection of spices, condiments, and muffin mixes. The empty markets were somehow eerier than the destruction done by the looters and fires. Raided stores spoke of what had passed. Stripped grocery shelves portended what was to come.

  “I’m starving,” Edward moaned. “Better be something worth eating in those bags or I’ll eat the bags.”

  “In a minute, you might wish you hadn’t said that.”

  Emmett unpacked the bleak assortment of provisions onto the coffee table: a jar of peanut butter and one of apricot jam, biscuit mix, cans of lima beans, wax beans, and beets as well as a lone pack of hot dogs and a loaf of pumpernickel bread.

  “You weren’t kidding about slim pickings, Mr. Emmett.”

  “This stuff makes army rations look like Easter dinner.”

  “It’s the best I could do under the circumstances. There’s always the bags.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” Edward was examining the picture on the can of wax beans with distaste. “Are they supposed to be this color?”

  Mrs. Poole gathered the medley of disparate foods. “Y’all might want to cross your fingers and say a prayer.”

  “I’d cross my legs too if I could.” Edward handed her the wax beans as though passing off a dirty diaper.

  “At least we have the hot dogs,” Emmett said.

  “Eating ’em on pumpernickel, that’s sacrilege. There’s probably something in the Geneva Conventions about how you can’t even force prisoners of war to do that.”

  “Okay, I’ll eat the hot dogs and you can have the box of baking soda from inside the refrigerator for dinner.”

  “I guess pumpernickel’s not that bad.”

  “Any sign of our friend in the Oldsmobile?”

  “Nope. Wasn’t sure if I should keep looking.”

  “I can’t be sure myself. If he hasn’t come back by now, we could be in the clear.”

  “What about our houseguest? He comin’ back?”

  “Not for a while. Don’t rush to dry those tears.”

  “I’m just glad I won’t have to share my hot dogs with him.”

  “Anything on the news about the riots?”

  “
At noon they showed the same footage we saw this morning and gave some spiel about the mayor, how he was ‘confident that everything would be resolved in a timely fashion’ and blah, blah, blah.”

  “What else would the mayor say? That Newark was falling apart at the seams?”

  “It’s weird. I look out this window and everything seems normal. A mile away, who knows?”

  “You wouldn’t want to see it,” Emmett told him somberly.

  “I’ve seen a lot.”

  “This is different. Saigon wasn’t your hometown.”

  Mrs. Poole brought out plates of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a measly helping of crackers. “Decided I’d save the hot dogs for dinner, considering it’s all the meat we have.” She put Edward’s tray across his wheelchair and gave each of them glasses of tap water. “Usually, I’d make you boys eat at the table. Today hasn’t exactly been usual, so I’ll let that slide.”

  “Where’s your plate?” Emmett asked.

  “I’ll have my lunch later. Seeing as you’re home, I thought I’d wash up.”

  Unwilling to leave Edward alone, Mrs. Poole hadn’t had a moment to herself or even a change of clothes since she arrived at the house two days ago. Emmett wished he could do something for her. His mother’s clothes had been donated to their church for a rummage sale, as had her personal belongings and toiletries. There was nothing feminine left in the house. He hadn’t noticed until then. The absence suddenly made the place feel barren.

  “Go ahead. Take your time,” Edward told her, hungrily munching a cracker. Once she was out of earshot, he said, “You know these are stale, right?”

  “Try ancient. Ma bought them. They’re over a year old.”

  “Think it’s hazardous to eat ’em?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Naw. I like to live on the edge.”

  Hazardous or not, they inhaled the food, gobbling up the crackers and polishing off their sandwiches. Edward picked at the crumbs. “It really is a sin to make PB&J with apricot jelly. May as well use ketchup.”

  “Then I’ll tell Mrs. Poole to put ketchup on yours and save the jelly for me. I wouldn’t want you committing any sins.”

  Emmett took their plates into the kitchen. As soon as Mrs. Poole was finished freshening up, he planned on heading over to the public library. Though Hammond’s case was four months old, Evander wasn’t a frequent patron. Someone might remember seeing him. It was a long shot. Those were the only kind Emmett had to bet on.

  He could hear the volume on the TV rise to compensate for the racket he was making washing the dishes. Prior to his brother’s return home, the television had been collecting dust. Occasionally, Emmett would switch it on to catch the nightly news. Otherwise, he read, mainly from his mother’s ample stash of novels and classics. She had been born into the Depression era, when a book was a commodity prized as highly as gold or pearls, so she could not discard a single one, even after she had read them a hundred times. They were too valuable to part with. Her will dictated that, upon her death, the collection be given to Saint Casimir’s, a heartfelt donation considering her attachment, however Emmett did not comply with his mother’s wishes. He couldn’t part with the books either. They were his fondest reminders of her, memories too valuable to donate.

  Her impressive collection filled four tall bookcases, which stood opposite the television, positioned as if the two were at odds. To Emmett, they were. He couldn’t get into any of the programs on TV. They were too contrived. He only showed an interest because Edward enjoyed them. If they didn’t watch television together, then they wouldn’t do anything together. The hours he spent bathing his brother, cooking his meals, or helping him get dressed didn’t count. Those were obligations. Watching TV with Edward was a choice.

  “What’s on?” he asked.

  “Gilligan’s Island. But I’ve seen this one. The Professor builds a car out of coconut shells and vines and Gilligan drives it into the lagoon.”

  “Doesn’t that happen on every episode?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Should I switch the channel?”

  Edward was capable of doing so on his own, as evidenced by the change in volume, yet Emmett continued to do it for him. That was his form of participation.

  “Be my guest.”

  As Emmett clicked the dial, he caught a flash of movement outside the front window. He lifted the corner of the shade.

  “What is it, Marty?”

  “Two men. Coming toward the house.”

  “The guys from last night?”

  “Doubt it. These two have on cheap suits. And one’s got a tie clip. Nobody in the mob wears a tie clip. They’re cops.”

  Edward relaxed a little. “For a second there, you had me nervous.”

  “You should be.”

  “Why? What’re they after?”

  “Same thing as the gangsters. They’re after Freddie.”

  A firm knock sounded at the door. Emmett flipped off the safety on his service revolver.

  “I still got the twenty-two under here.” Edward patted the pillow that acted as a booster on the wheelchair so his long legs wouldn’t hang over the footrests.

  “Good. Go in the kitchen and cover me.”

  Emmett answered the door. There would be no need for introductions. He knew it was Ionello and Vass. The detectives were standing shoulder to shoulder at the top of the stoop. They made an unlikely duo. Ionello’s hair was scruffy and his suit rarely saw the light of day. Tufts at the shoulders attested to where the ends of a hanger had dug into the fabric. Of the pair, he presumably did the undercover work when necessary, posing as a car thief or potential buyer. The tie clip was an effort to look the part of a detective. Vass, on the other hand, was nondescript: average height, average build, and bland features that were the archetype of average. He probably pretended to be an average friendly guy too, as he had with Freddie when he went to Luther Reed’s body shop to shake them down. However something in Vass’s eyes said that he had an above average temper.

  “You wanna tell us why you sprung our suspect, Detective Emmett?”

  Vass was trying to come off as casual, but anger was an anchor in his voice. He had his hand on his hip, pushing aside his jacket to brandish his badge and gun. In Emmett’s experience, cops who kept them both on the same side sent the message that there was no difference between the two.

  “Come on in, gentlemen, and I’ll explain.”

  Ionello pushed into the house first, but it was Vass who took the lead in the conversation.

  “So? Explain.”

  “Freddie Guthrie is a material witness in an ongoing murder investigation.”

  “Then he coulda stayed in jail,” Ionello said, adding his two cents.

  “The boy had a court date. I simply brought a scheduling error to the attention of the prison staff.”

  Vass exhaled loudly through his nose, venting the frustration boiling inside him. “You could have talked to him at Newark Street,” he insisted.

  The laugh track from a television show interrupted, as if mocking him.

  “He’s a minor. He shouldn’t have been at Newark Street.”

  “This ain’t none of your business,” Ionello barked. “He’s ours.”

  “‘Ours?’” Emmett played dumb to prompt the detective into incriminating himself.

  “Ours as in the Auto Squad’s,” Vass explained, a smoke screen for Ionello’s outburst. “Where’s the kid now?”

  “Home would be my guess.”

  Footsteps creaked upstairs, and Ionello made a grab for his gun. Vass’s hand went to his as well. Emmett got between them and the staircase.

  “Home, huh?” Ionello said.

  The detectives drew their revolvers as footfalls descended the stairs.

  “Put down your guns. He’s not here,” Emmett shouted. “It’s not him.”

  Mrs. Poole appeared on the staircase. Seeing pistols pointed at her, she gasped. “Lord in heaven.”

  “I told
you he wasn’t here.”

  Humiliated, Ionello and Vass lowered their weapons, only to discover that Edward had wheeled out of the kitchen, and he had a bead on them with the .22.

  “I’m not the cop here, but the way I understand it, if a couple strangers come into my house and start waving guns around, that gives me every right to shoot them. Take my word for it guys, Uncle Sam didn’t send me home from the war for havin’ bad aim.”

  The detectives holstered their service revolvers. “Stay away from Freddie Guthrie,” Vass warned as he and Ionello eased out the front door. “Got it?”

  “Yeah, he’s ‘yours.’ I got it.” Emmett hurled the door shut behind them.

  “Um, Marty,” Edward said, motioning at Mrs. Poole, who was frozen on the stairs, ashen with fright. “I think that little incident might be grounds for quitting.”

  Emmett took her by the arm and guided her down the steps into her chair. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to apologize to you, Mrs. Poole.”

  “This’ll be the fourth,” she informed him, still shaky.

  “Then I’m truly sorry. For the fourth time.”

  “You could at least have the decency to let the same goons in as yesterday. I liked these new ones even less.”

  Emmett had to laugh. So did Mrs. Poole. Then the telephone rang, startling her anew.

  “Lord Almighty,” she declared. “My heart feels like a cricket in a pickle jar.”

  “I don’t know about that cricket stuff, but I could use a nice, stiff drink. Whadaya say, Marty? A little bourbon maybe, to calm me and Mrs. Poole’s nerves?”

  Emmett gave Edward an admonishing scowl as he picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Emmett?” a voice said.

  “Otis? Is that you?”

  “Mr. Emmett. It’s my fault. I fell asleep on account ’a that double shift. Couldn’t keep my eyes open.”