“…and the scrap yard is clean. Pastor Seymour did that, Mr. Reilly. There’s still a great deal of work to do, but he’ll be the shepherd. He’ll be the vessel of the almighty. You’ll see. The drugs and guns are out of the yard, and they aren’t coming back!”
Tony was first in line when the good Pastor announced formation of the Village Crime Watch. Seymour pitched the idea to the Borough with little resistance, but there had to be rules, strict ones. And these rules had to be explained clearly and specifically to the angry youth who wanted so desperately to be the good Pastor’s right hand.
“Anthony, look right into my eyes. I want you to gather four of your biggest friends. All of you put on suits and walk the east side of the Village three nights a week. You are to be Boy Scouts: helpful, courteous, the whole deal. If you see anything happen, you make your presence known and that’s it. If that doesn’t work, you call the police right away. If they aren’t there in ten minutes, you call me. Otherwise, you do nothing.”
Tony remembered being held firmly by the shoulders as his mentor drilled in the most important of the Borough’s stipulations.
“You do not patrol anywhere outside the Village. Not the park, not the boulevard, and especially not the scrap yard. It’s dangerous, it’s trespassing, and Potterford will shut the program down over it. Understand? If I find you in the yard, you’re out of the Watch. I’ll find someone else. I’m serious about this, Anthony.”
Ian nodded with false sympathy.
“So, what were you and your friends doing in the yard last night?”
In truth, Tony and his friends went there every night, whether on patrol or not.
The drugs are out of the yard, and they aren’t coming back!
“They swung first. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Ian got up and bought a second bottle of Deer Park. He handed it to Tony who distractedly accepted it. Ian sat.
“I know they did. That’s what they do. They’re jumpy little Godless freaks that think they answer to no one. You did the right thing. I admire you. If your pastor finds out about last night, it won’t be from me. I promise.”
“I don’t even know why I came here. All I needed was a Band-aid.”
“I know why. You wanted to find out for yourself what happened to my brother. See? Now, that’s being a good person.”
Tony sniffled.
“I just hope God forgives me. That’s all.”
“Forgives you? For what? Look at me.”
Tony did. Ian Reilly couldn’t have given two shits about the snazzy underprivileged youth. He needed information, that was all. Even as he offered reassurance, he considered ratting the kid out to his pastor just for being a whiney little bitch.
“Son, those boys were going to kill my brother, and they would have succeeded if you hadn’t shown up, and I’ll swear to that on a stack of bibles.”
For reasons Ian couldn’t begin to understand, Tony folded his arms on the table, put his head down, and wept uncontrollably. Ian allowed himself a triumphant grin before putting his arm across Tony’s shoulder.
He leaned in and whispered. “Tell me son … who threw the brake drum?”
10. The Shed
Philip had abandoned working on the bike and was sitting in the corner of the shed. The past hour was a harsh reminder that he’d forgotten more about motorcycle repair than he’d ever learned. He was staring at the gas tank, which was propped up against his standing tool box. He decided it looked like a face and would make a good sounding board.
“When it comes down to it, I don’t really need to fix it; I just need to make it look like I tried, right?”
He was kidding himself, and he knew it. His mind was on it now. His obsessive personality wasn’t going to let it go, even if it was both a mistake and an inconvenience. One way or another, that bike would run.
“Take the good with the bad when you’ve got a brain like mine, I guess.”
He stood with a grunt and walked over to the work bench where he’d left his cell phone. Someone had tried to call him.
“Oh bollocks!”
He displayed the call and touched “Reply”.
“Hey baby…no, I didn’t forget. I just lost track of time. Tell him I’m leaving right now. Yeah, I’m an idiot. I know. I love you, too. Bye.”
He hung up and turned back to the gas tank.
“One of these days, my friend, I have to learn how to prioritize.”
Again, he was kidding himself.
11. The Station
Gomez met Lynch outside the squad room. It was Tuesday, which meant there was a cart of free coffee and donuts from Anna Maria’s in the hallway. There was a single apple fritter set aside with a note that Lynch read with mixed emotions.
FOR SGT. REILLY WHEN HE GETS BACK. DON’T F&@!ING TOUCH IT.
Gomez stood with a full, un-lidded insulated paper coffee cup and no apparent sense of urgency.
“What the hell, Ernie? I thought we were checking out that hit from ballistics. You ready to go?”
Gomez turned towards the squad room and pointed at Lynch’s desk.
“I don’t know, acho. You tell me.”
Not one, but two priests were waiting to see Lynch. One was Father Leo. The other…the one that looked like he was about to throw up…Lynch hadn’t yet met.
Leo had been eyeing the hallway in anticipation of Lynch’s arrival and smiled when the detective came into view. Both priests stood courteously as Lynch approached with an outstretched hand and a half-bewildered expression.
“Good to see you again, Leo. Free coffee and donuts from Mama M’s, did you see?”
“Yes. Thank you. Neither of us is
