The late Dean Trevathan told Pilate about Cordwainer in an offhanded conversation after first sighting the short, stocky, gray little man in the cafeteria. Trevathan recommended then that Pilate give Cordwainer a wide berth, unless Cordwainer appeared to be in the midst of one of those rare months when he was on his meds. “Cordwainer is the classic pain in the ass,” Trevathan had said, his good eye twinkling.
Tenured, privileged, and talented; twice nominated and once a winner of a Hugo award; and thrice nominated for an Edgar, Harley Cordwainer was, at one time, considered a true force in genre fiction. In the 1970s, he was often mentioned in the same breath as Heinlein and Asimov.
Pilate remembered reading Cordwainer’s work. His science fiction was bleak, funny, rarely hopeful, scattered, and marvelous. His mystery novels were stuffed with luxuriant prose and confusing but perfectly entwined plot twists. Young Pilate never would have dreamt he’d actually meet the man, let alone be threatened with a lawsuit by the legendary scribbler.
Pilate asked Trevathan how such a literary luminary had ended up in the smallest town in the world, to which Trevathan merely shrugged and said, “He’s an asshole. Can’t get along with anybody anywhere else. This is the end of the road for him. I doubt he can write anymore either. All he does is talk about his ‘precious,’ which I assume is some manuscript that only exists in his swollen head. Who gives a shit though, as long as his classes are full?”
Pilate figured something had hobbled Cordwainer, like a stone in his shoe along the way to Cross. Perhaps it was the fifth divorce or the three famously unfinished novels and subsequent returned advances. Whatever the reason, once-promising genius Harley Cordwainer limped off the humongous world stage into minuscule Cross, sentencing himself to teaching creative writing and shouting to the heavens about perceived affronts to his character.
“Had enough yet?” Simon said.
Yet? I had enough a long, long time ago.
“Pity, pity!” Simon said.
Shut up.
“Boy, you’re grouchy when you’re a laughingstock.”
Pilate began to formulate a worthy comeback to his own mind, but a man walked in the office before he could conjure one.
“Constable Pilate?” The man was young, maybe thirty, with a crew cut, wide, dark eyes, and pale skin. He was dressed quite casually in a green Army fatigues jacket, jeans, and blue Puma sneakers.
“Yes.” Pilate had seen him around; it would have been odd not to in such a small spot on the map.
“I’m Gary Rich, Cross Township Neighborhood Watch Captain,” he said. “You can call me Gary though.”
“As opposed to?”
“Captain.”
“He looks serious. Oh my God. He is!” Simon said.
“Oh. Well, thank you, Gary. Of course you can call me ‘John,’” Pilate said, gesturing for Neighborhood Watch Captain Gary Rich to take a seat. “What can I do ya for?”
“Stop saying that, you idiot,” Simon said. “It’s as outdated and stupid as this guy’s shoes.”
Rich sat down, reaching simultaneously into his jacket, and removed a small notebook. “Well, now that you are the constable…” He sighed, looking at the ceiling and swallowing hard enough to make his Adam’s Apple protrude. “I didn’t even know the job was open.”
“Why?” Pilate snorted. “You want it?”
Rich’s eyes grew wider. “Really?”
“Kidding, but the seat will probably be vacant a while after a new sheriff is sworn in. That’s assuming the position isn’t abolished.”
“Well, even after the new sheriff comes, shouldn’t they keep the position filled?”
Pilate shrugged. “Take it up with Jeremy Ryder, over at the county office.”
Rich sagged in his chair. “Doesn’t return my calls. See if I’ll vote for him again.” Rich opened his spiral notepad, licked his index finger, and flipped quickly through pages, until he found what he was looking for. “I wanna let you know that neighborhood watch is on the job.”
“That’s great. How many of you are there?”
Rich’s eyes rolled up, looking left. “Oh, there’re two or three… Eight or ten, really, though I handle most of it ‘cause I have the most time.”
“Oh?”
“I’m on disability.” He pointed at corporal’s stripes on his Army jacket sleeve.
“Combat?”
“Well, sort of. I mean, I coulda been shipped out. I was National Guard, but I fell off a ladder while I was painting the barracks, and I severely hurt my back. Uncle Sam didn’t have no use for me then.”
“Well, the important thing is that you served,” Pilate said.
“Did you?”
Pilate shook his head. “No, and I regret it. I wish I’da spent a few years doing my bit. I guess being constable is my contribution. The pay is certainly not any better than the Army.” Pilate attempted a laugh, but it was met by Rich’s unblinking, blank stare.
“You’re sadly contemptible, John,” Simon said.
Rich looked back at his notepad. “Constable, we have some issues that need to be dealt with.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“This should be good,” Simon said. “Need a drink, Johnny boy?”
Rich thumbed a page back, then looked at the notebook again. “Okay. Well, it seems there’s some…harassment going on.”
Pilate leaned forward in his chair, reaching for his notepad and pen. “Go on.”
“Okay, well, I live over on Live Oak and Tenth. You know it?”
Pilate knew it well, for it wasn’t far from the road that led to Monticello Cemetery, up on the hill. Monticello Cemetery was home to the town’s dead, going back nearly 200 years. It was the scene of Pilate’s defeat of Jack Lindstrom, the psychopathic past president of Cross College. So, he nodded.
“Well, here’s the deal. I walk my dog there. Oscar. He’s a wiener dog.”
“Oscar? As in…Oscar Mayer, the wiener-makers? Really? Stop! I-I can’t take it,” Simon mumbled in Pilate’s frontal lobe.
“And…” Pilate prodded, holding his hand to his chin and covering his lips with his finger so a giggle would not escape.
“Well, every day when we get to the corner of the street, right at the stop sign for the last three weeks, I’ve found this.” Rich reached into one of the large outside jacket pockets and pulled out a plastic baggie, then slapped it down on Pilate’s desk.
Pilate picked it up at the corner with two fingers and held it up to the light. Inside the baggie was a crumpled beer can.
“Same cheap brand, always crushed, always left on that corner. There are usually two or three of them, just lying there.”
Pilate carefully laid the baggie-encased can on his desk. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rich asked, incredulous.
Pilate shrugged.
“Harassment, John! Somebody’s leaving these cans there to harass me.”
“John, whoever is paying this guy is brilliant. You’re getting punked,” Simon drawled.
“Well, littering is against code, but I’m not sure it’s harassment.”
“Of course it is,” Rich said. “Ever since I put flyers on the doors in my neighborhood warning of unacceptable behavior, this started.”
“Unacceptable behavior?”
“Yes. After all the violence lately…” He looked away from Pilate, to the can on Pilate’s desk. “You know all about that. But anyway…” He looked back at the constable. “When the sheriff was put out of commission, I stepped up and started the neighborhood watch. I wanted to put everyone on notice that there are statutes against loud music, leaving your trashcans on the curb, parking on the wrong side of the street, and—”
“Littering?”
His head bobbed with excitement. “You see?”
“So you put flyers on doors, warning people that you are watching?”
“Yes. Crime is everyone’s problem, and fighting it is everyone’s job. With no sheriff onboard, so
mebody had to do something. Then, like I said, the very next day, these beer cans started appearing on the corner by my house.”
“And you think it’s a harassment, somebody trying to get back at you for your…crime-fighting efforts?”
“Yes! Somebody is dumping these cans by my lawn, and I want you to help me catch them. I stayed up late last night and the night before, but I didn’t see anybody.”
“Yet the cans were there in the morning?”
“Yes. I…well, I guess I dozed off sometime around eleven,” he said, downcast.
“And what is it that you want me to do?” Pilate asked, making notes.
“Dust for prints,” he said. “I picked up the can with a pencil, through the opening. Ya know, you might even be able to get DNA off the mouth of the can.”
“Cuckoo. Cuckoo,” Simon added.
“Mr. Rich…Gary…” Pilate started.
“Yes?”
“I don’t even have a fingerprinting kit,” Pilate explained, straining not to laugh. “Even if I did, I have no idea how to lift prints, and DNA testing is a very expensive process.”
“Well, I’m a citizen, and my rights are being violated,” Rich said.
“Mr. Rich, you are the victim—and that’s a strong word—of a serial litterer, to be sure. But this is a college town. I suspect it’s a case of students drinking a few beers as they cruise town, then dropping the empties at the stop sign, which just so happens to be your corner.”
“But I—”
Pilate held up a hand. “Let me finish. I bet if you look at every other intersection in town, you’re likely to find similar litter from time to time, possibly even the same brand.”
“So you’re not going to check this out?”
“I will log your complaint and keep an eye out. If you spot the, uh…culprit, get a license plate number and call me. I’ll talk to them.”
“That’s it?” Rich said.
“What else can I do?”
He stood, his face flushed. “Constable, I have to put you on notice right now that you are a major disappointment. Also, since this borders on dereliction of duty, I may run against you for this job when it comes open.”
Pilate stood. “Mr. Rich, I’m doing all I can do within the budget and legal parameters of this job. If you want the job, it’s all yours, as soon as the county commissioners decide to open it up for election. As it stands now, that should be in two years, as I’m finishing a vacated term.”
“John, that’s a bald-faced lie,” Simon said, “but it’s pretty funny.”
“We’ll see about that,” Rich said, walking to the door.
“Captain Rich…”
He turned around, one hand on the doorknob.
“No more flyers putting people on notice, if you please.”
Rich shook his head slowly. “I am responsible for my neighborhood’s safety.”
“Actually, I am. Let me do my job. You can help me by reporting suspicious behavior, but riling up the neighbors won’t do any good.”
“Reporting it? Pssh. If I see those punks, I’m gonna put ‘em under citizen’s arrest,” he said, pointing at the floor.
Pilate raised his voice. “You will do no such thing, Mr. Rich. That is a direct order from your duly appointed peace officer. You are not empowered to enforce laws. You are to report lawbreaking to the sheriff or me. I mean, after we get a new sheriff. Report it to me for now. Do you understand?”
“Fine.” He pivoted on the ball of his foot and stormed out, then slammed the glass door as hard as he could.
“Don’t forget your can.”
Sipping a martini in the moonlight, Pilate leaned against his front door, now horizontal and in his backyard. A cool breeze wafted by. He looked at the house and saw lights on in Peter’s nursery and Kara’s room.
He glimpsed Kate, placing little Peter in his crib, the shadow playing on the wall until she turned off the light. A moment later, Kara’s light went off, the soft glow of her nightlight all that remained.
Pilate took another sip.
“Too much vermouth,” Simon opined. “No Lillet in this wide spot in the road.”
The back door opened quietly, and Kate leaned out, trying to make out if Pilate was in the backyard. She switched on the floodlight, making his eyes contract painfully. She turned the flood off and ambled over to him, wearing a t-shirt she’d picked up in Key West; it said “Beach or Bust” across the front.
“I’ll take bust,” Pilate flirted.
“Ha! That one never gets old. On a stakeout, Officer?” she asked, kissing his cheek.
“Just unwinding at my favorite bar,” he answered.
“Dark out here,” Kate said, kissing him again, this time on the mouth. “You know, it’s better when two people do it.”
He kissed her back. “Sorry, babe.”
“That’s okay.” She picked up his glass and sipped it. “Yuck! Too much vermouth.”
“I know. I was in a hurry. Didn’t want the kids to hear me and try to stay up.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
“Long day?”
“Well…” He sighed. “Let’s just say there’re a lot of interesting folks in this town.”
“You don’t gotta tell me that,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his shoulder. “Have I thanked you lately?”
“For what?”
“For being such a stand-up guy about all this.”
“All of what?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
“You coulda freaked out about losing the book money and having to take this shitty job, but you didn’t.”
“There’s still time.”
She laughed quietly into his neck. “The John Pilate I met last year probably would have. You’ve really changed, John.”
“Is that good? I mean, is it okay?”
“Of course! Why would you even ask that?” She pulled away, searching in the darkness for his eyes. A cloud moved, allowing some moonlight to dance between them.
“Some people don’t like change. They want people they marry or work with or whatever to stay the same. Change scares people.”
She nodded. “I get that, but I love the guy you are now. I don’t think I want the depressed, womanizing, scattered John Pilate back.”
“Some people do,” Simon said.
“You left out entertaining, sexy, and charming.”
“You’re still sexy and charming. You’re just…maturing.”
“What an awful thing to say,” he said in mock apprehension.
“The truth hurts. You’re growing up.”
“Speaking of entertaining…uh, when do you think we’ll get back to that on a regular basis?”
“Let’s see. Peter will graduate high school in seventeen and a half years, and—”
“Stop! It sucks to grow up.”
“Sorry.”
Pilate sipped took another small sip of his drink, then placed the Nick-and-Nora-style martini glass on the bar. “Kate, does it…”
She looked him right in the face. “What?”
“I mean, having kids,” he said. “I just feel like I have to protect them all the time, like all I do is look out for them. You know, like baby-proofing the house and packing throw pillows around the coffee table when Pete’s wallowing around the living room. I just feel like I have to always be here, like I have to make sure they’re safe.”
“That’s just part of being a parent,” she said, chuckling, “and a good one at that.”
“Is it really just that, or do you think it’s some kinda post-traumatic stress thing from all the crap we’ve been through? I mean, I think about those kids constantly. Is that normal?”
She nodded. “Oh yeah. Before I had Kara, somebody told me I’d never have another carefree moment in my life. They were right.”
“That really sucks.” He reached for the martini.
“It’s all right, John. It’s life, and it forces you
to behave and take fewer stupid risks.”
“Yet I’m the dogcatcher,” he said.
“I said take fewer risks, not become a complete bore.”
“A mature dogcatcher? Kate, that’s boring.”
“Well, yeah, maybe a little,” she said, “but I think we’ve all had enough adventure for a while, wouldn’t you say?”
Somewhere in his consciousness, Pilate heard an echo of Simon cackling.
“Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m wearing my boots.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pilate finished his fried eggs and buttered wheat toast, gulped down coffee, and put his dishes in the sink.
In the living room, Peter was nestled on his mother’s chest, drinking a bottle.
“Hey, little man,” Pilate said, kissing them both. “Where’s Kara?”
“Brushing her teeth. Hey, did you go running this morning?”
“Yeah, just a couple miles. The boots make it tough.”
“Ha! Good though. Wish I could. Anyway, Kara missed her ride with the neighbors, so…”
“It’s okay. I’ll drop her off on my way.”
“Process service?” Kate asked, adjusting the burp cloth on her shoulder.
He nodded. “Hey, I get mileage with those, so it’s a banner day.”
Kate smirked. “Have you called Monique lately? Maybe she’s heard something.”
“I’ll make a note,” he said, pinning on his badge.
“Lopsided.”
“God, I hate this thing,” he said, trying to correct it. “Where’s my level?”
“When does Taters get in?”
“I’m picking him up at the airport tomorrow, at ten thirty,” Pilate said. “That’s why I want to get this service out of the way, so I don’t have to screw with it while he’s here.”
Kara bounded downstairs, made a few googly eyes at her little brother, and kissed him and Kate. “Bye-bye!”
“Bye, sweetie. Have a great day,” Kate said.
“C’mon, you little toot,” Pilate said.
“I’m not a little toot, Daddy.” Kara folded her arms and stuck her bottom lip out in a pout.
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