Billy and Sandy’s little campground takes on a shabby glamour at night; they spare enough power to light the lanterns and do some close dancing under the yellow globes, weaving in and out of the cooker’s fragrant plumes. Sandy bobs her head lightly to the booming rock and roll, her long tangled red curls moving up and down, Billy’s hands wrapped around her waist like a life jacket.
I stand up and brush the dust off my pants and watch them in the starlight glimmer and think about my dead parents. Maybe it’s missing Nico, looking for Nico, maybe it’s just the intensity of these days, wondering on some level what they would have made of it all.
Every gorgeous New Hampshire September, when the leaves were in the first flush of turning and the sky woke up perfect blue, day after day, my father would say something like: “September is the queen of months. Not just here—everywhere. Everywhere in the world. September is perfect.” He’s standing out front with his glasses pushed up on his forehead, leaning forward with his palms flattened on the wood rail of the porch, breathing in the crisp smell of someone burning leaves a couple doors down. And then my mother, shaking her head, giving him that gentle tsk-tsking smile. “You’ve never been anywhere else. You’ve lived in New England your entire life.”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “But I’m right.” Kisses her. Kisses me. “I’m right.” Kisses little Nico.
The next chicken is named Augustus and he will be served at midnight, but I’ve got to get going. I’ve got work to do. I look past the RV, out at the street, and the street looks so black.
Billy wanders back over to their ramshackle Rube Goldberg brewery to fill up his bottle, leaves Sandy swaying on the dance floor, and I find I have one more line of questioning to pursue.
“What do you know about the police?” I ask him.
“Say again, Hank?”
He gazes at me while beer foams out of the dirty tap into his bottle.
“Local law enforcement. In Rotary, I mean. Do you know anything about the police around here?”
“Oh, they’re total assholes. Like all cops.”
He clocks my expression and snorts, spraying liquid out of his nose. “Oh, no!” He laughs, swipes beer off his chin with the back of his hand. “I had a weird feeling about you, I totally—” He cuts himself off, hollers to Sandy, who is swaying, eyes closed, mumbling along with Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” “Sandy, he’s a cop!”
She keeps her eyes closed, raises one hand in an absent thumbs-up, keeps on swaying.
“Listen, man, don’t bust me on the open container, all right?” He’s laughing, he can’t believe it. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m not a cop anymore,” I say. “My position was eliminated.”
Billy pulls another big swig. “Shit, you know what? That’s what everyone should say. Whole planet, man.” He snorts. “Our position has been eliminated.”
“So,” I say. “The local cops.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, like I said, no offense, man, but the cops around here were just your classic bully cops. They were when I was growing up, anyway, and it only gets worse, you know?”
“How long did they keep working?”
“With the big news, you mean?” Billy considers this, runs a beer-wet hand through his hair. “About two fucking seconds, most of ’em. Even the chief, Mackenzie, first-class pig that guy was.” He turns again. “Hey, Sandy, remember Dick Mackenzie?” Another eyes-closed thumbs-up from Sandy. “Pig, right?” Her thumb raises higher.
“Shit, man,” Billy says, turning back to me. “As soon as this got to be a serious thing, it was fuck it like a bucket for most of those guys.”
That’s the same story I got from Detective Irma Russel’s big leather log book—I can see it clearly, the notebook page where she wrote Jason quit, triple exclamation points. That’s how I ended up with my own brief employment as a detective in the Concord Police Department, Adult Crimes Unit. People quit, people died. A slot opened up unexpectedly. Silver lining.
“Guess some of ’em kept at it a while, though,” says Billy. “The good ones. Till the riot.”
“The riot?” I’m interested now. I squint to focus, shaking my head, shaking off the mild effects of my one beer. “What riot?”
“Prison riot. State pen.”
I blink. “Creekbed.”
“Right, that’s right. This was—man—Sandy, do you remember, when was Creekbed?”
“May,” she calls.
“Nah.” Billy scrunches his face. “June, I think.”
“June 9,” I tell him.
“If you say so.”
I nod. I do say so. Irma Russel’s last entry, June 9, neat handwriting, Heavenly Father keep a good eye on us, would ya?