“And Travis is expecting to deliver it,” Brenda said.
“York said he’d go with me to a nursing home tomorrow,” Clover said, “but it’s too late today to do anything for him. You can keep them all safe, can’t you, Sheriff?”
“You two girls go on home,” Steve said. “I’m going to talk with York.”
“Please don’t let Travis hurt them,” Brenda said, and Steve gave her a queer-enough look to make her feel out of place. Then she realized that the sheriff certainly wasn’t going to encourage Travis, and she felt stupid for saying anything at all. She tugged at Clover’s sleeve. “C’mon,” she said, and they walked up to Brenda’s car while the sheriff disappeared down the path and was lost from sight in the blackberry brambles.
Clouds blew in from the north, and with them came a chill wind.
~ ~ ~
When Milo Grimes’s staff left for the day, he didn’t even say good-bye. He just sat in his big swivel chair and listened to the silence.
The shit was coming down.
What a day.
First Ashton died, leaving Milo holding the bag. He wanted to give Oshiro’s money back and just weasel out of the deal, but Oshiro got pissy and refused. Then Norman stuck a needle in himself and went straight to hell, but not before giving some stupid girl some stupid information about Haas, Ashton’s flunky, which implicated the fine Grimes name. Then Steve Goddard showed up to rub his nose in it, ask too many questions. Travis and the railroad guys were moot and obsolete, and probably out of control at this point anyway. His wife was a slut, and the city-council meeting was in the morning, and sure as shit, they were going to nail his butt to the wall. Fraud. Racketeering. Aggravated murder. The whole scam would come out at the meeting in the morning.
Milo had troubles. His troubles were so big and so bad that he didn’t even want the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he had in his desk drawer. Instead, he was thinking about the .32 he had in the other desk drawer.
He had watched one of those police programs on television the other night while listening to Susie Marie snore. He realized that somebody’s life just stopped when they went to jail. Nobody feeds the dog, nobody makes the mortgage payment, nobody checks the phone messages. Life for that person just stopped. Susie Marie could never figure out his convoluted finances. She had no way to pay the bills. She’d end up broke and on the street. Somebody else would be going through all his stuff. Somebody else would be fucking the maid on his expensive Oriental rug.
Somehow, he’d always thought he’d be able to keep the scam rolling, keeping his butt just far enough ahead to keep it from rolling over him. It was a game. His life’s work. Now it seemed like all his well-conceived plans had morphed into a heat-seeking missile, zeroed in on his ass. If the shit came down, it would come down heavy and immediate. He’d be living his life one day and the next minute he’d be in a prison jumpsuit, eating in a chow line, trying to keep his ass from being violated by some enormous sadist, and priorities would instantly change from buying a thousand-dollar suit for the election-night victory speech to learning to play the harmonica.
He’d never survive. He’d never be able to do it.
He’d never even survive the perp walk, handcuffs and press and all. Would Susie Marie stand by his side and be in the courtroom every day of his trial? Never. Not for a moment. It would interfere with her tennis lesson.
It would interfere with her finding a new husband to move into the house on the hill and take over the mortgage payment.
Maybe he could cop a plea. Maybe he could deny everything. Get a fancy, high-priced lawyer and go the distance with the legal system.
And what would he have when he was through? No money, no job, no status, no wife, no house. At best.
Prison at worst.
Life as he knew it, no matter what, would be over. All life as he had ever imagined it could be would be over. There would be nothing left.
There was nothing left.
It was over.
Milo was too old to start again, especially with a cloud as big and black as this was going to turn out to be. He had hoped that he could liquidate everything and jump out of the public eye, his cushy retirement safe and secure in some offshore account before the shit hit the fan, and then he could just lie on the beach while some bikinied beauty peeled his grapes.
Timing was everything, and he’d missed it. He couldn’t leave now, his finances weren’t ripe. He wasn’t ready.
He was fucked.
His options were few. The most likely of the bunch would be to skip out with enough cash to start over somewhere else. It wouldn’t be easy, but hell, nothing he did was ever easy. It wasn’t his choice, but he seemed to have screwed himself out of his choices. He’d get a new set of ID and a new name, manufacture himself a fresh history and start over. Maybe in Baja. Maybe in Ecuador.
Regardless, he wouldn’t prolong the agony. He’d see how the city-council meeting went and take it from there.
That settled, he opened one drawer and pulled out the bottle, spun off the cap and drank down a hefty slug. It burned good. He followed it with another.
Then he opened the other drawer and left it open, the .32 snub-nosed revolver just lying there waiting, loaded and looking mean.
~ ~ ~
“There’s going to be blood shed here tonight, Sheriff,” York said.
Steve Goddard pulled an old plastic bucket up next to where York was sitting, his milky eyes wide open yet focused inward on his vision. Steve sat down and put a hand on York’s shoulder. “Now listen to me, York,” he said. “You and me, we go back a long ways. Remember when I used to come down here to visit you when I was just a kid and you’d talk me out of smoking cigarettes?”
York pulled on a piece of newspaper and began to tear a long strip off the edge of it. Steve gently took it from his hands. “I grew to trust your judgment,” he said. “You’ve always been square with me, and square with Denny and Sly and the others who have come and gone, down here over the years.”
“Lord knows I try,” York said.
“The lord does know,” Steve said, “and so do I. And so does the rest of the community. But now we’ve got a little situation, and I need you to trust my judgment. We’ve got a bad situation in the government in West Wheaton, York, and it’s going to take a little time to cut out the cancer. But I’m going to do it. I’m the law man in this town and I’m going to make it happen. But things like that don’t happen overnight.”
York nodded.
“Tomorrow, Clover and Brenda are going to take you to a place to stay for a little while, until we get this all worked out. Sly and Denny will have to find places of their own. I think Clover and Brenda are going to help with that, too.”
York nodded, squinting his eyes shut in dread. In pain. Steve saw moisture squeeze out between his lids and he hoped those weren’t tears of grief, but just the seep from watery old-man eyes. “Tonight–” York began.
“You leave tonight to me. Nothing’s going to happen down here tonight because I’m going to be up there on the street in my car. If anybody comes down here, they’re going to have to come by me, and that ain’t going to happen.”
“I seen the blood, Steve.”
“Could be Denny gets a nosebleed.”
York nodded, but Steve could tell he wasn’t convinced.
“Sly and Denny, they have a plan.” York kept his voice low because Sly was pacing back and forth, close enough to hear.
Steve kept his voice low, too. “That’s okay. Let them have their plan. Nothing will come of it, because nobody’s going to come down here, except maybe me. And none of you better ambush me.”
York managed a small smile at that.
“Okay, then,” Steve said as he stood up and brushed off his uniform pants. “All we have to do is survive this one night and we’ll be fine. Okay?”
York nodded.
Steve approached Sly with his hand held out. Sly took it and shook it, the intensity in his deep brown eyes a li
ttle frightening to Steve. “Everything’s going to be just fine tonight,” Steve said. “I’ll be watching.”
“We’re on high alert,” Sly said.
“Good. Let’s you and I keep the perimeter safe.”
“Roger that,” Sly said.
Steve took a last look around. It was the last time he’d see this place that had been a home to York for generations of young visitors. Tomorrow the bulldozers would come, erase this place, and life would never be the same.
He walked up the hill, got into his car and took a deep breath. He had a couple of hours yet before nightfall, and he had to go visit Milo Grimes. Then he’d stop at the diner, get a bagful of dinner, a thermos of coffee, and sit and wait to make sure peace was kept down here by the tracks.
~ ~ ~
“So what are you going to do now?” Brenda asked Clover as they walked up the hill and into town.
“I don’t know,” Clover said. “Maybe go over to my mom’s and see if I can persuade Travis to leave the guys alone.”
“Bad idea,” Brenda said. “He’s drinking. You know about talking to drunks.”
“No, what?”
“Trying to reason with a drunk is like trying to blow out an electric lightbulb.”
Clover smiled for Brenda, but she didn’t find that amusing. It was too true; she’d known that about her mother. “Then I don’t have a plan. I’ll be too nervous to sleep tonight. Maybe I ought to go get a phone book and make some lists about places to call in the morning for York.”
“I could help.”
Clover nodded. “I wonder where Denny is.”
“Maybe we could go have some dinner or something, make some lists, and then come back and see how the guys are doing. Denny ought to be back by then.”
“Good plan.”
They walked along, headed automatically for Gretta’s, when Brenda surprised Clover by asking, “Think Sly ought to come live with me?”
Clover didn’t look up, for fear her astonishment would show. “How well do you know Sly?”
“Not very well.”
“He’s–” Clover tried to find the words to describe her feelings about Sly. She liked him all right, and didn’t want to dissuade Brenda from giving him some much-needed help, but she didn’t want Brenda to get herself into trouble by having good intentions, either. “He’s troubled,” Clover said. “Real troubled. Vietnam vet, you know. Some of those guys came back not quite right. Heck, Brenda, you know he ain’t right in the head to be living down there with Denny and York.”
“Well,” Brenda said. “What about that? What about Denny?”
Clover smiled a little, shy smile to herself. “He ain’t the marrying kind, that’s for sure. I don’t know. He’s got those eyes, and that smile, and I get all gooey inside when he talks nice to me.”
She straightened up, stopped dead in her tracks and put a halting hand on Brenda’s wrist. “I won’t be having kids with Denny, that’s for certain. He’s not in my future for the long term. But as long as he’s there, and I can feel good about taking care of those guys a little bit, I’m happy with him. It’s fun having a boyfriend, but one of these days—well, one of these days he’ll be moving on down the line.” She shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow.”
A little fist grabbed her heart when she said that, and she knew it was more than a possibility. In fact, Denny was already missing. He could already be gone.
“One thing’s for sure,” she said, starting to walk again and trying to disguise the little catch in her voice. “He won’t be moving in with me. Neither will Sly. York could, but I can’t take proper care of him. You best think clearly before you hook up with the likes of Sly.”
“Prospects are slim,” Brenda said with a similar catch in her voice, and Clover’s capacity for wisdom took a monumental leap as she saw herself as not quite Brenda, not quite Eileen, but somewhere in the same latitudes, and in just a few short years, too. She didn’t like the vision. Maybe it was okay that Denny took off without saying good-bye.
She pulled the diner door open and held it for Brenda as the air-conditioning blew out to them. She had that familiar hot ball of emotion at the bottom of her throat that seemed like sadness, seemed like grief, but was always temporary. She’d survive Denny, and she’d survive Denny’s abandonment. Hell, she thought with a stab at levity, maybe that’ll save me from abandoning him.
She wasn’t hungry, but she was happy for the company. They sat down and looked at their menus, trying not to look at each other just quite yet. The big clock on the wall said it was eight-fifteen.
~ ~ ~
As Steve came through Milo’s office door unannounced, he saw the mayor slam both his desk drawers closed. Steve was hot, and while he wondered briefly what it was Milo was hiding, it was probably more of the same. More of Milo Grimes. Hiding his shame, the little shit.
“Saw your light on, Milo, thought you might be working on your presentation for tomorrow’s council meeting.”
“Don’t you knock?”
“This is my door,” Steve said, the righteous indignation rising within him. “I pay the taxes around here, you don’t.”
Milo sat back in his chair, giving Steve an even bigger feeling of power and strength. He didn’t particularly like it, but he was going to give it full rein. He’d never done that before, and if there was ever a good time to try it, this was the time.
“This is my office, my desk,” Steve said. “My chair you’re sitting in. And this is my goddamn town. I don’t like you, Milo Grimes, and I don’t like your way of doing business. I don’t like what you’ve done to my deputy, or what you’re about to have done to those guys down there by the train tracks.”
“Murderers,” Milo said. “Filth.”
“Bull. Shit.” Steve said it low and slow and put his palms down on the desk and leaned over toward Grimes. “York’s been down there for forty years without so much as a nuisance complaint. You had that guy killed and thrown off the train for some damn reason. Norman spilled his drug-riddled guts before he stuck the final needle in his vein. Said you paid him enough to kill that guy to fry his brains.”
Milo shook his head no and held out his hands to ward off the onslaught.
“Don’t you tell me no, you weaselly little fuck. You’ve pissed me off for the last time, Mr. Mayor, and I’ve about had it with you and your little tart of a wife. Your self-serving little regime has ended in West Wheaton. I’m here to give you notice not to leave town. You’re under suspicion for murder.”
“You’re out of line, Sheriff.”
“My ass, Mayor. I’ll get all I need for a grand jury, and I’ll do it by this time tomorrow, or you can have my badge for your collection of plundered goods.” Steve stood tall. “This time tomorrow you’ll be in jail.”
“Well, until that time comes, I’ll thank you and your mouth to leave my office, and take your attitude with you.”
“Come special election, this will be my office. See you at the council meeting. Wear short sleeves,” Steve said, “the handcuffs will be more comfortable.” Steve spun on his heel and left the spacious mayoral office, leaving the door open behind him. He could hardly believe what he had just said, but he’d said it, and at the moment, he’d meant it. He had West Wheaton’s best interests at heart, and he would indeed run for Grimes’s vacant seat once he was safely in prison. Assuming Athena approved, of course.
He got down to his cruiser, his heart pounding, sweat popping out on his forehead. He’d been a sheriff for a long time, but he’d never sounded off like that before, especially not to his boss.
No, he thought, the taxpaying citizens are my employers. He was just supposed to answer to the mayor. But those days were over. If he was right, Grimes would be in prison before he could do any more damage, and Steve would have proved true to the trust of the citizens.
He felt good about himself, if a bit hopped up on adrenaline. He thought about his plan of going to Gretta’s and getting a sandwich, and decided instead that he might want
to check in on Athena. She ought to know what happened in the past couple of hours, just in case the mayor or his troublemaking spouse decided to give her a call. Or worse, stop in to see her.
Besides, he realized with a twinge of wonderment, he needed to tell her about him overpowering the mayor and doing it so righteously. He wanted Athena to be proud of him, and he knew she would be.
He put the cruiser in gear and pointed it toward home. It was nine-fifteen. Dusk had fallen, but in these long summer nights, it wouldn’t be dark for a while yet. Travis and the railroad guys wouldn’t do anything until the dark was thick enough to hide in.
~ ~ ~
It was the first time in his life that Travis couldn’t get it up. He blamed it on the booze, he blamed it on the stinking trailer, he blamed it on Eileen’s aging face and the fact that she stunk like cigarettes and tasted worse, he blamed it on the activities about to take place down by the tracks later that night. His mind was elsewhere. His concentration was off.
But that didn’t help. For the first time, he couldn’t get it up. He knew it happened to other guys, but it had never happened to him. He lay back, watching Eileen work with her hands and her mouth, her ratty red-fried hair bobbing up and down as she tried to suck some life into his poor dick, and it only made him mildly nauseous. He pushed her face away and turned over on his side away from her. He ought to put his clothes on and get ready for tonight. He was to meet the railroad guys at ten-thirty at the motor pool gate. The cheap little alarm clock on Eileen’s wall said nine-thirty. He had an hour to kill.
Coffee, maybe, at Gretta’s. He ought to be sober. More sober than he was.
“ ’Smatter, baby?” She said as she crawled over onto him.
He pushed her off, then sat up. She ran her claws lightly down his back, and he had to admit he liked that. “Got anything to eat?”
“Not much,” she said. “I could make you a sandwich. Or fry you an egg, maybe.”
He thought of her kitchen sink and thought better of it. He stood up. “I’ve got to go to work.”
“I was hoping you’d stay,” she said.
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