Straw Man

by Gerry Boyle

  I looked for Victor, found him standing at the edge of the group. He was holding a beer to his chest like someone would try to steal it. The can, reflected in the fire, was blue. Bud Ice.

  There was the flare of a lighter, a flame in front of a guy’s face. He puffed, passed the joint to the guy next to him. That guy, baseball cap on backwards, took a long toke and offered the joint to Abram. I could see him hesitate, heard the first guy say, “Come on, Amish. It ain’t gonna kill ya.”

  “It’s the sacred weed, Amish,” the other guy shouted. “Toke up.”

  Abram pulled back for a moment, eyed the joint, then tentatively reached out and took it. He held it awkwardly in front of him for a moment, waved a hand through the smoke.

  “Come on, Amish,” the same guy said. “It’s natural. God made reefer, dude.”

  Abram suddenly lifted the joint to his lips and inhaled. The joint glowed and then he coughed and a cloud of smoke billowed out of him, the group guffawing. “Amish is stoked,” somebody shouted. Abram took another toke, and this time didn’t cough. He offered the glowing joint to Victor, but Victor shook his head and took a step back. Abram blew out a cloud of smoke and it hung in the damp air. He took another drag and handed the joint back.

  The girls were dancing now, moving like wraiths in the firelight. One put her hands on the shoulders of another and they fell in, snaking their way toward the guys like it was a wedding reception. Miriam was fourth in line, and when she passed close to the fire I saw her face, happy and excited.

  So this was the other world.

  When the girls reached the guys, the line fell apart and a couple of the guys started dancing with the girls. Some of the girls knew the words to the song and were singing along. One of the singers slipped her sweatshirt off and swung it around her head. Miriam was laughing, like the whole thing was wonderful and amazing.

  A guy walked up to her and handed her a beer. She opened it and drank. The guy tapped cans with her and stayed there, and they started to talk.

  Voices behind me.

  I turned slowly to see three guys coming up the path. As they moved into the light, I saw it was Semi. With him were two African-American guys. Semi had a can of Bud in one hand, the rest of the six-pack in the other. The other guys were carrying liquor bottles. Absolut.

  They were wearing sweatshirts, one red, one black, hoods up. Brims of baseball caps stuck out from under the hoods. The taller guy was wearing white basketball shoes, bright in the dim light.

  “Whoa,” he said. “Buncha white people dancing around a fire in the woods? What’s this shit? The Ku Klux fucking Klan?”

  They all laughed, the guy going on.

  “Man, this ain’t a party. Yo, this is a bunch of devil worshippers. What do you do up here in fucking Maine? Sacrifice fucking animals?”

  Semi laughed, slapped the guy on the shoulder.

  “Just chillin’ in the woods, bro,” he said. “Crank up the tunes, have a few beers, smoke a little weed.”

  “Yo, these bugs is in my face,” the smaller guy said, as they passed to my right.

  “What’s the matter with you Maine people?” the bigger guy said. “Never heard of fucking houses? They got bears out here? What kinda party’s that, you might get eaten by a bear. Or a mountain lion. You got mountain lions out here?”

  Everybody laughed. Semi handed the two of them beers, said, “Boys, this is Trigger and AJ, for Air Jordans. Trigger is what he pulls.”

  He turned to the group. “Trigger and AJ, this is the boys.”

  Raised beers, a couple of joints, someone saying, “Yo, dude.”

  And then they moved to the other side of the fire, out of the smoke, a couple of guys coming up to give Semi a fist bump, Semi making more introductions.

  Rednecks, meet the gangstas. One part of Semi’s world, meet the other.

  I watched for a few more minutes, Semi’s Boston friends circulating, the bigger guy gravitating toward the girls, the braver girls sidling up, Miriam and the others hanging back. I heard the bear line again, more laughter as I turned away, eased my way through the trees. I was back on the path when I heard someone call.

  “Hey, you.”

  I turned. Three guys were trotting toward me from the clearing. I stopped, stood my ground. They slowed as they approached, the one who had handed Abram the joint, two more just behind him.

  “Who the hell are you?” the first guy said.

  “You a cop?” one of the others said. “ ’Cause we got permission to be here. My uncle owns this land, the whole hill.”

  “Not a cop,” I said. “I know Abram. I gave him a ride.”

  “And then you were watching? You some friggin’ creeper?”

  More people coming down the path, Semi with them, not the black guys.

  “I wanted to make sure they were all right,” I said.

  “What, like you’re the freakin’ chaperone at the freakin’ school dance,” the stoner guy said. “Like we’re gonna hurt your little Amish friends?”

  Now another four guys were on us, and they formed a circle, me in the center. Semi saw me, said, “Hey, I know you.”

  “How you doing?” I said.

  “Who’s he?” somebody said. “A cop?”

  “He’s a reporter,” Semi said, slurring. “But he works in the woods. His buddy busted my friend Billy’s arm.”

  To me he said, “What the hell you doing here?”

  “He said he brought the Amish up. Wanted to make sure they were okay.”

  Semi looked at me more closely.

  “How do you know them?”

  “Same way I know you. Work.”

  “I think he’s a cop,” the stoner said.

  “Let’s beat the shit out of him,” a big curly-haired guy said.

  “Let’s bring him up to the fire,” one guy said. “Drop some hot coals down his pants. That’ll get him talkin’.”

  I shook my head. “All good ideas, boys. If you want to end up doing seven to ten.”

  They looked at me, the bearded guy recovering first.

  “Who’s gonna arrest us?” he said. “You?”

  I tensed to run, located a tree limb on the ground that might inflict some damage. I remembered Clair’s advice on hand-to-hand combat: Number one, always stay on your feet. Number two, go for the eyes.

  Semi turned. The rest of the group was watching from the clearing, his city friends standing way in the back. They made no move to approach. I could see Abram and Victor, but not Miriam. Semi was looking to the Boston guys like a quarterback waiting for the play from the sidelines.

  One of the guys, AJ, the bigger one, shook his head. Semi seemed to freeze. Turned back to me.

  And smiled.

  “Listen, dude,” he said. “No problem. Bygones be like bygones and all that. Thanks for giving my man Amish a lift. I got held up, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “And that thing in the woods, that was, like, getting off on the wrong foot. Billy, he gets a little hotheaded, is all. I mean, none of it should have happened. We all just oughta move on.”

  He held out his hand, no fist bump for the old guy. I hesitated, then reached out and we shook. His hand was big, with long fingers, and his grip was strong. We gave it two shakes and separated.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Just having a few beers, chillin’,” Semi said.

  “Right.”

  “So we’ll catch you later.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Small town.”

  He turned away. The others looked disappointed that there was no fight, not even an argument. I turned away and they all did, too. I started down the trail, using my phone to light the way. Then I stopped and, standing in the dark with the mosquitoes buzzing around me, texted Roxanne.

  Got held up. Home in 15.

  And as I walked back to the truck, I ran over it all again.

  Semi the peacemaker. And a drunk Semi at that. What, had he taken Welt’s training? This was a guy who tr
ied to bring a shotgun to a fistfight. Who actually pulled the trigger. When had he turned reasonable?

  I was coming out of the woods when it clicked.

  I’d been given the bum’s rush because a fight would have drawn attention to his guests. A fight could have brought the cops, if I survived and called 911. And Semi didn’t want cops. His city friends didn’t either; they’d hung back as far as they could.

  Were they up here to pick up a load of guns? If so, I’d bet their instructions didn’t include partying with the locals. But the locals included the guy who was a key part of their operation. Had they met Abram before? Had he met them? If he connected them with the guns, the selling-to-hunters cover would be blown. Abram, I hoped, would want out.

  I came out of the woods, walked to my truck, unlocked it, and got in. I fished the Glock out from under the seat and laid it down beside me. When I hit the headlights, I saw cars and trucks poking out of the woods, all older, beat-up. A new Toyota 4Runner, black with orange New York plates—the VIP guests’ ride. A white van parked on the other side of the road, listing in the ditch.

  I pulled out, drove slowly past it. There was nobody showing at the wheel. The sign on the door: A & G PLUMBING SUPPLY.

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  The ATF agents, tracking Semi and his buddies. What did that mean for Abram? It all flashed through my mind: Abram the Mennonite up on federal gun charges. Abram in the newspaper, the Mennonite doing the perp walk. Abram in jail, then in federal prison.

  A crisis of faith? The least of his problems.

  I slowed a quarter-mile down the road and pulled over, shut off the lights. Could I bushwhack back to the trail, get up there in time to warn him? If he was buying guns for gangs, did he deserve to be warned at all?

  I pulled back onto the road. Did a U-turn, lights still off. Eased back the way I had come. A hundred yards behind the van, I let the truck roll into the ditch and stop. As I watched, someone got out of the van on the passenger side and came around the back. Ramos or O’Day? The figure crossed the road and moved into the woods beside Semi’s truck, then to the Toyota. He disappeared for a minute, maybe two. Then he came out, crossed the road, and got back into the van.

  The brake lights flared red. The headlights came on. The van pulled out and started up the road, headed south. I counted to fifty and followed.

  The television was on in our bedroom, a blue-gray glow behind the curtain. There was light showing through to the front hall, but it was the kitchen light. Roxanne was in bed. Sophie was asleep. Louis was . . .

  Standing at the rear of the truck when I shut off the motor. I saw him in the side mirror, an assault rifle at his side, muzzle pointed at the ground. I got out as Clair came out of the cedars at the side of the shed, a shotgun in the crook of his arm like a shepherd’s staff.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. “How’s everything?”

  “Quiet,” Louis said. “But it’s early.”

  “I can take over now,” I said.

  “No, you can’t,” Louis said.

  I looked at him, mildly offended.

  “It’s okay, McMorrow,” he said. “I can’t write a newspaper story, but I can sure as hell do this.”

  “Not bad considering your training,” Clair said.

  Louis smiled.

  “Damn short-timer Marine,” he said.

  “So,” Clair said to me. “What’s going on outside the wire?”

  We moved away from the driveway to the back lawn, away from Sophie’s bedroom window. Standing in the darkness, stars dim behind the haze, I told them the story, from the three Mennonites on the roadside to the ATF.

  “Your kid’s in trouble,” Louis said.

  “Sounds to me like they’re tightening the noose,” Clair said.

  “Setting the hooks,” Louis said.

  “He’s got one chance,” Clair said. “Go in and tell the whole story.”

  “Before he gets scooped up, too,” Louis said. “Four a.m., kicking doors in.”

  I thought of the Bishop, lying there in bed, knowing at that moment that all his prayers had been for naught.

  “He didn’t know what he was getting into,” I said.

  “He’ll have to say that,” Clair said. “Sit down with the recorder running and tell the whole story, start to finish. Full disclosure.”

  “ATF, they think he’s trying to hide something, they’ll come down on him like a ton of bricks,” Louis said. “Feds, they do that. Might makes right.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said. “I’ll go find him in the morning.”

  “What do you think they were doing with the cars?” Clair said.

  “Tracking. Listening. Both,” I said.

  “Building their case,” Louis said. “Make it so airtight at this level that the Maine guys flip, nail the Massachusetts side, get somebody down there to trade the homicide for two, three years reduced.”

  We looked at him.

  “My dad was a deputy US attorney,” Louis said. “Before he went private. Still wondering where I went wrong.”

  There was a long pause, the three of us standing there on the grass, crickets chirping in the brush, something rustling in the trees.

  “The kid,” Louis said.

  “Abram,” I said.

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Probably still at the party.”

  “Get up early, these farmers?” Louis said.

  “Very,” I said. “Work to do.”

  “When you go talk to him, I’d like to go. Maybe I can talk sense into him, growing up with this stuff.”

  “I’ll go along,” Clair said.

  “Maybe take Louis’s Jeep? The Bishop, he knows my truck.”

  “Deal,” Louis said.

  “Once Roxanne and Sophie are at school,” I said.

  “Done,” Clair said, and he and Louis turned away and started walking carefully, in different directions, toward the black wall of the woods. I went back to the truck, took out the guns, and went in the house. A single light was on in the kitchen, the counter wiped, dishes put away, Sophie’s lunchbox set out, ready to be filled in the morning.

  I walked up the stairs, poked the bedroom door open. Roxanne was in bed, the television off. I stood and listened and heard nothing, no breathing, no sounds of sleep.

  “Hey,” I said.

  No response. I moved closer, my heart starting to race. Could they have . . .

  “Hi,” Roxanne said, her voice coming from the shadows.

  “You asleep?”

  “Not quite.”

  “How was the night? How was Sophie?”

  “Fine. Tired. A long day.”

  I could see her now, the blanket pulled up under her chin, dark hair against the pillowcase. That image locked on to other associations: Roxanne with her head thrown back as we made love, her expression of joy and love and lust. It seemed like years ago.

  “Sorry to take off.”

  “It’s all right. I was working anyway.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “Fine.”

  “Ready for the presentation?”

  “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

  We.

  A pause, and I said, “You know the Mennonite guy. Abram.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s in trouble.”

  I told her about the party, the ATF stakeout.

  “He’s in too deep,” I said.

  “I don’t think you should have gone there,” Roxanne said.

  “I wanted to make sure they were okay.”

  “Yeah, well, just make sure you don’t get swept up in it. All this gun stuff.”

  “It’s for a story.”

  “It’s the feds,” Roxanne said. “My experience with them—taking a child across state lines, human trafficking—they suck everybody up like a vacuum cleaner. Let the minor players plead out later.”

  “I’m not any kind of player,” I said.

  “You’ve got a family to support.”

  “
I know that. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Trying to save this kid from himself?” she said. “It’s his problem.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I said.

  “It never is with you, Jack. I just wish you’d walk away, for once. Think of yourself. Think of us, me and Sophie.”

  “I am but Abram’s a good guy. He really is. He’s just naive, got caught up with the wrong people. Think of where he’s coming from, how he’s been raised. And then he’s thrown into the outside world, his whole world the Bishop and this little community and then there’s somebody like Semi, and everybody partying and listening to hip-hop and country and whatever. And he’s trying so hard to have it all make sense. It’s really difficult but he keeps trying, just trying to figure things out.”

  “Let him figure it out, then,” Roxanne said.

  “In federal prison?”

  “Not your problem.”

  I felt anger welling up, again. Closed my mouth hard but then it came out, bubbling over.

  “Kind of a hard attitude for somebody who wants to save the world one boy at a time,” I said.

  I regretted it even as the words came out, even more as they hit the target. Roxanne didn’t reply, and I thought I could see her sadden in the dim darkness. I heard her exhale softly, not quite a sigh.

  “Do you disparage what we’re doing because of Welt?” she said, her tone calm and composed. “Or do you really think it’s silly?”

  I considered it.

  “I think what you’re doing is fine,” I said. “Very worthwhile. It’s Welt, I guess. I don’t trust him.”

  “Well, I do, Jack,” Roxanne said. “And that’s all that matters.”

  She turned over, her back to me. She didn’t say good night.

  19

  I slept in fits, heard great horned owls woofing at 3:30, robins cackling before dawn. As the sky lightened, I was wide awake, listening to crows in the oaks east of the house. They were cawing hard and long, probably mobbing a hawk or owl. I closed my eyes and listened to Roxanne’s rhythmic breathing, the faintest of snores. I reached over and put my hand on her hip. She didn’t stir and I left my hand there, as though I could put a spell on her, make things good again.