Philipp Meyer - American Rust

Only a few minutes had passed since he'd started the cigar but he went down his to- do list anyway, both the one on his notepad and the real one he kept in his head. He banished Billy Poe from his mind for good — the boy had built up a good head of steam but he was about to run out of track. He felt bad for Grace but that was all.

So why was his headache coming back? In eighteen months he could retire, had always presumed he would, though the closer it got the less sure he was about how he really felt about it, he liked coming in to work every day, liked his job. An extra day or two off a week would be nice, but seven days off might kill him — he couldn't spend the whole time hunting. It suddenly struck him what an enormous mistake it had been to move into the cabin: once he retired, he'd be completely alone. Steve Ho and Dick Nance, Dolly Wagner and Sue Pearson who worked in the city council's office, Don Cunko, even Miller and Borkowski — those people were the closest thing he had to a family. Everything, all of it, seemed like a mistake. He had done it to himself.

He stood up quickly and went to his bag to get a Xanax, shook one into his hand but didn't take it. He put the pill back and did three sets of situps and pushups. If you took care of your body, your mind would follow. So they said. He was not doing badly. Well, in fact — enough money had been put away, he wouldn't end up like Joe Lewis, the Monessen chief who'd had to work as a school security guard when he retired. And, as he reminded himself constantly, he did good work, he could be proud of what he'd done. Despite being one of the poorest, Buell was still one of the better towns in the Valley to live in, the kids didn't spraypaint so much, the dope dealing was not public. But it was only a delaying tactic. A young woman's body had been found a few weeks back, she lived in Greene County and her system was full of methamphetamines, no one knew what she was doing in Buell. There had been six other bodies in Fayette County this year as well, half of them gave up no leads at all. The newspapers were onto this and the new DA was on the defensive. And the last two are in your jurisdiction, thought Harris. He's gonna need to bang this one out of the park.

There was a knock and Harris unlocked the door to see Ho, carrying his big belly in front of him. He had strangely small hands and feet. His parents were from Hong Kong and they owned the Chinese Buffet in North Belle Vernon. He came into the office, pushing past Harris and sniffing the air, and, upon finding the cigar in the ashtray, picked it up and pitched it out the open window.

Harris grimaced. It was a seven- dollar cigar.

“It's ten in the goddamn morning,” said Ho.

“I'm a grown man,” said Harris.

Ho shrugged. “We might be getting a complaint,” he said. “Last night I got a noise violation at the Sparrows Point Apartments and ended up deploying my carbine. Twelve rounds.”

Harris blinked and then he thought no, if it was bad I would have heard about it already. Either way he was glad for the distraction. A good number of their problems came from Sparrows Point, a block of HUD apartments at the edge of town.

“It was just a pit bull,” Ho continued. “You know that little bald-headed dude, the one with all the tattoos on his face? He let the dog go on purpose to come after me, like I'd jump on the roof of the car or something, act like a funny Chinaman.”

“Did anything get hit besides the dog?”

“Hell no. But you should have seen all those motherfuckers, diving behind cars and shit. Wish I had it on tape.”

“What were you doing with the rifle for a noise violation?”

“There was like seven or eight of them. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Do you know what our insurance costs,” he said to Ho.

“Fuck the insurance,” said Ho. “What about shock and awe? Those fuckers are cooking up crystal in the units back there. It's a fuckin environmental hazard.”

“They don't bother the citizens,” said Harris. “People will get it somewhere.”

“That's just your liberal politics talking,” said Ho.

“Libertarian.”

“Whatever.” Ho grinned.

“You better watch your mouth if you want to keep that rifle.”

“Yessir.”

“You do the paperwork yet?”

“I wanted to ask you first.”

Harris rubbed his temples. All in all, it was better if there was no record of Ho shooting a dog with an automatic rifle. But if a complaint was ever filed … “Lemme think about it. In the meantime, around eleven o'clock why don't you get some Dairy Queen for Billy Poe.”

“That boy's fucked, ain't he? Heard about Carzano's witness.”

“We'll see.”

“Sorry, Chief Like I said before, looks like it'd be better if that prick Cecil Small was still the DA.”

“Alright,” said Harris. “I got work to do.” He gave a little wave and Ho left him alone in the office.

Ho was right. Cecil Small, who'd been DA of Fayette County longer than Harris had been a cop, had come looking for Harris's help in the election last year. Harris had demurred and Cecil Small had lost by fourteen votes. Cecil Small could have made something like this go away — in fact, he'd already allowed Billy Poe to plea down an assault charge. But Harris had never liked Cecil Small — he enjoyed playing God a little too much. It was undignified, a seventy- year- old man still getting high off locking people up. Expecting people to buy him drinks every time he won a trial. Like he was a key player in the battle between good and evil. For thirty years he'd been the emperor of Fayette County, though finally it had caught up to him — the voters got sick of it. The new DA, who was only twenty- eight years old, and who Harris had both voted for and essentially put in office by not making the requisite phone calls for Cecil Small, needed to prove himself and was now tripping over his own feet to be getting a case like this. There were consequences to voting your conscience.

He wondered what Ho thought about all this, about his protecting Grace's son. Most likely he just accepted it as natural behavior. Ho was very realistic. He did not think he could change things. He was part of the new generation, his stubby assault rifle went with him everywhere, he dressed like he was walking into a war zone, whereas Harris rarely even bothered to wear his bulletproof vest, his “duty boots” being these cowboy ropers he'd bought on a Wyoming trip — not a good choice if he had to run someone down. But Ho was right. If something went wrong, backup in the form of the state police was at least half an hour away, things were changing, the kids were all on speed now, they were cooking it up themselves and you didn't know what they might do. No, he thought, even thinking that way is a problem. Puts you and them on opposite sides before the word go. He shook his head at himself. There's probably never been an old man who didn't think that all the young people were degenerate. Nature of youth and age. Painful to see the world changing without you.

Still, he couldn't blame Ho for not wanting to walk into those situations with only a sidearm. Not to mention Ho was still here because Harris made the job fun, gave him carte blanche. The feds were getting rid of all their old M16s, giving them away to police departments, and Harris had ten of them, free except for shipping costs. They'd also gotten binoculars, night vision, riot shields, old ballistic vests, all free. They had more weapons and gear now than they had cops, they had more gear than Harris had had when he'd gone to Vietnam with the marines. It was all because of Ho, who had spent weeks of his own time filling out the paperwork, then thousands of dollars of his own money to customize his rifle, a ten- inch barrel and holographic sight. At the moment, Ho was happy living in his parents’ basement, doing gunsmithing on the side, but someday he would decide to move on. Sooner than later if Harris made the job boring. He would miss Ho. But he was getting ahead of himself again. Ho wasn't gone yet.