than he could imagine.
He put a gold star on the last of the one-page essays the dear children had written in class today, then crossed 'grade papers' off his list. Perhaps the gold star hadn't been earned in this case – certainly not grammatically – but this particular boy always tried so hard, and needed a pat on the back every now and then.
He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his hands together, then keyed in the magic that would send away the post he had coded earlier. The anticipation began the moment he pushed the last key. It filled him with energy, and made him jump up from his chair. Two more items on the list: Walk Ruffian; Chesterfield's. He could hardly wait to cross off the last one.
'Ready for your walk, boy?'
The golden retriever rose heavily from his bed next to the desk, but he wagged his tail as he walked to where his leash hung on the hook by the door. He was old for his breed, and his beloved nightly walk took longer as the arthritis got worse. Clint didn't mind the extra time. It was still too early, and he had a few hours to kill.
Marian put away her mop and bucket, took a last swipe at the bar with her rag, checked the final load of glasses, and started turning out the lights. On nights like this, when she was especially anxious to get home, there seemed to be a million switches: one hooked to the mirror lights that reflected the polished bottles; another for the window lights; then the interior neon signs. 'This is ridiculous, Bert. Get an electrician in here and put these all on one circuit. I spend ten minutes every night shutting them off.'
'Can't.' Bert was already at the door, receipt wallet under his arm, hand on the knob. 'All these lights on one circuit and this place would blow like a two-dollar whore. The electric's way below code.'
'They're going to nail you on that one of these days and shut this place down, and there goes Alissa's college fund.'
Bert snorted. 'They're not going to nail us on any damn thing Cheetah Bacheeta did some lip service to our noble inspector in the can one night, and I got it on film.'
Marian rolled her head to release the tension in her neck. She didn't understand the world anymore. All men were pigs, and the system sucked. 'Jeez, Bert, you are the slimiest of slimes.'
'Maybe. But Alissa's going to college, and I'm all over that. Any acceptance letters yet?'
Marian smiled. 'A couple. She's waiting for Barnard.'
'What's Barnard?'
'The grand prize.'
Bert chuckled and reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Big bills, even for a weekend night. 'Tips, baby, for Alissa's tuition.'
Marian thumbed through a few of them and made her mouth hard. She could take all the crap the guys dished out here every night without blinking, but kindness always brought her up short. 'Christ. I didn't even blow any of the guys here tonight.'
'Yeah, well, there you go.'
'Bert?'
Yeah?'
'How many times have I got to tell you not to walk out of here with that receipt wallet? You're going to get mugged one of these nights. Everyone in town knows you take the cash home.'
'Everyone in this town loves me, doll baby. Kiss the kid going to college for me. Tell her the boys all want to see her down here before she shakes the dust of this town off her shoes. You gonna lock up?'
'Don't I always?'
Marian wiped at her cheek as the fat slimiest of all men walked out the door. She was dead tired. Six days a week for fifteen years she'd worked two shifts at the diner; then the night shift here at the bar, and most of the time she felt like she was being pulled through a knothole backwards. But Alissa was going to college, by God, and that was the brass ring.
By the time she locked up and the worn heels of her cowboy boots clicked across the empty parking lot, the stars were out, shining on who she was and what she'd done, and the moon looked surprised. Maybe, she thought, it didn't matter so much what you did as what you made happen for somebody else. Like your kid.
She knew Alissa was already asleep. She also knew that there would be a freshly baked, beautifully decorated chocolate almond cake on the scarred, shabby kitchen counter, because the kid baked a birthday cake for her mother every year. There was some guilt wrapped up in that, because Marian had always had three jobs to support them, and no time to be Betty Crocker. Alissa had jumped into the role. There would be forty candles on the top of the cake, and some sloppy sentiment written on the brown icing, and wrapped presents around it with curlicue ribbons.
Marian's face had weathered and hardened into a mask that no man would want; her knees were bad and her hips were shot, and most of the time she couldn't feel her fingers from all those years carrying the heavy trays; and still she figured she was the luckiest woman in the world.
Dew sparkled on the windshield of the old Ford Tempo, lighting her way, and made Christmas in July on the spruce that towered around the slab of tar cut into the forest. 'How lucky are you?' she whispered to herself, key out to unlock the door, heart open to the blessings of her life, and even when she saw the tripod with its mounted camera, and felt the hand on her shoulder and the cold knife on her throat, she couldn't imagine that this could be anything bad.
Chapter Eleven
Gino had the passenger seat of the Cadillac on full recline, but his eyes were wide open. Magozzi kept glancing over to make sure he blinked.
'Close your eyes, for God's sake. You look like you're dead.'
'I am dead, or might as well be, and I am never going out with you after dark again. First you take me to a drag club, then to some poor dead sap's apartment so I can see the sorry remains of his sorry life, then to the county jail. Christ. I had a better time at my vasectomy. What time did you drop me off?'
'Four a.m.'
'And what time did you pick me up?'
'Seven-thirty, just like always. Jeez, Gino, you got three hours. What are you complaining about?'
'No, I did not get three hours, because the little man toddled into our bedroom at a quarter after five and hurled all over me. Why do little kids get the flu all the time? It's not even flu season. It pisses me off. And why do we have to get up and work our regular shift when we worked all night? They don't let pilots do that. So many hours in the air, you gotta take so many hours off. Shit. Even truck drivers have rules like that. But cops? Nah. No sleep? No problem. Load your weapon and get out there. I'm an armed man with a brain you could stir with a straw. Now, that's just plain stupid.'
Magozzi yawned. 'Tell you what. I got three hours' sleep. Ask me before you shoot somebody.'
'Okay.'
Magozzi pulled onto Summit Avenue, and a few blocks later through the open wrought-iron gate of Harley's driveway. 'Up and at 'em, partner. Time for our play date with the Feeb.'
'You're not going to go off on this guy and get us thrown in the pen, are you?'
'You want me to make nice with a Fed? Your onions fall off in the shower or what?'
'This is a little Fed. A hapless soldier. He didn't make the decision not to pull cops in earlier. Besides, I'm too weak to referee one of your pissing matches.' He got out of the car and stretched, looking around. 'Man, I keep forgetting to get the name of Harley's gardener. Look at those peonies. They're just about enough to break your heart. You know what I think of when I see peonies? Cheerleaders. Don't ask me why.'
'I will not. I promise.'
Gino veered to the right of the walk and tromped across Harley's perfect lawn to the koi pond, his favorite feature of the house. He pulled a bag of miniature marshmallows out of his pocket and tossed a few in the water, then started humming the
