Jack O'Connell - Wireless

Someone uncouples two electrical cables and the feedback ends. But the yelling and cursing continue. Federman’s mouth is outlined with spittle. He’s screaming, “Let go of me, Vinnie,” to a small, round assistant who’s trying to restrain him. Everyone’s out of their seats and Hannah thinks punches could be thrown at any second.

Flynn says, “You want to get out of here?” and Hannah nods and follows him out of the chamber.

They don’t talk till they’re out on Main Street, standing in the shadow thrown by City Hall.

Flynn is lightly touching his left ear with his index finger.

“Jesus,” he says, “I’m sorry I asked you down here.”

Hannah ignores the apology. She’s not sure what to feel about this guy and wonders how much that has to do with his connection to Lenore.

“Really, I’m sorry about this,” Flynn says again, seeming genuinely flustered. “Would you like to go get a—”

Hannah cuts him off with a shake of her head. She starts to walk backward in the direction of her Mustang. After a couple steps she pauses and says, “I’ll check up on Hazel. I’ll call you in a couple days.”

Flynn seems to be unsure what to say. After a few seconds he says, “Okay, I’m in the book.”

She looks him up and down, from the pricy haircut to the imported loafers. And suddenly she’s wondering if Lenore slept with this guy, and if maybe he was that one concealed, unspoken lover that she let her guard down for.

“I’m sure I can find you,” Hannah says, then turns and starts to walk.

She knows he’s still standing there, looking at her back, watching her walk. Or maybe she’s feeling the eyes of the big marble vulture, resting up on the roof of City Hall, nested and waiting above Quinsigamond, looking down at her and sizing up an abundant meal of surprisingly tender meat.

Ten miles outside of Quinsigamond, on a two-lane stretch on the outskirts of Whitney, Flynn pulls the Saab over onto the shoulder of the road and kills the engine.

Ronnie looks at him for a second, then says, “Well, Scooter, if you want to go parking don’t you think we could get a more secluded spot?”

Flynn stares out of the window and says, “Pop the glove box.”

“You used to love it when I was a wise-ass. You want a map or something?”

“Binoculars,” Flynn says.

She reaches in and underneath a pile of small transistor radios, she touches a miniature pair of rubber sports binoculars. She pulls them out. They’re army green and have a brand name, German she thinks, written on the side. She hands them over and Flynn grabs them and brings them up to his eyes without a word.

“A voyeur,” she says. “Great. I’m an expert at this.”

He hands the glasses over to her and says, “Take a look.”

She puts her eyes to the rubber cups, focuses, takes in a large, weathered-shingle farmhouse. The building is three stories high, a mishmash of modified Victorian and French country styles. There’s a wraparound porch moating the front entrance and an attached barn off the back. The whole thing sits a good fifty yards back from the road, at the foot of a rising knoll. Planted in a side yard are volleyball nets and mounted on the barn below the hayloft door is a basketball backboard and hoop.

“The third floor is all open,” Flynn says.

Ronnie continues to survey the property without responding.

“Like this big loft area. All unpartitioned. At least that’s how it was, you know, twenty years ago.”

He shifts in his seat. “They had two dozen steel-frame bunk beds. They were set up in rows. Like an army barracks. You had a locker that went underneath. You’d keep all your stuff in there. We’d be lined up alphabetically. We’d do everything alphabetically. Brush our teeth. Line up in the kitchen. Get in the bus. They used to park the bus in the barn. Can you see it?”

She tries to peer into the barn. The double doors are open, but the position of the sun makes it impossible to see anything inside. She shakes her head.

“They probably got rid of it. The thing was dying twenty year ago. This old Harvester monster. Sister Marietta’s true love. She was a wizard, drove it like a goddamn tank. Always ready for battle.”

Ronnie finally brings the glasses down. “This is where you grew up,” she says in a flat, quiet voice.

“This is the place,” Flynn says.

Ronnie thinks for a minute, then says, “Do you want to go in?”

He turns his head sideways toward her and squints his eyes like he’s in pain. “Are you kidding?”

“Do you drive out here a lot?”

“Not a lot. I mean, what does a lot mean?”

“And you never go in?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you stay in touch with anyone? Like any of the boys you knew here?”

He gives a slight shake of the head.

“So, why are we here?” she asks.

He opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs.

“You’re a fountain of self-knowledge,” she says.

He likes this. The easy tease, the playfulness. The throw-away intimacy. He wants to give it back and wishes he were as good at it.

He lets his head fall back onto the rest, keeping his eyes on the farmhouse. “It’s a ploy,” he says, “I bring all my dates out here. Women are nuts for orphans. Brings out all kinds of sympathies.”

“I knew it,” Ronnie says. “You reek of ulterior motive.”

“Comes in a little bottle. Imported from Europe. Costs me a fortune. It’s made from the spleens of just-dead lawyers.”

“What about just-dead financial planners?”

“Nothing ulterior about our motives. We’re right up front. Sign the check and try not to worry.”

She smiles and nods, holds in the laugh. Then she changes the tone of her voice and says, “So, why are we here, Flynn?”

“Jesus, you’re good at that,” he says. “You could make some coin off that voice.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I don’t know. I just keep coming back.”

“You know. Do you send money to this place?”

“Almost never.”

“Almost never?”

“I’m like that with money. I’ve got to beat myself up just to keep from dialing in to the TV preachers with my credit cards.”

“Did they abuse you here?”

He makes a face. “It wasn’t like that. I got hit in the head with a Bible once. Can’t remember what for. Nun came up-stairs before bed to apologize.”

“Did you let her off the hook?”

“After I sold her a whole life policy.”

“And got put on retainer to manage the sisters’ savings account. Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“There you go,” Flynn says. “You’re on to me.”

“No, but I’m working on it.”

“I’m clear water, Ronnie. You can see right through me. There’s not much here, I swear to God.”

“Maybe you’re not the best judge.”

“Maybe there’s no big mystery.”

“Maybe there’s a bunch of little ones. Like why you drive out here. Like why the yuppie biz-master hangs out with radio criminals.”

“They’re not criminals, Ronnie.” An edge comes up in his voice.

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry, Flynn, but technically they are. It’s a crime to jam licensed radio broadcasts—”

“And where I sit, it’s a goddamn crime that some scumbag racist hatemonger like Ray Todd can fill the airwaves with fascist bullshit—”

“Go buy some licensing, Flynn. Go buy the station. Then pull Todd and pump your own grudges out at the public. That’s the way it works. That’s the system we’ve got.”

“And if I don’t like this particular system?”

“Seems to work well enough when you’re hustling life policies and mutual funds.”

“I provide a service, Ronnie. I don’t put a gun to anyone’s head—”