King City (7 page)

Once in a while, Wade rode with his father in his patrol car or in his patrol boat, which was actually just their fishing boat with a county flag on the stern and a bullhorn under the bench. They didn’t talk about much during those ride‐alongs, and that was fine with Wade. It was time alone with his dad that didn’t involve washing the boats, patching roofs, cleaning toilets, or raking the beach.

On one such night, when Wade was twelve years old, they were driving the pitch‐black roads around the lake, keeping an eye on the empty lake houses, making sure nobody busted into them during the off‐season, though it happened a lot anyway despite the patrol. There was too much lake, and too many houses, for Glenn to maintain a vigil on them all.

It hadn’t started snowing yet, but it was cold enough outside at night to keep a milk shake from melting. Wade and his sister had tried it. The darker it was at night, the colder it seemed to be. He could almost measure the temperature by staring into the darkness.

A call came in from the dispatcher in Silverton. The cook at the roadhouse and bait shack on Highway 99 was frantic. Four guys from the lumber mill were drinking their paychecks, beating up on the waitress, and trashing the place.

Glenn got there in about five minutes. They drove up to the clapboard roadhouse just as a chair flew through a window and landed in front of the two pickup trucks in the gravel parking lot.

Through the broken window, Wade could see the four men inside the restaurant. They were drunk, rowdy, and spoiling for a fight. If there’d been any other customers that night, they were long gone now.

His father parked the car beside the two pickup trucks, took the gun out of his holster, and placed it in the glove box, slamming the lid shut.

“No matter what happens, you stay right here,” his father told him.

“You’re going up against them without your gun?”

“I don’t want anybody to die tonight,” Glenn said. “Guns tend to bring out the death in a room.”

“But there’s four of them,” Wade said. “How are you going to protect yourself?”

“Most of the time, it’s not whether or not you have a gun in your hand that matters,” his father said. “It’s what you stand for and how strong you stand for it.”

That wasn’t the first time Wade had heard that “what you stand for” line from his dad. It was his father’s all‐purpose explanation for every decision he made on any subject, whether it was whom he voted for, how much he’d pay for a shirt, or which kind of bait he chose for his hook. Now the line sounded not only hollow to Wade, but foolish.

Glenn got out and walked into the roadhouse.

Wade looked at the glove box and thought about his dad in the bar, outnumbered by a bunch of drunken, pissed‐off mill workers.

He grabbed the gun, ran out of the car, and crept up to the window, raising his head just enough to peer over the sill to see what was going on.

It looked like a tornado had swept through the place, upending tables and breaking dishes. Three big men, about as wide as the pickup trucks they drove, stood proudly in the midst of the destruction, grinning drunkenly and sweating from their exertions. Another man sat on a barstool, his back to the bar, directing the show.

A waitress cowered in the far corner, holding a rag to her bloody nose. One of her eyes was already swelling shut. A fat cook stood protectively in front of her, holding a greasy frying pan up like a shield.

As Glenn came in, the man on the stool spun around to face him. It was clear that the guy was the group leader, or at least their spokesperson, by the way the others fell in behind him.

Glenn walked up slowly to the bar and addressed the man on the stool. “You want to tell me what happened here, son?”

“We’re just having a good time, that’s all,” said the man. “There a law against that?”

Glenn gestured to the waitress. “How did Phyllis get hurt?”

“She done that to herself,” the man said.

“Clete hit me!” she said. “Twice!”

“I put her in her place,” Clete said. “She ought to know better than to slap a man.”

“You grabbed my ass,” she said. “Nobody does that without an invitation.”

“Your ass is an invitation,” Clete said. “Ask anybody. Ain’t that so, Deputy?”

Glenn grabbed Clete’s head and slammed his face into the bar.

Wade heard Clete’s nose crack like a boot stomping on dry twigs, but it may just have been his imagination filling in the blanks. It was a startling sight. He’d never seen his father hurt anyone before. But what was more surprising to Wade was how fast and naturally his father lashed out.

Like he’d done it before.

Like he was comfortable with it.

Wade shivered, but it wasn’t just from the cold.

His father yanked Clete’s head off the bar, letting the blood, snot, and drool drip from his face. Clete gurgled and moaned.

“I’d say you and Phyllis are even now.” Glenn let go of Clete and stepped back to regard the three others. “But there’s still the matter of all this damage.”

One of the three men stepped forward. He was twice the width of his two buddies. He had arms like tree trunks and a chest carved in granite. At least that’s how he looked to Wade.

“The only damage is gonna be to you.” The huge man picked up a beer bottle by the neck and broke the end off against the edge of a table. He advanced on Glenn, holding the jagged end toward him. “We’re gonna fuck you up bad for what you done to Clete.”

The others picked up bottles and smashed them too, backing up their buddy as he advanced on Wade’s father. Wade’s heart was pounding so strong that it was almost all he could hear. His hand gripped his father’s gun. He wouldn’t just stand by and watch his father get beaten to death. His bladder suddenly felt like it might burst, and his whole body was shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the fear.

But for all the terror that Wade felt, his father seemed totally at ease.

Glenn didn’t move or stiffen up. He just sighed and rested one hand on the top of his nightstick.

“Maybe so, but I won’t go down easy. You’ll be hurt. And come morning, when you’re puking into your toilet and squinting through your one good eye at your teeth floating around in the vomit, you’ll still have to answer for what was done here tonight. Are you ready for that?”

Glenn said it all casually, betraying not the slightest hint of anxiety or fear, as if he were discussing how the fish were biting on the lake rather than his own imminent, savage beating.

The huge man looked Glenn in the eye. Glenn looked right back at him.

The only sound in the room was Clete, making a wet gurgle as he breathed, holding his smashed nose in place with his hand, blood seeping between his fingers.

After a long moment, the huge man seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon, and so did the others, their shoulders sagging and their heads becoming too heavy for their necks.

Glenn nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

Wade let go of the gun and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, his heart still thumping hard. He was astonished that he could sweat while still being so cold. The tension in his bladder was gone and he felt a new and different terror as he looked down to see if he’d wet himself. To his enormous relief, he hadn’t.

“You cashed your paychecks today,” Glenn said to the men. “I want to see what you’ve got left on the bar, right now.”

The men dug into their pockets and dumped crinkled bills and loose change on the bar, some of coins clattering onto the floor.

Glenn took a quick glance at the money. “That should cover the damage, Phyllis, don’t you think?”

She nodded vigorously. Wade thought she would have nodded whether it was enough money or not.

Glenn motioned to the door. “Good night, boys.”

The men shuffled to the door, Clete glaring at Glenn as he staggered past him.

Wade ducked under the window and flattened himself against the side of the building as they came out, piled into their pickups, and sped off, their tires kicking up dirt and gravel as they fishtailed onto the roadway. He peered over the edge of the windowsill and looked inside again.

His father turned to Phyllis. “He was right about your ass, Phyllis. Maybe if you kept it in jeans that didn’t hold it so tight, you wouldn’t get in so much trouble.”

Wade rushed back to the car, getting inside just as his father emerged from the roadhouse. That’s when he realized that in all the excitement he’d forgotten the gun. It was on the ground under the window. But it was too late to retrieve it now.

He looked back to see his dad lean under the window, pick up the gun, and put it in his holster as if he’d left it on the ground himself.

Glenn walked back to the car and got inside. His father never said a word about it.

Wade figured that his father’s advice, and the memory of that night, had saved his own life today. But this time, what Wade stood for wasn’t enough. He needed his gun.

His confrontation with the Indian did more than bring back old memories. It made Wade even hungrier than he was before. As he devoured his lukewarm pancakes and bacon, Mandy stood across from him, nursing an iced tea and keeping his mug filled with hot coffee.

“Was that legal?” she asked.

“I probably should have arrested them,” Wade said. “But it wasn’t practical.”

“I meant trashing Timo’s ride,” she said.

So that was the Indian’s name. Wade made a mental note of it.

“It isn’t a law on the books, but it’s a law that everyone understands.”

“An eye for an eye,” she said.

“Timo can file a grievance with the department if he wants,” Wade said. “He’ll probably prevail and get my badge.”

“That’s not how he expresses his grievances or how he prevails,” she said. “He’s maimed people for less. I’m surprised you’re sitting here instead of on your way to wherever you came from.”

“I didn’t finish eating,” he said. “These pancakes are too good to waste.”

“Aren’t you worried that he’ll come back?”

“I’m sure he will,” Wade said, removing his napkin and rising from his stool. “I’ll be back too, first thing tomorrow morning. But I’ve got a bunch of errands to do now, like dropping my car off at a body shop.”

“You’d be a fool to come back.”

“This is where I work,” he said.

“Work somewhere else. This isn’t someplace you want to be.”

“You came back,” he said.

“That’s different.” She glanced over at her father, who was facing a wall‐mounted TV, watching one of the TV judges delivering daytime TV justice, then fixed her gaze back on Wade. “You’ll die here.”

“Here is as good a place as any.”

Wade left a few dollars on the counter as a tip and walked out, stopping for a moment outside the door to survey the street. There was nobody waiting for him.

Wade wiped the glass off the driver’s seat and drove the Mustang to a body shop that he’d seen near his hotel. With no windshield or windows, the chilly night air blew through his car like it was a convertible. He’d cranked up the heat and aimed the vents at himself, but it didn’t help much.

He called his insurance company, sorted things out with them, and made it clear to the shop owner not to replace the plastic
Bullitt
crap. In fact, he asked if they could remove whatever was left of the
Bullitt
stuff inside the car as well. The shop guy thought he was nuts but agreed to do it for a few extra bucks on top of the deductible payment, since he’d have to order parts to replace the undamaged ones that they were removing. That was fine with Wade.

He rented a Ford Explorer, which was dropped off for him at the body shop, and made sure that he signed up for all the available insurance, which cost him nearly as much as renting another car. But after what had happened to his Mustang, and the likelihood of Timo’s retaliation, Wade figured the insurance was a wise investment. He transferred his gun locker from the Mustang to the rear of the Explorer and drove off.

His first stop was the Home Depot, where he bought the lumber and supplies that he’d need to patch and paint the station, stain the hardwood floors in his apartment, and clean and disinfect the squad cars.

His errands finished, he grabbed a hamburger at a Jack in the Box drive‐through and ate his meal in his car as he drove back to his hotel for what he knew would be his last decent night of sleep for quite a while.

____

Wade checked out of the hotel and was eating his Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s by 6:00 a.m. He was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans because he didn’t want to get his uniform dirty loading up his stuff from the storage unit.

He didn’t have many belongings to move. He’d let Alison keep the house and just about everything in it because he didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for her or his daughter.

That was also what had cost him his family—his desire to protect them from discomfort.

After the confrontation in Roger Malden’s kitchen, and after being questioned for hours that day by the FBI and Internal Affairs, Wade returned to his New King City home to find Alison waiting for him. She was sitting at the kitchen table, watching the news on TV about the arrests. Brooke was at school.