Latrell shakes his head like a boxer trying to clear the cobwebs after a hard punch. “If that’s true, that’s even worse. I’m getting out of this life, and I don’t want you to get into it.”
“Hinton told me. He’s staying out of the business,” Olivia argues. “He can’t use since he’s still on parole. He can’t carry a gun, do any of it. He’s like you, like me, he’s out of it all.”
Another head shake. “It doesn’t work that way, Olivia, not for the sons of the kingpin. For us maybe, for him, no,” Latrell’s voice deepens. “It’s a family business.”
“Hinton hates Clay. He doesn’t even consider him family, he told me.”
“But Hansen was. Don’t matter if Clay’s in charge now, one day he’s not going to be and everybody will turn not to our dad, but to Hinton. They’ll expect Hinton to run the family business. I don’t want you there by his side acting like a coke-crazy queen. It makes me sick.”
“Hinton promised,” Olivia says. “He told me that—”
“He’s a teenage boy, so he lies. It’s what they do.”
Olivia says nothing as small tears form on the corners of her eyes. She wipes them away with the long sleeve of her white pajama top.
“Latrell, just because you’re sex crazed doesn’t mean that Hinton is,” Olivia whispers. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve even—”
Latrell puts his hand over his ears. “Spare me the details, please Olivia.”
Olivia pries his hands away. “So just go away to school and don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Hinton is fine. You’re wrong about him.”
“Olivia, do you know what DNA is?” Olivia nods and starts to give her brother the scientific definition, but he cuts her off with a harsh laugh. “Olivia, listen, DNA is destiny.”
“Then, my children,” Paul says as he walks into the room, “you’re destined for great things!” Their father stands across from them with a beer in his left hand, a smoke in his right, and a rare smile on his face. With his long blond hair and the leather Silver Skulls jacket he sports every day, Paul could almost be mistaken as Clay’s brother, not just his second-in-command. “Olivia, let me talk with Latrell. Don’t you have some homework to do?” Olivia nods and starts to leave. Her father yells after her, “Homework doesn’t mean texting Hinton!”
Olivia sighs, rolls her eyes, but manages a small laugh as she leaves the room.
“What’s up, Pop?” Latrell stays seated on the sofa.
Paul takes off his Silver Skulls leather and tosses it over the back of the couch. “So what was that all about?” he asks Latrell as he sits in his big green recliner and puts his feet up.
Latrell shrugs. “I was just giving her some advice.”
Paul laughs loudly. “What makes you—”
“You’re not the only smart person in this house,” Latrell counters. “I know stuff too.”
Paul swigs his beer, takes a drag, and stares his son down like a sniper. “I know you’re a hothead like Hinton. I know you almost lost your scholarship getting into a fight with your coach last spring. I know you think you know everything. But what do you know about yourself?”
Latrell dramatically waves the smoke away from his face. “What does that mean?”
“You’re not true to yourself, Latrell,” his dad says. “You let other people influence you. Listen, if you do the right things for the right reasons, you will never do wrong.”
Latrell nods. “Thanks, Pop, I hear you.”
“Better late than never, I guess.” Paul laughs and Latrell joins in. “So what were you talking to your sister about?”
“Hinton. I told her to be careful,” Latrell says. Paul nods, sips his beer, and takes another drag. “You know, sometimes I think he’s a good guy and all,” Latrell continues, “but with everything going on in his family, him doing time, all of that, I think it’s just best that she steer clear, know what I mean?”
“Hinton’s whispering soft nothings and making false promises, while her old man is trying to tell her the hard truth of how things are. Who do you think wins here, son? Soft nothings or hard truth?”
Latrell seems to disappear in the cloud of smoke from his dad’s cigarette. “The truth.”
“So what is the truth about Hinton?” Paul asks his son. Latrell waits until his father enjoys his last sip of beer and knocks off the final ashes from his cigarette.
“He’s trouble,” Latrell says. “People don’t really change that much so quickly.”
Another nod from Paul. “I tell her that all the time, but she doesn’t listen to me either.”
Latrell shakes his head, confused. “She’s got to listen to you, Pops. You’re her dad.”
“If she doesn’t want to listen to me, okay.” Paul smiles at his son but the corners of his mouth turn down hard. “But I’m her father, so she does need to obey me—or else.”
“Or else?”
“She’s got to know she can always have other boyfriends.” Paul pounds his hand off his chest. “But she will only have one dad. Me!”
4
“Another party?” Horace asks Hinton as he joins him outside where they make their way toward Frank and Barry, both assigned again to night watch.
Hinton shakes his head, sighs. “I guess it’s been like this ever since my dad died.”
Horace says nothing. Barry starts to speak, but Horace clears his throat loud. “You got words to say, Barry?” Hinton asks. Barry shivers under Hinton’s cold stare.
“Everybody misses your dad, that’s all, Hinton,” Barry says.
Frank quickly agrees. “It’s a shame you couldn’t be here for his funeral. Or for your mom’s wedding to—”
“I was in solitary for the first,” Hinton says. “I knocked out the CO guarding me when Mom called with the news. I was so angry I wasn’t there to protect him from—” Hinton stops speaking abruptly.
“From who?” Barry and Frank ask Hinton at the same time.
Hinton ignores them. “If I’d have had my blade, I’d have cut him from ear to ear.”
“And the wedding?” Frank asks. “I guess they could’ve waited until you got out.”
“Or more than four months after Dad died,” Hinton says slowly, emphasizing each word. Hinton’s tone silences the group as a freezing wind whips them like lash. “So the ghost, Barry?”
Barry points at the frozen pond where Hinton and Olivia skated earlier that day. Hinton takes out a flashlight, shines it across the empty rink. “There’s nothing there, Hint,” Horace says.
Hinton shines the light high, low, and back toward Horace. “I know, Horace, I know.”
“You guys take a break,” Horace tells Frank and Barry. They nod their thanks, bury their gloved hands in their fleece jackets, and head toward the warmth and noise of the house.
“Don’t say it, Horace,” Hinton says. “People think I’m crazy ’cause of the way I acted before, how I act now. But I know there’s no ghost. Funny my PO is the only person who thinks I’m normal.”
“How did it go with him today?” Horace asks.
“Same. I promise Krantz a bunch of stuff, and I pee into a cup,” Hinton says.
Horace laughs and pulls a pack of Camels from his jacket. He takes one for himself, then offers the pack to Hinton. Hinton snatches a cig then pulls out a smiling skull lighter engraved with the initials H.H. He lights his smoke first and then hands Horace the lighter.
“So what if?” Horace asks. “What if your father was here?”
Hinton answers by inhaling deeply and staring back at his house. “You tell me, Horace,” Hinton says. A cloud of smoke and frozen breath engulfs him. “You were here. You knew what was going on. Why didn’t you tell me? I covered for you, remember. When that jerk hit on Olivia, you beat him just as bad as I did, but I took the heat. It was my blade, but you sliced him. So I did a year, you did three months. I had your back. You owe me.”
“Look, you know how at school there used to be all that drama with people telling lies and cra
p. You and I never got into that. We had to see it. Know it. It’s the same thing here, with people talking up a crap-storm about your uncle and your mom and dad. I know what I saw, which was nothing. I know what I heard, which was mainly Clay talking trash about your dad going soft after you got sent up. He said that if things didn’t change, Forty would return and then we’d all be dead or jailed.”
“And then my dad died of an accidental overdose.” Hinton mumbles.
“That’s what they said.” Horace nods, looks off in the distance at the vacant landscape.
“What would you do if somebody killed your dad?” Hinton asks in a whisper. “What do you think Latrell would do if somebody killed his dad?”
“Look, but you told everybody that you’d changed,” Horace reminds Hinton.
“I have. I’m now a clean-cut kid.” Hinton waves the Camel in the air and laughs. “But serious, I wasn’t getting it, but then after Dad died and I knocked out the CO, they put me in solitary. All I had time to do was something I never did much: think. And I thought about how I felt hearing about Dad dying. I thought if I continued the way I was going, I’d die soon. If I kept getting in trouble or getting deeper in the business, then one day that call’s gonna come from Olivia to my son saying, your dad’s dead. It’s the worst feeling in the world. I don’t want my son to feel that.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Hint. This life isn’t for everybody. It don’t make you weak or strong,” Horace says. “All it does is make you dead sooner than later.”
“So let me ask you something, straight up, Horace. What do you think happened to my dad?”
“Between you and me?” Horace asks.
For a few seconds, the only movement around them is the smoke entering and leaving their mouths. “Between you and me.” Hinton fist bumps Horace.
“What I saw was Clay hungry for everything your dad had. Power. Respect. Money.”
“And my mom?” Hinton asks then spits the sour taste from his mouth into the snow.
Horace nods his head slowly. “I think Clay went from just fraternizing with everyone close to your dad to—”
“Fratricide,” Hinton interrupts. The Camel burns down near his ungloved fingers.
“Or having him murdered, don’t matter which. And to be honest, Hint, I think a lot of people think that but they won’t say anything, at least out loud, ’cause they’re afraid of Clay.”
Hinton pulls Horace toward him until their foreheads almost touch. “So everybody knows.”
“Maybe, but there’s something that nobody knows that keeps them guessing.”
“What’s that?” Hinton pulls his jacket tighter around him.
“What nobody knows is—” Horace says. Pauses. Deep breath, then, “What are you going to do? Are you the reckless Hinton, or are you tamed by the system? Are you still the guy who will stay and fight for what’s rightfully his? Or are you going to flee this scene spouting believe-in-Jesus reformed-offender crap?”
Hinton reaches down, puts his hand in the foot-high snow by the back porch. “I don’t know. And I guess that’s best if nobody—especially Clay—knows what I’m going to do. So if you see me acting crazy, don’t worry about it. I’m just figuring it out. You’ll know when I know.”
“How will I know?” Horace asks.
Hinton pulls his switch from his pocket, opens it. “There’ll be blood. I’ll either slit my wrist and be free of this, or I’ll slash Clay’s throat.”
“Don’t let anybody hear you say that,” Horace says sharply.
“When I heard Dad died, I acted angry. When I heard my mom married Clay, I felt betrayed. I did the math. I know these were not connected by chance, but by choice. Clay’s choice. Now, it is my turn to choose, to run away from this life or avenge my dad’s death.”
“So which are you going to do, Hinton?” Horace asks. “Fight or flee?”
Hinton touches the tip of the blade into the center of his left palm, pressing it until the skin breaks and a slow drip of the hot red blood on the cold white snow is the only sound.
5
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” Olivia says to Hinton, who stands outside her door. He’s crying, but not as much as Olivia. “I told you yesterday. We’re done. My dad—”
“Four days ago we’re skating on a frozen pond, holding hands and talking about our future, and now you’re pushing me through the ice?” Hinton tries to push his way in, but Olivia keeps the chain locked.
“Like my dad said, I’ll have many boyfriends, but only one father,” Olivia says, her eyes closed as she presses her forehead against the heavy door, heavy as the decision her father made for her.
“But you said you’d marry me,” Hinton says. “There will be no other—”
“You should understand this better than anyone. You lost your dad; I don’t want to lose mine.”
“But you stuck with me when I was in Mandan. You said in your letters—”
“Hinton, I meant every word, but my father said I can’t see you anymore. It’s over.”
“Why?” Hinton asks.
“I told you why. He doesn’t want me in the life like him, in the business, and he says—”
“And I told you, that’s not me. I’ve changed. I’m going to college and—”
“He told me that’s not true,” Olivia explains. “He told me that Clay said you were going to stay here in Williston. He told me that—”
“Don’t listen to him, listen to me!”
Olivia answers by pushing the door shut. As she turns to lock it, Hinton screams loud enough to wake the dead and gives the door a vicious kick. Two more kicks and the chain breaks. Hinton pushes his way into Olivia’s house. “Oh my God, Hinton, what is wrong with you? You look terrible.”
Hinton says nothing. He stands in front of Olivia, his hands covering his face. He’s unkempt: shirttail hanging out, shoelaces undone, and his red hair dyed black.
“Are you sick?”
Again, Hinton says nothing. He removes his hands from in front of his face. He’s unshaven with dark rings around his eyes like a person who hasn’t slept in days.
“Hinton?”
Hinton grabs Olivia’s arms. She resists, but he is too strong. He stares at her arms; his eyes slowly move back and forth as if trying to memorize every inch of her alabaster skin.
“Hinton, say something!” Olivia shouts. Hinton releases her arms and turns his gaze toward her face with same intensity. He touches her face with his right hand. Starting at her left ear, he slowly moves his fingers down her jaw, over her chin, and then up to her right ear.
Olivia stops talking and her sobs take over, filling the room until Hinton begins to scream at the top of his lungs, still staring at Olivia’s face. He stops screaming only when Olivia’s dad runs in wearing his Silver Skulls leather and holding a pistol in his right hand. Hinton’s gaze never leaves Olivia as he backs out of the front door.
Olivia starts to run after him, but her father grabs her left arm, pulls her toward him.
“Please, Pops, let me go to him!”
“No, Olivia. Don’t you see what I mean? He’s troubled, even more than I thought.”
“It’s your fault!” Olivia tries to free herself, but her father’s grip remains strong.
“Maybe so, but it’s what’s best for you, for us, for our family.”
“Let me go!” Olivia collapses onto the floor, shouting Hinton’s name.
Paul shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and punches in the number. “It’s Paul.”
“Who are you calling?” Olivia shrieks.
“Marcus, listen, get Clay to the phone,” Paul says. “I think we have a problem.”
“Don’t tell him!” Olivia screams. “Clay will think he’s crazy.”
“That’s what love does, Olivia, it makes everyone a little crazy.”
“Hinton’s not crazy.”
Paul turns away from his daughter and walks toward the kitchen, waits, and then says, “Clay, we got a sit
uation here with Hinton.”
“I wish he was still in Mandan!” Clay shouts into the phone.
“But he’s not, and you’ve got to deal with it,” Paul explains. “He’s smart, but also impulsive. He’s angry, but also hurt. He’s a cauldron of bubbling emotions. He’s—”
“He’s insane.”
“No, he’s Hansen’s son.”
6
“He’s not making much progress.” Mr. Stern looks like his name fits as he gazes over his notes. Clay and Gabrielle sit on the worn sofa across from the counselor in the small, drab office.
“Progress? Hell, he’s getting worse,” Clay snorts. He reaches for his wife’s hand. Hinton’s outside the office as he refuses to take part in the family therapy session.
“He’s got to participate,” Stern says. “This therapy is court ordered. If he refuses a third time, I’m reporting him to Krantz, his PO.
That’s a technical violation, and he could go back to Mandan, or maybe just to County. But he needs to know how serious this is for him. I see from the case manager’s notes that he made significant progress at Mandan. I wonder if—”
Gabrielle cuts him off. “It’s my fault.”
“Love, don’t do this,” Clay protests, squeezing his wife’s hand.
She looks down at her wedding ring. “We should’ve waited longer after the accident.”
Clay squeezes harder. “That’s not what Hansen would’ve wanted, you know that,” Clay whispers. “You need stability in a business—in a family—and that’s what we’re providing.”
“Then what is wrong with my son?” Gabrielle asks Clay. “The way he’s acting lately . . . it’s not like him . . . it just doesn’t make sense.” She repeats the question to Stern; he stumbles to answer.
Clay lets go of his wife’s hand and stands. He takes two steps until he towers over Stern, who seems to shrink behind the stacks of beige folders on his desk. “This is your job to fix him.”
“Mr. Helsinger, I don’t like your tone,” Stern sputters as he squirms in his chair.
Clay puts his hands on the desk and leans in. “And I don’t like your incompetence.”
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