Mrs. Corbin. Donnie Boy’s rules.
Donnie in his little white butcher’s cap and his long bulbous nose and radar scoop ears, going, “We’ve got that Swiss you like. No pressure.”
“No, no, give me a quarter. It’s Noah’s favorite.”
“Coming right up,” he says, placing the cylinder of cheese in the slicing machine. “Thin, right?”
“Thin but not too thin.”
“Not so thin you can read through it. Got it. D’ja hear about the dump snoozer?”
Why I come here, to hear about mysterious local events like dump snoozing.
“Old Pete Conrad. You know, out Basel Road? The farmhouse with the leaning tower of silo?”
Happily, I am indeed familiar with the ‘leaning tower of silo.’ Nice old farmstead, with the main house kept up and painted and all the other buildings, barns and sheds in a state of disrepair, including a faded blue silo that’s seriously out of plumb. I don’t know Mr. Conrad personally, but have seen him at a distance, fussing at an ancient tractor.
“Pete’s out the dump—excuse me, the recycle center—in that old Ford, and it’s parked there most of the day before anyone notices Pete’s not in the freebie barn, which is where he usually hangs out. They’re about to lock the gate when somebody thinks to check his truck, and there’s Pete, lying on his side, obviously dead.”
“No!”
“That’s what they thought. So they call Emergency Services, the ambulance and crew arrive, everybody is hanging around, reminiscing about the deceased, when all of a sudden Pete sits up and demands to know what’s going on.”
“No!”
“Sound asleep! Said his wife’s snoring kept him awake all night and he came out the dump to catch a few winks. He finds garbage peaceful. Lulled to sleep by the sound of front-end loaders. Which is apparently a whole lot less noisy than Mildred snoring.”
“What a riot,” I say, chuckling.
“Anyhow, that’s my cheesy gossip for the day,” he says, handing the neatly wrapped Swiss across the counter.
“Thanks, Donnie.”
“De nada, Mrs. Corbin. Noah’s in for a treat today, eh?”
“He loves his cheese.”
“No, I meant Chief Gannett. He’s giving his talk to the elementary school kids. For D.A.R.E.?”
“Really? Is there a drug problem in the elementary school?”
“Not that I know of. And Chief Gannett will tell you that’s because he starts early. He gives a wonderful presentation, very entertaining in a this-is-your-brain-on-drugs kind of way. Fire and brimstone but sort of funny, too, you know?”
I leave the Humble Mart with a smile on my face. Fire and brimstone, but sort of funny, too. Perfect. Plus Noah will have a treat when he gets home from school. He likes to take little bites around the holes, pretending they are black holes in the universe and he’s the cheese monster, one of the many nicknames given to him by his doting father.
Ruggle Rat, Crumb Stealer, Noah-doah, The Poopster, The Cheese Monster. When I pick him up at two-thirty, no doubt full of excited, exaggerated stories about the visiting police chief, that will be the highlight of my day. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
5. Killing Yourself To Live
The van windows are so dirty and pitted it’s hard to see inside, but when the cop car eases into the school parking lot Roland Penny nevertheless slinks down in his seat, to avoid being recognized. Can’t be too careful. The chief knows him, and may recall certain events in Roland’s teen years, and that might prove awkward, or even lethal. Later, once events have been set in motion, there will be time for recognition.
Hey, Q, remember me?
‘Q’ came from ‘cue ball’ because longtime Humble police chief Leo Gannett is bald, completely hairless with alopecia totalis, a condition considered comical by many teenage boys. As funny as being retarded or crippled or, for whatever reason, hideously uncool. Yo, Q! shouted on the street as the cruiser rolled by was guaranteed to get laughs from your buds. Or the derisive snorts of those you wished were your buds.
Whatever. That was over. That was the old Roland, before he emerged from his chrysalis.
Eyeballing the scene in his rearview, Roland watches the familiar figure of the tall, paunchy cop get out of his cruiser, straighten his uniform, and set his lid on his shiny head. Roland knows that big city police officers refer to their regulation hats as ‘lids’because he watches lots of cop shows on TV. Just as they call their uniforms ‘bags,’ supposedly. And how they like to sum up situations by saying things like ‘code four,’ which means ‘everything is okay,’ and ‘code five,’ which means there’s a warrant out on a suspect, and ‘code eight,’ officer calling for help.
Hey, Q! Code eight coming right up, sir! Roland chuckles, amazed by his own ability to think humorously, wittily, at such a critical juncture. Obviously he has developed nerves of steel, strengthened by training and practice. Amazing that when the big moment finally arrives he experiences no uneasiness, no fear, just a pleasant feeling of anticipation. Various tasks to be performed. The next level to be attained. Homage paid to the Profit.
Not the prophet. Never the prophet. The Profit. Crucial difference.
Once the big, bald cop is safely inside the school, Roland emerges from the van. He opens the creaky rear door. His tools are inside, neatly laid out. First to be removed is the small janitorial cart, rattling as it hits the pavement. Inside the cart he places a ragged string mop, intended for show—look, I’m a janitor cart!—and then, very gingerly, a zippered gym bag. The bag is heavy, more than fifty pounds heavy.
Careful, careful, don’t want that little sucker activated before the time comes.
Then, clipped to the inside of the cart rim, just out of sight, a canvas holster, quick release, containing a Glock 17, modified with a reduced-power spring kit for the lightest possible trigger pull. Perfectly legal and not, as the kit warned, for self-defense. Point and shoot without even having to squeeze, that’s how soft the pull—the gun will practically shoot itself.
Before setting off with the cart, Roland places the white earbuds in his ears and activates the iPod. The Voice has instructed him in the use of the iPod, a device that does not respond well to his clumsy, insensitive fingers. Roland prefers buttons, switches, triggers, not wimpy touch screens. Still, he learned, he practiced until he got it right, and it’s not as if he has to scroll through the selections. The only playlist is a comp of Black Sabbath, specifically selected by The Voice. Even in the heaviest throes of his metal phase, Roland was never a Black Sabbath fan. Way too old. Geezers in wigs. Pathetic. His taste tended more toward classic Megadeth tracks, or if he was really twisted, anything by Municipal Waste. Thrash? Don’t mind if I do. The fact is he hasn’t listened seriously to metal since he began to evolve—nearly a year now—but The Voice specified Black Sabbath, and once he has the Ozzified itch of “Killing Yourself to Live” buzzing in his ears it’s okay, strictly as a kind
