“Charlie Jenner built this whole subdivision,” Manny boasted. “I wired a lot of them back when I was an apprentice.”
“Wow,” said Russell, at a loss to say anything else in the face of the countryside’s transformation. Manny smiled and shot down the road to the highway. They drove to the job site and pulled into a dirt lot next to a couple of trailers.
“There it is,” Manny said, cutting the engine. “Used to be a soybean field. Look at it now.”
Russell looked. Rebar twisted out of concrete pilings sunk deep into the fertile loam. Men worked on scaffolding along a partially completed wall, while earthmovers cleared and leveled the perimeter. Manny opened the door, leaving the keys in the ignition.
“I can trust you with The Imp?”
“You know it,” Russell assured him, glad to be offered wheels.
“Pick me up at four-thirty. Don’t be late.” He reached in the back seat, grabbed his hard hat and tool belt, got out of the car, and walked to one of the trailers. Russell slid into the driver’s seat.
The car glided into a space right in front of the Red Rooster Inn. Back when Carl tended bar here, he lived in one of the apartments upstairs. It was there that Russell first met Guy Bogel and Gary Pierce, who shared a place with an ever-changing rotation of shiftless creeps. They were always on the make, working the angles of one scam or another, and in his few interactions with them he had been fascinated by their reckless energy. He climbed the worn, creaking stairs to the third floor. All the apartments were empty. The door of their old unit had been torn off its hinges. Trash covered the floor. A rat skittered through the litter. He returned to the street.
He had a notion to walk around downtown, see what it was like these days, maybe pick up a joy buzzer for Manny. A couple blocks along he spied Helen’s scooter. It was hard to miss, with a big wicker basket strapped to the handlebars and an orange pennant fixed to the rear fender. At some point it had been painted yellow, but that paint was scratched and chipped in places, allowing the original blue to show through and giving it a sort of mottled look. He walked slowly down the street.
“You’re not going to just walk right by me like that, mister.”
The voice stopped him. Slowly he turned. She stood akimbo and stared at him sternly, tapping a sandaled foot under her long silk skirt. He took a step backward; she took a step forward. Her green eyes flashed like the first ray of sun on the sea.
“So are you even going to try to make excuses, or are you just going to stand there?”
“I was looking for you,” he began, leaning toward her. “I saw your scooter. I just got in town. I stopped by your place, but you weren’t there.” She continued to stare him down as he approached. He threw his arms up and admitted, “I’m the world’s worst friend. I totally suck.”
A single blonde curl fell out from under her bandanna and dangled in front of her ear. “The truth’s a pity,” she quipped with a crooked grin, “but there it is.” Her grin broke into a smile, her endearing malocclusion widening as she beamed. She wrapped her arms around him and picked him up off the ground.
“Whoa,” came his surprised response. She put him down.
“I’ve been working out.” She flexed her arms. “Pumping iron. What do you think?”
“Impressive,” he said, truly impressed. “Hey, what are you up to? Summer job?”
“Oh yeah.” She said with a tone of exasperation. “Retail job. Hadn’t really planned on it, but this old friend of my folks, Wayne Edwards, opened up an antique shop last spring. I ran into him a while ago and he needed help, so here I am for the next couple months.” She tapped his upper arm. “What are you up to, stranger?”
“Well, I left Cincinnati for good. Just got into town this morning. I’m on the road, looking for somewhere to go, something to do.” What he heard himself saying sounded absurd, so he added a modifying, “Or something like that.”
“And what are you doing for fun?” she asked with a smile.
He gave her a good long look, then hugged her.
“Oh, Helen, I’m glad you don’t hate me.”
She patted his back and broke the embrace, saying, “I’m glad I don’t, either.”
“You know, I stopped by your place this morning. Actually, you were the first person I looked up. But you weren’t there, and Myrtle wouldn’t tell me where you were.”
“Myrtle?” She looked startled. “You talked to Myrtle?”
“Yeah, she was in your apartment when I knocked.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Myrtle was in my apartment?”
“Yeah, the front door was open, she was in there. At least, I guess it was her—she wouldn’t confirm or deny that she was Myrtle.”
“Scrawny old bird with a blue fright wig?”
“Yep,” he said, his affection for her rekindling as they talked.
“That stinker. I’m going to have to have a talk with her.”
“So, you didn’t know she was in there?”
“No, I didn’t. And I didn’t give her permission either.”
She stared into middle distance and recalled, “I gave her a copy of my key a few months ago so she could water plants and stuff when I was up in Michigan.” She wagged a finger as she declared, “And I got that key back, I know I did. She must have made a copy. That stinker!”
He snickered. She huffed and pointed at him.
“You’re good for something after all—letting me know that’s been going on all this time. I’m going to chew her out good, boy.”
She fumed a little, then calmed down and said, “Hey, I’ve got to get back. I’m the only one here today. Let me give you my number. Call me tonight. I don’t have any plans, except maybe slapping Myrtle around. But we’ll get together and do some catching up.”
He found a scrap of paper in his pocket and wrote the number she recited.
“That’s unlisted,” she added.
He told her he’d call her later, then she got back to work. He walked to the novelty store and bought a joy buzzer.
After an aimless drive around town, he ended up on a county road out by Bass Lake, where Guy’s father, Frank, lived. He knew better than to stop if Frank’s car was there. Once on a carouse with Guy and Gary he’d been in the house while Guy raided the refrigerator and liquor cabinet, something he did on occasion. Although he’d never met Frank, he’d heard enough of Guy’s stories to steer clear of him. Frank had seen action in Vietnam, and the house was filled with military paraphernalia. Things had gotten really bad when Guy’s mother abandoned them all. Guy was eight at the time; his autistic brother Bob was six. That was the same year Frank lost most of his right foot when a bucket of hot tar spilled on him. The boys were pretty much left to their own devices while he drank and popped pills. Guy left the house at fifteen. Frank lived off illicit arms sales, supplemented with Bob’s welfare checks.
The driveway was clear, so Russell stopped to see if Bob was home, and if he knew where to find Guy. When his persistent knocking went unanswered, he turned to leave. The door opened behind him, and Bob stuck his head out.
“Hey, Bob,” he said, turning. “I’m Russ Pinske, used to hang out with Guy a little.”
“Uh-huh.” Bob eyed him with suspicion.
“Know where I can find him?” He smiled, consciously using his most friendly tone.
“Nope.”