“Now I know there are some who say that Jay Devor did not play any role in the riot, that he had nothing to do with its organization. There are some who even think that it was the banks that organized the riot to discredit #Occupy. In that scenario, the banks also ordered the hit. However, if Donnell the doorman committed the murder, then the conspiracy is no longer a viable theory. Why would the banks want to frame the doorman? No, if Donnell the doorman committed the murder, it means the riot must have been organized by #Occupy, and that the murder was an unplanned byproduct. The murder was the result of the riot gone wrong. The riot is responsible for the death of Ricky Cortes. And in much the same way that our previous president’s racist tirades inspired neo-Nazis to march on Charlottesville, and a gunman to open fire in El Paso, Jay Devor is complicit in Ricky’s murder.”
Lucas grins. He bats his lashes again, and she thinks he might be in love, not with her, or even with what she’s saying, but with Wendy’s conversion to their cause.
“The only place we need to convict Devor,” she says, “is in the court of public opinion.”
“Yes,” says Lucas. “I see your point. I see your point indeed.”
26.
From his parents’ back porch the sky is purple, though it’s lighter where the horizon meets the tree line, the last broken sun rays hot-glued like sequins between branches and leaves. A lone swimmer inches toward shore.
Michael remembers how the lake used to look in December, frozen and cratered in spots where snow weighed down and cracked the ice. When it stayed cold for long enough, neighbors would ice fish for the scant remains of summer’s man-dumped stock of trout and catfish, and Michael would skate with a hockey stick, practicing wrist shots and backward figure eights. Lydia always watched from this porch, a model of Jewish motherhood, worried the ice would crack and he’d fall through. What was she planning, to dive in and save him? Detective Ryan isn’t answering, so Michael calls Quinn instead.
“Go for Quinn,” says Quinn.
“It’s Michael Mixner,” Michael says. “Something occurred to me—was Ricky wearing a bracelet when they found him?”
“A bracelet?”
“An SD bracelet. Sykodollars. From Shamerican Sykosis. Looks like a watch without hands.”
“I know what you’re talking about. My kid plays SS. I shouldn’t say plays. More like a job, really. He’s nine. Wears his helmet to school. His mother put him in one of those hippie schools where they let the kids piss and shit on the walls.”
“They shit on the walls?”
“He won’t even take the helmet off for meals. You ever seen someone eat in one of those things? No? It’s because you can’t. I have to make his meals in liquid form. You ever tried to turn a cheeseburger into a smoothie? It’s actually better than you might expect.”
Michael pictures Quinn feeding ropes of pink beef into a juicer along with lettuce, tomato, and shredded cheddar; Quinn and Junior drinking their concoctions from oversized beer steins while watching YouTube clips of farting dogs; Quinn sitting by his son on the bathroom floor as Junior—helmet lifted like a hockey goalie’s between whistles—spews bile-stewed cheese-beef into the toilet.
“Apparently some of these bracelets might be worth a lot of money,” Michael says. “Like millions of dollars. And it might be nothing, but the last time I saw Ricky he made a weird comment about the value of his bracelet, something to do with linear time. And then he was telling me that he’d invested all his money in some sure thing, and I’m wondering if that thing was SD.”
“You’re kidding me,” says Quinn. “You mean my kid could be rich?”
“I guess it’s possible.”
“Huh,” says Quinn.
Michael pictures him nodding, Adam’s apple riding his throat like a tiny elevator. Quinn says he has to go and ends the call.
Rachel steps through the sliding doors and hands Michael a cigarette. It’s dark now, the sky a sheeny black. The moon is higher and the sun is gone. The swimmer wades toward the small patch of beach maintained by the town. Michael and Ricky had to rake it one summer for community service after getting caught with a joint in Ricky’s car. It was the best job Michael’s ever had, meditatively dragging his rake across the sand, catching twigs and bottle caps in its bristles, his skin turning tan. Ricky would chat up the old ladies from the nursing home who were brought in by van every Friday and propped in plastic chairs along the shore. The ladies wore sun hats and sunblock dripped in blobs down their arms. Michael thought it wouldn’t be the worst way to end a life.
When the swimmer reaches shore, he suddenly can be seen in the glow of motion-detecting security lights. It’s their neighbor, Mr. Harkness, esteemed cardiologist and cycling fanatic: nude. Mr. Harkness stands perfectly still, arms spread like Jesus, and begins to urinate. Rachel flicks her butt. It falls in an arc near the naked man’s feet. Their neighbor, startled, does a small fearful dance and yells, “Watch where you throw those things.”
“Watch where you swing that dick,” replies Rachel.
27.
Greg asks if she’s got music. Lillian taps at her phone and some kind of nü-metal erupts from her speakers. He tries to find a way to dance to this noise, circling his hips, flailing his arms, attempting a knee bend. Lillian watches, the blue glow of her Juul a weak spotlight. Greg teases his nipples, over the shirt at first, before undoing its top button, then the next one down, hips still circling, mouth pursed in duckface. It’s not until his bellybutton’s exposed that Lillian says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I thought . . .” says Greg.
He rushed over here after receiving an SOS text featuring three eggplant emojis, a peach, and fireworks.
“You thought what?”
She holds up her phone. Greg wonders if she’s documenting this humiliation. For all he knows, Lillian
