‘I know. What a shitheel.’
Which just set Leila to laughing harder because Corbie, for all her flaws, hardly ever swore. She still went to First Missionary every Sunday, even if the gossip around town held that Corbie Brady was more often on her knees outside church than in it, her mouth filled with more than prayers.
Leila looked around to see Dobey’s reaction, but he was heading into his office following the stranger’s departure.
‘That’s funny,’ said Leila.
‘What is?’ said Corbie.
‘You told him to drive safely, but I don’t hear a car.’
Leila walked to the window and stared out at the front lot. It was empty, and Corbie confirmed that the only vehicles in back belonged to staff. The diner stood right on the edge of Cadillac, with no sidewalk beyond the limits. A couple of streetlights burned on the town side, but Leila could detect no trace beneath them of the man who had just left. She went to the door and locked it just as Dobey reappeared.
‘I’ll take care of closing up,’ he said. ‘You girls go on home now.’
This was also unusual. Saturday nights for Dobey meant a couple of beers with the staff, and maybe a plate of hamburgers cooked by Dobey himself.
Dobey signaled to Carlos.
‘Carlos, you make sure the girls get to where they’re going. Follow on behind, you understand?’
Leila and Corbie both lived on the west side of town, while Carlos resided on the east. This was taking the chef out of his way for no good reason that anyone could see. Cadillac might have been many things, but dangerous wasn’t one of them. Nobody had been murdered in its environs for more than a decade, while the greatest risk to life was being hit by someone driving drunk, a form of mortality with which Cadillac, like many small towns, was uncomfortably familiar.
Leila stepped close to Dobey.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asked quietly.
‘Everything’s fine. Indulge me, that’s all.’
‘Did you know that man?’
Dobey considered the question.
‘I never set eyes on him before.’
‘Well, you sure made up for lost time tonight. You were watching him like he was planning to steal the silverware.’
‘I took a dislike to him, that’s all. No sense to it.’
‘Should we call the police?’
‘And tell them what? That someone came in here and read poetry? Last I heard, that wasn’t against the law. I’m just unsettled. It comes with age. Go on now, git. You’re done, and I’m too poor to pay overtime.’
With nothing more to be said, Leila collected her coat and bag from the staff closet, and joined Carlos and Corbie at the back door.
‘You think he was one of them queers?’ Corbie asked her.
‘Who?’
‘The British guy. He dressed like a queer, and you know, there was the poetry.’
‘God, Corbie, you’re so—’
Dobey came over to lock up behind them before anything more could be said, and Leila heard the bolts being shot home once the door was closed. By the time she drove out of the lot, following the lights of Corbie’s Dodge and with Carlos driving in her rearview, Dobey’s was already dark. They arrived first at Corbie’s house, and Leila and Carlos waited until she was safely inside before continuing a mile farther to the Patton place. Leila stopped her car, climbed out, and headed over to Carlos.
‘I’m worried about Dobey.’
Carlos had been on his feet for ten hours, and was picking up the early shift the next morning. He was thinking only of his bed, but he liked Leila, and he liked Dobey even more.
‘You want, I go check on him.’
‘Thank you.’
Leila returned to her car, parked it, and walked to her front door. Only when the door closed behind her did Carlos turn his truck around and return to the diner.
4
Parker and Louis left the bar together. Louis had walked downhill from his condo to the waterfront, but was in no mood to walk back uphill. They were the last customers, and the streets of the city were largely still, apart from the occasional car passing on Commercial.
‘It’s grown warmer,’ Louis noted, and it had, even in the short time they’d been inside. Parker could hear water dripping from the surrounding rooftops.
‘Winter’s over,’ he said.
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
Parker’s car stood by the curb, but one vehicle still remained in the shared lot in front of the bar. It was a new Chevy Silverado, heavily customized, with oversized wheels and a big lockbox in the bed: a fuck-you truck. There were parts of the country, indeed parts of the state – although not many – where the ownership of such a truck might have been justified by terrain and necessity, but it was clear that this particular example had not been bought as a workhorse. Its very existence was an act of braggadocio, an effort to intimidate. And lest any doubt remained about the intentions of its owner, a pair of small Confederate flags flew from its wing mirrors, with a larger version pasted to the glass of the rear window. The truck had been visible from where they were sitting, but didn’t belong to any of the bar’s patrons. Parker had noticed Louis’s attention repeatedly drawn to it over the course of their time together, his expression unreadable. Now Louis paused in front of the truck, taking in its every detail.
‘How much you think one of these things runs?’ Louis asked.
‘I’d say thirty grand basic, but this monster is a long way from standard. I’m guessing sixty or seventy with the customization, and five bucks for the flags.’
‘Hell of an outlay to advertise ignorance.’
‘Clearly you can do a lot with five bucks.’
‘South of the Line, I could understand it. Might not like it, but I could understand. My question is: What the fuck is it doing up here?’
‘Stupidity knows no boundaries.’
‘You think that’s just stupidity?’
‘No, I think it belongs to someone who defines a good day by how bad he can make someone else’s.’
It wasn’t the first rebel flag Parker had glimpsed up here in recent times, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. He wasn’t so na?ve as to believe that rage and intolerance were recent arrivals to the state, but he couldn’t recall them being worn so openly as badges of pride. Bigotry and hatred appeared newly empowered.
‘This is the time of benighted men,’ said Louis.
‘Perhaps, but this particular one isn’t worth waiting around for.’
‘You know him?’
‘Only his kind. Listening to them is like sticking barbed wire in your ears.’
Louis took in the empty streets.
‘I’ll be along momentarily,’ he said.
‘Should I start the car?’
‘I believe that might be advisable.’
Parker began walking. His Mustang had been waiting out winter under a weatherproof cover, so he was driving a silver ’09 Taurus, one of two nondescript cars he used on those occasions when discretion was required for a job. He hated the Taurus, and had already decided to trade it for something marginally less functional come spring, but he was suddenly very glad to have it on this night. He sometimes struggled to remember the car himself, so it was highly unlikely that anyone else would recall it either. He got behind the wheel, hit the ignition, and waited. Two minutes later, Louis opened the passenger door and climbed in. He was twirling a small Confederate flag in his right hand.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked, gesturing at the car.
‘It’s a Taurus,’ said Parker as he pulled away from the curb. He resisted putting his foot down for fear of landing them in a bank of filthy ice, but he was dearly wishing that the Taurus had a little more fire in its belly.
‘You driving it for a bet? I’d have been better off on foot.’
‘Should I ask what you just did?’
But there was no need for Louis to answer, because seconds later Parker heard the unmistakable sound of a truck exploding. He kept driving, keeping an eye out for any Portland PD black-and-whites, but saw none. It wouldn’t take them long to start arriving. He just hoped that the area around the bar was as empty as it appeared.