Cusack turned, and his face fell at the sight of the local crime boss. “I see,” Cusack said. “You’ve got him well taken care of with the Jameson’s.” He smiled. “Luv, would you mind checking the dryer? Need some fresh linens in the Dylan Thomas room, and maybe turn down The Elders on the stereo? It’s a wee bit loud.”
Marcy nodded, ran a hand through her crimson mane, and smiled at Thurman on her way to the back. “Come stay with us sometime…and bring the wife.”
“Great idea,” Thurman said, rising slightly in his seat to note her departure. “Lovely lady.”
Cusack scanned the bar, then looked at Thurman. “Thanks. And what can I do for you, Mr. Thurman?” he asked, though it sounded more like “Turman” when it squeezed through Cusack’s lips.
“Well, seeing as how you recently visited my establishment, I thought it only right to visit yours,” he said.
“Well, I had a little business with one of your customers. You’re welcome to finish your drink in peace,” Cusack said, stepping away.
“I’m also here for a little chat, Mr. Cusack.”
“I believe we’ve chatted more than enough already,” Cusack said, folding his meaty forearms across his chest.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Cusack. Let’s be polite with one another.”
Cusack nodded. “What do ya want to discuss?” He looked behind him, through the door, to make sure Marcy wasn’t near.
“Your bid on Mostek’s store.”
“That again, Mr. Thurman?” Cusack narrowed his eyes. “Like I already told ya, if you wanna buy that property, all you’ve gotta do is outbid me. I offered more than a fair price. Just ask Mr. Nemec.”
“I don’t want to ask Mr. Nemec. See, I do the telling, not the asking, and I’m telling you this in plain American English so you’ll understand. I don’t want to outbid you. To do that would mean being more generous than you to the widow Mostek. That would cost me money, Mr. Cusack. Money I don’t have any desire to spend right now.”
Cusack shrugged. “And what makes you tink today’s answer will be different than last week’s?”
“Look, I can make it worth your while to cooperate,” Thurman said, his voice calm and gentle as he took another sip of whiskey.
Cusack picked up a bar towel. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’m prepared to make a little problem of yours go away.”
“Problem? What problem is that?”
“A $25,000 problem.”
Cusack looked into Thurman’s dead eyes, then nodded. “I see. So you met Jackie the Crow?”
“The Crow?” Thurman chuckled. “Well, I know of an Irish fella named Jackie, who came into my place saying he’s got some pricy beef with you. Hmm. Or would that be corned beef and cabbage?”
Cusack laughed, albeit a forced chuckle. “Jackie is an old friend. He’s also a scammer. Got nothing I want.”
“Well, I’m just saying, if you withdraw your bid on Mostek’s store, I can make sure he doesn’t scam you. Matter fact, I can make sure your old friend doesn’t pester you at all.”
“Just stop right there, Mr. Thurman. Jackie and I… We have our differences, but I wouldn’t wanna see Jackie end up like Perry Mostek.”
“Like Perry?” Thurman’s eyebrows rose, and his jaw clenched. “Just what’s that mean?”
“Well, he’s gone and all, ain’t he?” Cusack said. “Mostek just disappeared, like Hoffa or sometin’.”
Thurman laughed. “You oughtta be very careful with that colorful imagination of yours. Perry shot the sheriff and took off. It’s simple as that.”
“So you say,” Cusack said. “So you say. Some say he’s dead, but others say certain…forces took care of him after he made a hash of the John Pilate situation.”
Thurman glanced around the bar. “Look, we’re gonna be interrupted anytime now, either by your lovely wife or some oak tree fetishist. Let’s cut the bullshit, okay, Paddy? Mostek’s gone. His place is for sale, and I want it at list price. Play ball and withdraw your bid, I’ll see to it this Jackie Crow guy is, um…deported. Then I’ll leave you and your family alone.”
“What? Leave my family alone?” Cusack’s eyes widened. He leaned in. “You mean the way you left John Pilate’s family alone?” Cusack asked, his face red with fury.
Thurman stood, knocked back the whiskey, and placed the shot glass upside down on the bar.
Reflexively, Cusack grasped the glass and started to drag it across the bar toward him.
Thurman clamped down on Cusack’s hand, then squeezed it until the glass broke, sending shards painfully into the flesh of the Irish barkeep’s hand.
Cusack flinched but did not cry out.
“You cut yourself. You should be more careful,” Thurman said, releasing Cusack’s bloody hand. He smiled and walked out into the night.
Rocking in Kate’s bentwood rocker, Pilate held the warm, sleeping swaddle of blankets and baby to his chest. It was a feeling of contentment he scarcely felt anywhere else.
“Not even on a fishing boat in the Gulf?” Simon snarked.
As if on cue, the telephone rang.
Pilate flinched, hoping the blare of the ringer wouldn’t wake baby Peter Pilate from his slumber. “Shh, shh,” Pilate cooed to his son.
He heard Kate pick up the phone in the kitchen and make muffled greetings.
Pilate figured it was his folks, checking on a date when the Pilate family of southeast Nebraska could make the journey to the Pilate family of central Oklahoma. They’d been after him for weeks to get down there so they could see that baby; every time, Pilate bit his tongue, resisting the Simonized impulse to quip that the road worked both ways.
The truth was that Pilate just didn’t feel like going home. Though Cross Township was alien and far from what he would describe as home, he felt his home state was also a place where his detachment had transformed to an illogical resentment.
Whether it was fair to say so or not, Pilate believed that place of his upbringing had rejected him; it was the deathbed of his career, a marriage, and, for a long while, his hope. It was his literal birthplace and the home of his family, which he loved somewhat more fondly from a distance, but it was also a tomb for so many things he’d tried to bury. It was also the birthplace of Simon, and John Pilate was now forking over $150 an hour to try and rid himself of the scourge that was his alter-ego.
Kate appeared in the doorway. “John, it’s Jordan.”
“Jordan?” For a moment, he blanked. “Jordan Malley?” She had never called before. Hell, she hardly ever spoke.
Kate nodded hurriedly. “It’s Taters. He had a heart attack.”
The five feet between the rocker and the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen was enough of a commute for Pilate to experience the emotions of shock, disbelief, and dread. Mere weeks earlier, he’d lost his friend and mentor Peter Trevathan, and Taters was the closest thing Pilate had left to a best friend. “No,” he said, matter-of-factly and definitively, as if drawing a line in the sand and daring the universe to cross it.
He handed Peter to Kate and took the phone. “Jordan, is Taters okay? How bad is it?”
“John, he’s all right, but…” Jordan’s normal reserve of cool was running low, and her voice cracked as it trailed off.
“But what?”
“It’s so scary, John. He’s awake and responsive, and they say it was only a minor attack, a warning, but they’re concerned about his heart.”
“Concerned?”
“Yeah. There’s somethin’ not quite right about it.”
“What? It’s blocked, right? That’s serious but fairly routine,” Pilate said. “Surely they can fix that.”
“Well…not exactly,” she said, regaining her composure.
“What do you mean?”
Pilate heard a voice in the background, asking for the phone.
“John, it’s me, man.”
“Taters? What the hell?”
“I had a minor heart episode, that’s all,” he said, in a voice that s
ounded like a recording of a recording. “I’m okay.”
“Where did it happen?”
“On the TenFortyEZ, out in the Gulf, not too terribly far from that Bigfoot sighting.” Taters snickered about the secret he and Pilate had sworn they would never reveal, on penalty of imprisonment by the Feds. “Had two little fillies out there fishin’. We hauled in a massive AJ, and I felt a pain, a pretty nasty one in my chest, like somebody shoved the Goodyear blimp down there. I had one of the gals call in a mayday. Coasties came out, and I was in a comfy bed at Lower Keys Med Center within an hour. That was when the fun began—needles and pokes and tests and what have you.”
“So you actually had a heart attack?” Pilate looked at Kate, who was holding Peter tightly, with a look of concern frozen on her face.
“Well, not exactly,” Taters mumbled. “It was a… Honey, what did they say?”
Jordan said something unintelligible to Taters.
“They did a scan and found out I have an alien heart.” Taters was silent for two seconds, then started laughing until he coughed, a cough reminiscent of the wheezing croops Pilate’s late friend Peter Trevathan frequently exhibited in the months before lung cancer took his life.
“Alien heart?” Pilate asked.
“Okay, here’s the deal. Some cardiologist came in, a fella named Petals.”
Jordan corrected him.
“Patelas? Yeah that. So anyway, this fella Patelas tells me that in twenty-five years of practice, he’s never seen a heart like mine.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Pilate said, pacing.
“I have extra arteries and veins and stuff. It’s called collateral circulation. See, I had a widowmaker goin’ on. My main artery was 100 percent blocked for quite sometime. That was what killed that Russert fella on Press the Face.”
“Good Lord,” Pilate said.
“Anyway, the doc gave me some literature about it. Honey, hand me that… No, that, the one Patelas left. A kneecap? Huh? Oh. Okay, Patel. Just give me… Thanks.” He sighed as if the muddled conversation had winded him like a marathon. “My glasses?” Taters cleared his throat. “Thanks. Okay, let’s see what this says. ’The heart has the ability to create collateral circulation, new vessels that help to nourish the myocardium when a blockage or a heart attack creates inadequate blood flow.’ There ya go. I’ve got extra veins and stuff, basically a work-around for my heart, like a built-in cardiovascular detour.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Pilate said.
“Yeah, I’d be a goner if it weren’t for that alien blood flow. I was doing pretty well up till a couple weeks ago, when I started getting chest pains. I thought it was just gas, but apparently, it wasn’t.”
“The widowmaker?”
“No. That was the collateral vessel, the work-around.” He lowered his voice. “It’s getting blocked, and if it gets blocked 100 percent too, that’s it. Pfft. Kobayashi Maru.”
“So what now?”
“Well, the doc gave me some nitro pills and some Crestor and some other kinda high-priced prescription Drano to try and get rid of the blockage,” he said. “They want me to try their little cocktail for a couple weeks, see if it does any good. I’m not in immediate danger, but I’ve got some decisions to make.”
Pilate exhaled, feeling as if he’d been holding his breath for a full five minutes. “Okay. And what are these decisions?”
“Jordan, honey, could you get me a Modelo?”
“No.”
Pilate couldn’t make out all of Jordan’s words, but that refusal came across loud and clear.
“Okay, fine. Juice will be great, long as it’s cold. Yeah, that. At least it looks like beer.” After a short scuffle, Taters spoke back into the phone. “John, you there?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, she’s outta the room. Here’s the deal. They’re putting me on the meds for two weeks. If the blockage on my alien vein don’t clear up enough, they want to try and push a stent or two up there.”
“Well, stents are pretty safe. Why not do that right away? Why wait?”
Taters cleared his throat. “Because of the way my heart is made…well, inserting a stent could rupture the extra vein. They’d have to have a cardiac team ready to crack my chest and do a bypass right then and there.”
“Oh jeez,” Pilate whispered, leaning against the doorjamb, his eyes looking into his backyard, though not focusing on anything in particular.
“I don’t want my chest cracked.”
“Who would?” Simon said.
“But that’s a maybe, not a certainty, right?”
“Right, but the upshot is, it could easily kill me. That’s the Taters Malley theory anyway.”
“I understand. So what are you gonna do?”
“Well, I figure I’ll get out of this bed tomorrow, do a charter this weekend…”
“You most certainly will not!” Jordan said, full-throated. “Here. Drink this.”
“John? Jordan again.”
“I figured.”
“He needs to get some rest, get away from stress,” she said.
“Okay. I’ll call back later.”
“That’s not what I mean. He needs to get away from here, away from Key West and that godforsaken boat of his. As long as he’s here, all he’ll think about is trolling around that damn Gulf.”
“Honey, please,” Taters said.
“Okay, so what are you going to do?”
“I’m not really sure yet, but how much does it cost to ship a fisherman to you via UPS?”
CHAPTER TEN
Once Jordan assured him that with medication and a light schedule Taters would be in no danger traveling to the middle of America, Pilate enthusiastically embraced the notion. Taters complained about losing revenue and closing down his business for a few weeks, but his protests were as shallow as low tide.
“Well, at least now I can finally get a look at that crazy town you’re always going on about,” Taters said. “Besides, I miss your sweet Kate and your babies.”
Jordan planned to send Taters along a couple days later. She would stay behind to close up the boat and office, then join them in a week or so. Until then, Taters would have the Pilate family guestroom to himself, along with all the peace and quiet a small town, a seven-year-old, and a practically newborn infant could offer.
“Taters, it’ll be our pleasure to have you,” Pilate said into the phone.
“Is the missus okay with this?”
Kate smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
“If she isn’t, I don’t know what she’s grinning about. I assume that means she’ll be happy to see you and have me out of her hair while we do guy stuff.”
“Yep,” she said, then took fussy Peter upstairs.
“John,” Taters said, his voice serious and low, “I’m okay. Really, man.”
“Shit, Taters, I know that. I just have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you drink beer?”
“Do fish screw in the Gulf?”
“Cool. Well, call me when you get your flight all set.”
“Okay, pal…and, John…”
“Yeah?”
“Please tell me you have an ocean somewhere near your house.”
“We have a pond a few acres in, and there’s a river. Nearest lake’s an hour away. Nobody here has even seen an ocean, except on Baywatch or Jaws.”
“Crap.”
Pilate busied himself finishing up the Frontdoor Backyard Bar. He sunk six-by-sixes in Quikrete and made sure they were level, but he needed help hauling the heavy oak door up on top of the posts.
“Call Riley Pierson,” Kate volunteered. Even if she was so inclined, she couldn’t possibly participate in any hard manual labor, in light of her recent C-section.
“Pierson’s in town?” After graduation, Riley had moved to Lincoln and taken a job at a financial planning firm.
“Yup,” she said. “I saw his mom at the gas station. He’s here for the wee
kend. Oh, and I’ve got some tiki lights in the attic. I’ll get them out.”
Riley Pierson arrived twenty minutes after Pilate called. Apparently, the bright lights of Lincoln had made Cross Township hopelessly boring, and any distractions were welcomed.
“Hey, Nebraska. What ya been up to?” Pilate asked.
“Did a little hunting with Dad,” he said, rubbing his cheek.
“Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re a dead-eye shot, won the Nebraska State Shooting Contest or something, right? Isn’t that why the guys call you ‘Nebraska’?”
“Yeah, at first it was the Nebraska Kid, but Nebraska for short. But you wouldn’t know it by the way I performed this morning,” he said. “Didn’t hit a damn thing.”
“Everybody has an off day, right? How’s Abbey?” Abbey and Riley had been Pilate’s students, and, notwithstanding Abbey’s longstanding crush on Pilate, the pair eventually started dating.
“She’s good,” Riley said, grunting as he helped Pilate lift the heavy door up onto the posts.
“Okay. Just hold that there while I screw in the brackets,” Pilate said, ducking under the door with his electric screwdriver. Once it was horizontal, it looked like some semblance of a bar. “She’s still teaching, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Riley said. “Elementary school.”
“And junior high in the same building, as I recall, but Abbey’s teaching first grade?”
“Yup.”
The screwdriver worked the screws into the old wood. The door squealed as if it was being stabbed; the screwdriver wheezed to sink the screws.
“So, how are you guys coping with you being an hour away?”
“Well, uh…” Riley said. “Screws goin’ in?”
“Yep,” Pilate said, “as good as can be expected.”
“We’re coping okay.”
“Good. Please tell her hi from me.”
“Huh? Don’t you see her? I mean, with Kara going to school there and all and you being the new sheriff and all, I thought you might see her around town?”
“Not much,” Pilate said, “Kara’s in Mrs. Molloy’s class, and it’s constable.”
“Huh?”
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