So now she’s meeting Sam there. Woods smiles. Kids. Horny kids.
Not seeing him, in the camouflage of the trees, she tramps toward the Playground. She stuffs a shopping bag into the big waste barrel at the edge of the parking lot. She turns back and the policeman stands very still and she doesn’t see him, as she takes another path, toward Depot Street.
Making his way back to the cruiser, the cop drives it to the Playground parking lot. When he heads for the Mill again, he has a flashlight hooked to his belt and a lock-pick in his pocket. The padlock falls quickly into his hand and he lets himself into the Mill and closes the door behind him. First he pauses and sniffs the air, picking up nothing but old-abandoned-building smells. His flashlight beam shows him the tracked floor—lots of sneaker prints. Sweeping the light around the room, he is too low to pick up the hoop, high in the shadows on the wall. He follows his light to the watchman’s cubby and chuckles. The mattress has been there awhile and her acidhead drawings on the wall, of course, but now there’s a bedroll and a little space heater. And an old basketball tucked into a corner. Even more surprisingly, the flop is pungent with Chinese take-out. And ol’ black magic of course, the effluvium of coupling. There’s not even a trace scent of beer, pot or butts. Then the space heater registers again, the electric space heater, plugged into a wall outlet, and the bulb hanging overhead. Stepping out of the cubby, Woods lights up the fusebox and whistles in admiration. Swinging the flashlight toward the door, he picks out the switch. He crosses the room, flips it and finds himself in a crude homemade basketball court. Goddamn. The two of them come here and shoot hoops and screw. Sergeant Woods laughs until his eyes tear.
On his way back to the cruiser, the cop extracts the bag from the trash and finds it stuffed with Chinese take-out cartons. And a crumpled condom wrapper. No baggies with a litter of seeds and stems at the bottom, film canisters with herbal residue, empty Bud cans. Of course they could have hidden anything like that in the Mill or pitched it out a broken window or into the Millrace.
Slipping behind the wheel, he shakes his head and laughs again. Boy’s got her working at her game, for Christ’s sake. Probably Sam’s idea of foreplay. The cop laughs until his eyes are wet and his stomach hurts.
Oh hell, nobody gives a crap about the Mill and they’re not hurting it any. While they get their hormone fix, the girl isn’t drinking, smoking reefer, and thieving. And that’s about as good as it’ll ever get for Deanie Gauthier. Sam could do better, but that girl, she can’t. Least Sam’s using protection. Praise Jesus. Kids this age, these things don’t last. For the likes of Deanie Gauthier, she catches the guy’s name, it’s almost over. She’ll want to be partying again and quit him if he’s not up for it, or Sam will finally get enough so he can think straight about her and he’ll realize she’s bad news.
Flipping open his log, Woods makes a note that after seeing a couple of kids around the Mill, he has been in to check it out. It appears the kids have been using the place for trysts but since they are both of age and there is no sign of illegal substances, the next time he sees one or both of them he will merely warn them off the property.
J.C.’s Sunbird is at the curb on Depot Street. The Mutant hesitates, immediately wary. She’d turn right around and go back to the Mill for a few more hours but her books are in her bedroom and she’s got exams in three subjects next week. Shoving her hands into her coat pockets, she strides to the door, flings it open and enters the house with a regal arrogance that covers her nerves.
J.C. is at the kitchen table with Tony. She doesn’t need to see the shit on the table to know they’ve been tooting awhile nor does she have to see, in the dimness, the condition of their eyes. She only has to hear the way they laugh at the sight of her.
“Sister D.!” J.C. exclaims. “Have a hit with us! Set you right up!”
His face is flushed and he’s finding himself extremely witty.
Tony’s amusement trails off as he leans over a line.
From the corner of her eye, she notes Judy on the couch in front of the tube. With the Jack Daniel’s and a mug at one hand, and an ashtray in her lap. She doesn’t need to look straight at her to know Judy’s eyes are wet and glazed and the mask of her makeup is cracking like the face of an old doll left out in the elements at the town dump.
While Tony is snorkling, she slips away to her room, not daring to linger long enough to make an informed guess how much powder he and J.C. have done up. The most important thing is to get a shower. A little blow makes Tony horny; a lot makes him limp, paranoid and unpredictable.
She unlaces her high-tops first and kicks them off. Under the oversized sweatshirt, she unclasps her waist chain, steps out of the rig and drops it onto her cot. As she reaches for her boy’s bathrobe on the hook on the back of the door, it moves away in faded red ripples like an ragged flag trying to find
