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CHAPTER 11, EXCERPT 1
“Seems like the whole town has come alive,” Waverly said, gazing down the road at the commotion.
The Olds was at the curb on the lakeside of London Road at the back end of a long line of parked cars, nearly two blocks from the Lester River. Rolling down the window, first thing that hit Frank was the sweet sting of smoke from wood-burning fires. Then the smell of fish. Not the stink you got from a fish market but a fresh, moist, rich scent that brought to mind spring and rebirth and the end of winter. Up ahead at the bridge Frank could see cars and headlight beams moving along the pavement, exhaust clouds lingering in the damp air. The city was indeed coming alive, awakened by the ringing of cash register bells, as invading hordes rolled into town with the intent of getting drunk and possibly filling garbage cans full of tiny, tasty fish.
“Fuckin’ people everywhere, man,” Waverly said. Keith had a vague, indistinct, dotted-line look going for him tonight, eyes wide and kind of stare-y, the ligaments in his jaw tight and bouncing, the man holding a can of Old Milwaukee as if it was glued to his hand, third one he’d had since picking up Frank twenty minutes ago. Waverly had explained his condition by saying, “Danny and I got into the coke yesterday after you left and I haven’t been to bed. Danny passed out at his place and I went home, but I was too wired too sleep so I just kept on going.”
Frank felt a growing sense of alarm watching Waverly reach in the pocket of his tan chamois shirt and bring out a joint looked to be the size of a carrot. “We should have a couple of tokes before we go down there,” Waverly said.
“No thanks, man,” Frank said, “I’ll pass. That shit gets me too fucked up.” About to see Judy, Frank didn’t want his eyes getting all goofy, but wouldn’t tell Waverly that.
“No problem, man. How about a toot then?” Keith lifted a brown glass vial with a tiny spoon attached to the cap from his pants pocket and held it out towards Frank. Waverly’s hand was shaking.
This night feels so goddamn sleazy already, Frank thought, why not push it over the top and see what’s on the other side?
But no, not tonight.
Tonight he had all his stop signs in place, the I’m not gonna’s, the shoulds and the shouldn’ts and the vague promises to himself. He wouldn’t get out of control. He’d act respectful and sober. He’d observe. He’d stay aloof and clinical. He was on a mission for the Ford family. It was time to set things straight. Stay above it all. Keep your eyes on the prize. No intoxication. No flirting. No eye fucks.
Keep your goddamn distance, Frank.
“Nah, man, I’ll pass,” Frank said, “that shit makes me nuts. Let’s just get down there and see what they got going. Wonder if there’s any beer?”
“I got a couple left,” Waverly said.
“Warm Old Mil. Mmmmmm.”
Later, looking back, Frank realized that in the back of his mind he’d always known exactly what was happening. Walking down the sidewalk towards the bridge he was like a junkie, an addict telling himself he wouldn’t have the first taste. Putting out all the roadblocks, the rational reasons why he’d keep his hands off the candy and not let his mind drift to that heart-shaped box between the legs of Judy Bruton. But goddamnit, a worm of descent was wiggling and growing in his gut the closer he got to her.
At the top of the Lester River Bridge the fish scent was even stronger, fuller, wetter. Gazing down toward the river mouth from the middle of the concrete-and brick structure, Frank thought the whole scene looked sepia toned, like an old photograph in a museum or an ancient postcard. The recent rains had the Lester up and flowing and the dull shine of street lamps lit the caramel colored water as it rippled and gurgled below him, churning along toward the flat blackness of the Big Lake looming out there in the dark distance like a mystery. Lanterns glowed yellow on the rocky shoreline. Bonfires blazed and crackled, orange flames undulating in the breeze, sparks streaking across the night sky like angry fireflies. Bathed in the glare of high-lumen spotlights, people in flannel shirts and rubber waders were swinging dip nets into the froth. Frank heard shouts and laughter and a boombox pushing out the Hendrix version of “All Around the Watchtower, the occasional scream of mirth joining the scent of freshly opened beers and marijuana smoke in the evening air. Behind him on the bridge, cars crawled along, random jabs of music and voices mixing with the rumble of exhaust. Gazing to his left, Frank saw three guys coming up the slope from the lake carrying a green plastic garbage can full of smelt. He watched them cross the road and lift it into the bed of a rusty maroon pickup. On his right, Waverly was leaning forward, hands resting on the bridge rail.
“It’s a gen-u-ine (saying it like it rhymed with wine) pagan ritual, man,” Keith said.
Frank nodded. “Yep. And if you look over about twenty or thirty yards from the mouth of the river, over on the west bank, you’ll see the unmistakable shape of Daniel Moran, pagan par excellence, although he’d never admit it because of his Catholic upbringing. See him down there? Green fatigue pants, red plaid shirt and red suspenders, holding court like he’s giving a lecture on birding to an Audubon group?” Frank pointed. “See Rockin’ Ricky and Nurse Judy? They’re right there by that fire. Seems that our Dan Boy has rallied.”
“I don’t see them,” Waverly said.
“Over to the right, on the other side of the river. Down close to the lake. See ’em?”
Waverly squinted, scanned the shoreline. “Can’t see ’em. My eyes are all cloudy.”
“Methinks they’ve been cloudy all day,” Frank said. “Along with your mind. Shall we?”
They walked back to the west side of the bridge and took the narrow path down to the beach. As they stepped across beach stones worn smooth by time, Waverly seemed to be finding his second wind. Frank was still searching for his first. Gazing across the river, Frank watched shadows bending upward on the concave under-wall of the bridge, odd black shapes rising and falling and stretching in the flickering firelight. He was sick with anticipation, a heavy ration of guilt mixed in. Like waiting on Christmas morning to open presents you knew were stolen. Ah, but what the hell, they were almost to the party. Anticipation anxiety would be over soon.
(To be continued)
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