“I assumed that given the language. And?”
“He . . . ah . . .”
“What?”
“He was not happy to hear from me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Where is he and where do we meet him?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not going to do. Give me that phone.”
Irv clicks and pokes and summons the received calls list. It has one number and he dials it. Four rings later he is connected: “Hi, this is Sheriff Irving Wylie with the county office. You just lent your phone to someone. Where are you? . . . Uh-huh. OK. What kind of phone have you got there? . . . Uh-huh. OK. Open the compass thing and read me your GPS coordinates . . . I’m listening . . . Uh-huh. OK. Listen, if he packs up and heads out, send me back a note to this phone. He’s a good guy but he’s in a bind and we’re keeping an eye on him, OK?”
Irv hangs up and Melinda says, “There’s a problem, Sheriff.”
“Now what?”
“A whole bunch of blacks . . . ah, African Americans . . . have formed a . . . a . . . bunch. And they’re outside the Inferno, and I think we’re looking at some impending violence.”
“Is this on account of that bullshit from Roger and that fucking video?”
“Just might be, Sheriff.”
“And this bunch is blaming the motorcycle gang for Lydia and they’re looking to do the job they think we’re not doing?”
“I wouldn’t want to speculate, Sheriff.”
Irv stands up and adjusts his gun, belt, balls, and boots.
“Have Deputy Rhineheart go pick up Roger,” he says. “He’s authorized to pick Roger up by his thumbs if necessary. Bring him to the Target parking lot. Roger will talk about his rights. We can ignore those.” Irv points at Sigrid. “And you. Stay put. I’m not fuckin’ around on this one. You go near there, those folks will kill ya because they think you helped murder Lydia, and the bikers will kill you because they’ll think you’re trying to set them up, and the cops’ll kill you a third time because they’ll think you’re an escaped convict. Furthermore, the blacks hate the whites, the whites hate the blacks, and everyone hates the cops. And generally speaking, cops hate everyone. So it’s going to be a delicate triangle of misery and hatred and you’re at the center of it. So stay here, please. Do we have ourselves an understanding?”
“Yes,” says Sigrid.
“How did things get this way?” he asks rhetorically.
“You blinked,” Sigrid answers.
“It’s constant politics. Isn’t it?”
Sigrid doesn’t reply.
“Is it like this for you?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“Where the hell is Cory?” he yells.
Cory waves his hand like a schoolboy who has found a lost baseball.
“You call Frank Allman and give him these coordinates here,” he says, handing Cory the note. “You tell him that Marcus is there, he probably isn’t armed or dangerous or anything, but he should still take it slow. And I need you to call—God help me—Joe Pinkerton on the SERT, let him know about the bunch of people heading to the Inferno and tell him this is not a drill but I don’t want guns blazing at the Club House. Oh, and tell him not to use the word ‘target’ for any reason. It’s just that kind of slip-up that can upset the apple cart. Honestly. Who names a department store Target, anyway?”
Irv withdraws his revolver to see that it’s loaded and—satisfied that it is—puts it back in its holster, only to remove the entire thing and place it in his drawer. He locks it with a tiny steel key.
“What are you doing?” Sigrid asks Irv.
“This isn’t a problem I can fix with a gun. Besides, I’ll most likely end up shooting Pinkerton. Melinda?” he says, turning from Sigrid. “Where’s Melinda?”
“Sheriff.” Melinda’s voice comes from his right. Melinda is a lot shorter than Irv and she habitually stands too close. He thinks she sneaks up on him deliberately.
“I hate it when you hide there. Go put on a vest.”
“But, Sheriff . . .”
“Do you have a problem with that order?” he snaps, and as the room falls silent he gives her a hard stare, long and deep.
“It’s in the trunk, right?” she says, changing her tone.
Irv takes her by the arm and gently leads her to the door and then pushes her out.
“We’re going to see Reverend Fred Green first. At First Baptist on I-Thirty-Seven. I’m driving, so you call.”
“Is that the place with the big white sign that flickers when it rains?” Melinda asks.
“Yes.”
“Get him on the phone and tell him we’re coming because I need to talk to him,” Irv says, starting up the car. “In fact, tell him we’re coming to get him. And tell him to wear the frock.”
Irv heads them out of the parking lot with the flashing lights switched on but not the siren, and they ride with force and intent toward I-37.
Melinda turns on the police scanner, and—from habit—switches on the FM radio, too. Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” is in full swing about Beelzebub, and Irv tells her to turn it off.
Matthew 5:9
A silver drizzle falls on the black hood of the police cruiser parked outside First Baptist. The church is a concrete affair set a hundred feet behind a macadam parking lot that on Sundays sees a mostly African American congregation in glinting patent leather crunching their way to the gray door above three steps. This is Irv’s second time here. The first time, six years ago, was for campaign purposes. His campaign manager—Frida Larkin—had insisted that since he was “open about his faith in God,” he might as well use that to attract key voters in the African American community who might be inclined to vote Democrat but could possibly be swayed by shared conviction.
“Open about my faith?” he’d asked.
“You admit it.”
“It isn’t something to hide, Frida. I don’t have lice.”
“No. You have faith. For Democrats that’s worse than lice. Because, you know, lice can be cured.”
“I don’t think faith has a political party. Nor does morality. Let’s just stick with the campaign slogan I wrote and try and be nice to people, OK?” he’d said.
“Your slogan is too long.”
“It’s perfect.”
Irv had a pile of campaign lawn
