Smith Henderson - Fourth of July Creek

“When? Wait. How?”

“Took a few weeks, but they eventually came down the mountain to get supplies.”

“And?”

“A couple agents pretended to be broke down on the side of the road when Pearl and his wife were driving into town together.”

“Were you there?”

“In Spokane for the meeting with the US attorney, yes.”

Pete shook his head and scoffed.

“This explains a lot.”

“About?”

“About why Pearl is so paranoid.”

Pinkerton sighed. He leaned forward and spoke low.

“Look, the shotguns were small fry. The FBI had never even heard of him. And we all at the ATF knew the only thing he’d possibly be good for was getting us near some real bad guys.”

“After everything that happened, you really thought he’d just turn informant?”

“When we got them to Spokane, we laid out the charges and what they could do to make them go away.” Pinkerton palmed the table, as though he were spreading relevant documents for Pete to see. “Most people take the deal. But they wouldn’t play ball. They posted bail and blew off their lawyer and their court date. They didn’t understand what a big deal this wasn’t , how easy it would’ve been—”

“So why not leave them alone?”

“Are you deaf? These are federal charges. The US Marshals are serving the bench warrant. And it’s not like Pearl is standing down. Right after this, he sent a letter threatening the president. A month before the president was shot . And dozens more threatening letters. Governors. The Fed chairman. The chief justice of the Supreme Court. Ranting about currency, and then these coins start showing up? Shit, Snow. You got the Secret Service involved now, as agents of the Treasury and as security for the president. Even if he wanted to, Pearl can’t get off the radar.”

Pinkerton tore his napkin in half, seemed amused that he’d done so, and set it on his plate.

“He doesn’t want to get off the radar, does he?” Pinkerton asked.

Pete rubbed his eyes, then laid them dully on Pinkerton.

“You could help bring him in,” Pinkerton said.

“Pearl doesn’t trust me.”

“He gave you all those coins. To distribute, right? He trusts you that much.”

“He sees my instrumentality , he says.”

“Did you take him to Reno?”

“No.”

“Did you see him in Indiana?”

“I was looking for my daughter there. And in Reno too.”

“ Your daughter.”

“Yes, she ran away. The coins were just… there in my car. I dropped some in the machines for the hell of it. Or I don’t know why.”

“Can someone verify you were looking for her there?”

“Lovejoy. Washoe County Department of Family Services. Jenny, I think.”

Pinkerton got out a pen and wrote the name down on half of his napkin.

“Okay, I’ll check it out.”

“You can do whatever the fuck you want. This has shit to do with me.”

“But you see what’s coming, right? You see how bad this can all turn out.”

“Yes.”

“How are Pearl’s kids?”

“I’ve only been with the middle boy. Benjamin. I haven’t even seen the wife or the other children,” Pete said.

“You haven’t?” Pinkerton asked.

“No.”

“You don’t know where they are?”

“Pearl says they’re away. Alive. Somewhere else.”

“That’s weird.”

“Why?”

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Is there a single thing that’s normal about this? Pearl already thinks the whole government is one huge conspiracy to fuck him over. And how’s that not what we’re doing right now? You want me to help you and the US Marshals and Secret Service? Christ, can we really call him paranoid at this point?”

Pete put on his coat.

“He’s around the fucking bend,” Pinkerton said. “Hiding up in those mountains—”

“Who wouldn’t be? You put him up to committing a federal crime? You pretend to be his friend and then you arrest him and threaten him with prison if he doesn’t inform on guys he doesn’t even know?”

Pete slid out of his chair and stood. Pinkerton grabbed Pete’s forearm.

“Look, I’ll be the first to admit that this has gotten out of hand. I’m trying to avoid trouble—”

Pete pulled his arm away.

“My whole job is about helping people avoid trouble. That’s what I was trying to do today. Keep somebody out of trouble. And after what’s happened to me, it’s pretty easy to see Pearl’s side of things.” Pete zipped his jacket. “So here’s a novel fucking idea: drop it. Leave him the hell alone.”

“Impossible. Where do you think you’re going?”

Pete threw wide his arms, and Pinkerton looked around the restaurant at the people who had ceased eating, who were now watching the two of them.

“If you’re gonna arrest me and charge me with something, then let’s go back to that little makeshift jail of yours and I’ll wait for my lawyer. In fact, I can’t wait to get in front of a Rimrock County jury.”

Pinkerton laced his fingers together, sniffed, and glared at the table.

“I’m gonna take your posture as a sign that I’m free to go,” Pete said.

Then Pete announced to the room that the man sitting there was an ATF agent named Jim Pinkerton who had agreed to let him go. Pete said he just wanted to have witnesses that he wasn’t being charged with anything.

When he got outside it was full dark and he was a few moments in the parking lot looking for a car that was probably still in front of Debbie’s house in Tenmile if it hadn’t been towed to God knows where.

And Katie. God knows where too.

How did they get by?

They bummed rides to places where they stayed. They bunked with a guy named Ira in Tacoma who tried to feel Rose up and she let him because she’d had a lot to drink, but then didn’t let him when she was tired and crawled into the blankets next to Pomeroy and Yolanda. When it didn’t rain, they slept in a tent that Pomeroy kept in another bus station locker with his outdoor gear.

Did it always rain?

Yes.

How much did they get by on?

Nickels a day. Potatoes they cooked over small fires in Viretta Park that they were careful could not be seen from the street. They got by by being on the move at dusk and tucking into some spot or other that Pomeroy knew about, someplace where he had secreted a blanket and some cans in a plastic sack. A condemned apartment in Medina, a bridge in Clyde Hill, an overpass on Mercer Island. They got by on Pike Street simply sitting in front of a hat.

Dine-and-dashing. They took turns: Yo would eat and then break for it and, if necessary, Pomeroy would obstruct the cashier charging out after her.

Yo’s got short legs, but she’s quick as duck shit , Pomeroy said.

That was how they celebrated her birthday. They ate. They ran.

What about when Yolanda got pinched shoplifting gloves from the Bon?

It was a lucky thing, eventually. She was assigned a social worker, a guy named Norman Butler who wore a porkpie hat and smoked thin cigars. Because she’d turned seventeen, she was eligible for a program that got her an apartment. Pomeroy was reluctant, but when he found out they could get a bigger place if he signed up too, he did. Norman told them they’d have to take classes for job training. They said, yeah yeah, sure thing, Normal. They called him Normal to his face.

Rose cried over it. They were leaving her out. She was nearly frantic when they didn’t let her help move their few things in case the social worker came by. Normal wouldn’t understand their arrangement, Pomeroy and two gals. They were giving Rose the heave-ho.