Philipp Meyer - American Rust

Lawyer and a private investigator. She would have to tell Simon the entire story, his parents would have to know as well. Easy to make a case for Isaac—1560 on his SATs, something they'll understand. But she did not want to have to say that. They would decide to help Isaac because he was her brother. They either would or they wouldn't, and she would know. Alright, she thought, it's better to know. You've got plenty of credit cards, with or without them you'll figure something out. Start by calling Simon and asking him to figure out the lawyer. He'll be happy to have a mission.

After work he cleaned up and took a quick shower and called the dog in. Fur came back slowly and reluctantly, knowing what it meant. He came over to Harris and leaned against his leg.

“Sorry buddy” said Harris. “Company calling.”

He thought about leaving Fur out to run, but the coyotes were getting bigger, they'd nearly doubled in size in the last twenty years, and there were more of them. Plenty of the neighbors took potshots at them and Harris had a.22-250 that would reach four hundred yards, but he would not shoot a coyote. They were noble animals, is why. They had a will — they made other animals take them into consideration. Mountain lions, wolves, it was all the same. You could not kill an animal like that unless you were very sure of your motives.

“Your pick, meathead. Stay in or fend for yourself.”

But of course he would not really give his dog that choice. Maybe that was contradictory. Still. He nudged Fur gently inside, away from the door, and closed it.

Ten minutes later he was on a paved road, heading toward Grace's house, and not exactly sure why he was doing it. As he'd gotten dressed he'd looked at himself in the mirror and thought the next time you get undressed it will be with her but now, headed toward her house, he was not sure. Amazing coincidence, calling you right when her son gets pinched. He shook his head. It was fine. He presumed those things about people, forgave the ones he liked in advance. Grace was forgiven. Her son, though, doing wrong ever since he was old enough. Harris had done all that was possible. He had talked Glen Patacki and Cecil Small into a lenient plea agreement. He had talked Cecil Small into a slap on the wrist and then Billy had gone out and murdered someone.

It was protection, she expected him to work magic but it was too late now, the wheels were turning and Billy was caught. He felt himself getting angry, he nearly stabbed the brake pedal and wheeled the truck around, it was a fine life he'd made for himself, a levelness he worked hard at, he could feel it being upset. He made himself keep driving and the anger passed quickly. Most everything you feel passes quickly. What the hell, he told the steering wheel. I'm bored.

Then there was the Virgil question. He felt his anger coming on again, anger and hurt, but it was no mark of shame, it was just the way things went. Virgil Poe couldn't keep a job, was as mean and dumb as they made them, a born liar. Still Grace had chased after him nearly twenty years. Twice Harris had helped the game warden arrest Virgil's father, it ran in the family. And the incident with the stolen copper. Everyone understood Virgil. Except Grace. But look whose son you've been protecting. Yes, he thought, he's got you beat. Why didn't you lock him up? Once he'd run Virgil in the computer, two outstanding warrants, all it would have taken was a phone call. But that was not the kind of person Bud Harris was.

Passing through the town, past the old police station and the new one, he'd seen the Fall, the shuttering of the mills, and the Great Migration that followed. Migration to nowhere — thousands of people moved to Texas, tens of thousands, probably, hoping for jobs on oil rigs, but there weren't many of those jobs to be had. So those people had ended up worse off than they started, broke and jobless in a place they didn't know anyone. The rest had just disappeared. And you would never know it. He'd watched guys go from making thirty dollars an hour to four-fifteen, a big steelworker bagging his groceries, stone- faced, there was no easy way for anyone to deal with it. He'd moved out here to have an easy life, be a small- town cop instead of cracking heads in Philadelphia, but the job had changed quickly once the mills went under — it was head-cracking time all over again. It wasn't naturally in him but he'd learned, made it a science, learned to watch a man's face as he did it. It had been a mistake to spare Virgil. He had done that out of pride.

It felt different with Grace this time, he didn't know why, it really seemed the hillbilly was no longer in the picture. The spare tire comes out. The spare tire is you. He was not sure about any of it. There were people who were meant to die alone, maybe he was one of them. You're getting a little ahead of yourself, he thought.

He turned up the clay road that led to her trailer. There was still time to turn around — it would be a clear cold night, he had a humidor full of cigars, a nice bottle of scotch, the dog would be happy to see him. The deck chairs were set up, he could sit out tonight, he'd splurged at Christmas and replaced his old sleeping bag with a pricey down model made by a company in Colorado, all winter he had sat out looking over the mountains at night, no matter how cold it got, he'd sat out after ice storms, nothing moving for miles, total silence except the ice cracking in the cold, the warmth in the sleeping bag. A feeling of being the only one on earth. One of these days he needed to buy a telescope. Next Christmas, maybe.

Ahead of him the road ended in a dirt bank and he pulled in next to Grace's trailer. She was already on the porch waiting for him and he handed her the bottle of wine he'd brought and kissed her lightly on the lips, she was made up, a faint perfume smell.

As he followed her inside he felt as if he was looking at himself from a height, the different parts of him coming out, competing with each other, he decided he would watch and see which one ended up on top— Even Keel or horny old cop. It was warm and he could smell fresh fish cooking, sautéed garlic, bread. Instead of commenting on it, he said:

“I don't know anything more about Billy.” He wasn't sure why he said it. Self- preservation. Even Keel.

She frowned. “I thought we didn't have to talk about that.”

“Well, I'm sure it's on your mind.”

“It is, but…” She smiled at him, forgiving. “Glass of wine?”

In the kitchen he watched her move around, took a piece of Italian bread she'd heated up, buttered it. The outside was crisp and the inside soft and he sat there chewing and happy, feeling himself relax. Then Even Keel started in again:

“I went to visit Isaac English last night, just in case the DA somehow figures out he was with Billy. He's gone, though.”

She looked at him and cocked her head a little. She wasn't sure what to say, she looked like she really didn't want to talk about it.

“He took off Sunday morning and his family hasn't heard from him since.”

“Bud,” she said. “Please?”

“Alright. I'm sorry.”

“Eat some more bread.”

He took another piece and felt guilty, playing games with her, he thought, a game for you but it's not for her. Another part of him said no, she's the one playing games, but he ignored it. He stared at her rear end when she turned around to look for the corkscrew, it was shapely, she'd put on weight but she carried it well, her freckles and delicate skin and gray- blond hair, she looked younger than she was, he decided.

“I can't find the opener,” she said. “Do you want some bourbon?”

He nodded and sat down at the small table and she poured them each two fingers. Doomed. Even Keel takes a torpedo.