Their worry for the children only masked a patient hostility. The more we proselytized in their streets, the less they could stand our presence. If there hadn’t been girls and boys to worry about, they would’ve raised alarms about the way the Washerwomen treated their pets. In 1973 we began getting visits from social workers, children’s services, that kind of thing. They were squeezing us. But that didn’t stop my father and his fetish for new trucks.
Every time Sargent Rice went to his truck, he’d open the driver’s door and brush two fingers against his headrest. Then bring those fingers to his fleshy nose and inhale the scent. He did it theatrically when we laughed or covered our faces in disgust, but that was just a pretense made for us. He meant it. When he was alone, he did the same thing, without shame. (I know because I used to watch him from our window.) Those fingers went under his nose and then he’d rub them against each other, the tip of his pointer finger going up and down along his thumb. It must have been a wonderful scent, reassuring maybe. Sargent Rice and his car. Himself and himself. Sometimes a man retreats so far inward he mistakes isolation for dominion.
34
AT NINE P.M. I woke up again in my hotel bed. Before I even opened my eyes I felt bedbug bites along my body. It was like waking up on a bed of pins. I shot out of the sheets. Scratching at my belly I saw tiny, tiny brown spots speckling the side of the mattress. By the Bay had retained at least one of the essential flophouse ingredients.
Then it was time to dress. I took a shower, wiped down afterward with the dishrag they called a bath towel, and then, when that was soggy, stood nude by the open windows drying myself in the cool winds. I kept the lights off.
Did you notice, by the way, that the Gray Lady said nothing about my suit when I met her for the walk to Stone Mason Square? I sure did. And if she wasn’t going to pay me a compliment on that outfit, I wasn’t sure what I could use to dazzle her. Everything else was nice, but certainly not better. Not even quite as good. I spent a long while bringing a sports jacket up to myself and checking that look in the mirror, then exchanging it for a sweater and so forth. I did the same with the slacks and, finally, the shoes. It was a painstaking process, and I ended up wearing exactly what I’d had on in the morning. Nothing less would do. But my fedora looked ostentatious. My sock garters seemed foppish and vain. Thank goodness no one could see them.
Do you really want to kill Solomon Clay? I asked myself as I dressed.
Just because the Dean and Ms. Henry told you to?
When I reached the empty lobby, I saw the clock hanging inside the motel clerk’s cage. It read ten-fifteen, and I assumed the Gray Lady had left without me. If there was anyone who would, it was her. Plus Claude sure wouldn’t be the one convincing her to wait. And yet, when I stepped onto the street, there Claude stood, in front of the idling Town Car. He even opened the passenger door for me.
“I told her you were coming and we shouldn’t leave,” Claude said. His belly nearly bumped the car door closed again. He leaned toward my ear as I reached the curb.
“I told her ‘Larry is just a criminal, and criminals are always late.’”
And then I entered the car, sitting down before my brain could translate Claude’s words. Again, I tried to place him. Where had I dealt with someone like this before?
The Gray Lady was in the backseat. She had a way of seeming in control of our whole mission, but ignorant of the static between Claude and me. Maybe he never acted like a dick to her so she didn’t realize he had it in him. Too bad for me. I would’ve liked the corroboration.
“You’re overdressed,” she said.
If her outfit was the proper uniform that night, then I had no choice but to agree. As far as I could tell, Ms. Henry wore a green scuba suit. Not flattering.
“You look like a Spanish olive,” I said.
As the car moved, the Gray Lady pointed at the rubbery costume that came up to her armpits. “These are waders,” she said. “I have a pair for you. If you pull them up tight and be a little careful, I don’t think you’ll ruin your clothes. Of course, you could go back up to your room and change.”
I waved her cautions away with one hand. “No, thanks. This is actually the outfit I wear when I clean my cabin back at the Library.”
“I see,” she said.
“I wouldn’t want to ruin any of my really nice clothes.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “But maybe you should leave your hat in the car?”
I shrugged and tossed the fedora down onto the floor. She looked at it, then at me, just waiting for me to snatch it up. So of course I forced myself to stay nonchalant.
“So what are we doing tonight exactly?” I asked, looking at the roof rather than my endangered headgear.
“We’re going into the sewers,” she said.
It was an East Bay winter outside. By which I mean a modest rainstorm had started and everyone drove infinitely worse. You never saw so many brake lights going off without a reason. Was there falling debris in front of that Subaru? No. Had black ice developed under the Oldsmobile? Not a chance. These folks just hit the brakes every time they changed their minds.
The legs of the waders spilled off my lap as I lifted them. I was careful not to let them crush the fedora, and then doubly careful not to let the Gray Lady catch me staring at my hat.
“Will I have somewhere to change into these?” I asked her.
“Oh, of course,” she said. “I’ve got a makeup trailer waiting for you at the crime scene.”
I had to tuck my legs up into my chest, balance the waders below my feet, and then point my toes directly down and spear a Chetwynd shoe into each leg hole. A trick made more difficult by my hat, just there to my left, in constant danger of being crushed. In fact, I couldn’t pull it off until Ms. Henry grabbed the fedora from the floor.
“You’re just being silly!” she said.
She placed the hat on the seat between us, and I slipped both feet inside my waders, pulled the waders up over my legs, over my stomach, and to the bottom of my armpits. There were two straps, one to sling over either shoulder, and then I was ready.
Ms. Henry said, “Garland’s system is split in two, one for water and one for sewage.”
“We’re going into the sewage tunnel, aren’t we?”
She slapped her own knee. “I knew you were bright.”
The Gray Lady called me bright. Why the hell did that have to make me so happy? I grinned, even exulted, after she said that. My face got so warm it could’ve baked an apple.
A compliment she regretted right away. She looked off, out the window. Like she didn’t even want to see that whiff of praise floating in the air. She looked at her hands after that. Then at the ashtray in the door. Anywhere but at me. The only person in the car who returned my glance was Claude, in the rearview mirror, and from the crinkle around his eyes, the scrunch of his nose, I knew he was only scowling.
“And why are we going into the sewage tunnel?”
“We have two jobs out here, Mr. Rice. Kill Solomon Clay and keep the Washburn Library’s existence a secret.”
“What would Mr. Clay leave behind?”
“If even one of the bomb’s components was bought in northeast Vermont, that could lead authorities to us. A man like Solomon might even leave a map taped to a tunnel wall. We’re here to erase any marks.”
I pulled at the straps of my waders. Ms. Henry made these tasks—this mission—sound commonplace, like the only people who might object were either traitors or fools, so I didn’t say any more.
“I have these for you too,” she mumbled.
She had two black cases with her, one twice as large as the other, but both were big. She handed me the smaller one, and inside I found a bunch of papers, a flashlight, a small knife, a compass, rubber gloves. I was familiar with everything in there, but because I had no idea what I would do with them, the flashlight seemed as absurd as a magic wand.
“And this is your badge,” she said.
It was gold,
flimsy. The top had an eagle with wings spread wide like so many badges do. The letters U.S. in blue just beneath the eagle’s talons, and below that, the words “National Wildlife Refuge Agency.”
“I want you to pin it to the upper edge of your lapel.”
“No one’s going to believe this thing is real,” I said.
It looked like a wafer! I was thinking of a New York detective’s badge, the gold shield. That thing would hammer nails. A toddler could bend this fake badge.
“Everyone will believe it,” she said. “Environmental agencies were allowed into Ground Zero and the Pentagon well before the full search-and-rescue units. No one wants to breathe in toxic fumes, especially after so many people got sick clearing the towers. And swamp gases are exactly what a blown sewage pipe releases. Those cops will be jumping out of our way.”
“You really believe that?”
“I’m sure of it,” she said.
I knocked lightly against the window. If the car had been going slower, I might’ve broken my way out.
Ms. Henry spoke again, quietly and slowly. “Everyone there will want to believe in these badges because they need to believe in them. They will act as though we’re legitimate unless you give them a reason not to. If you believe that you’re a representative of the National Wildlife Refuge Agency, you will become one. At least enough to get by. I promise you this.”
So that’s when I began preparing my speech to the cops.
About how I’d been kidnapped by the Gray Lady and Claude, that they’d drugged me and dragged me into this car, even put these waders on me. I’m just an innocent bystander, Officer.
But when I looked at hers, pinned to her waders just above her small right breast, the badge did look more official. Maybe because I wasn’t touching it. Ms. Henry projected unfussy authority. She didn’t keep checking or adjusting the little thing. Plus the car was dark. It would be just as dark at Stone Mason Square. And lots of people, lots of sounds, maybe enough for these cereal box prizes to pass inspection. I decided to believe that the badges were real. Walk like a bona fide wildlife agent. How much difference could there be between me and the genuine article? Except for the training, expertise, and government sanction.
We reached Stone Mason Square. Claude bullied his car down Broadway through the crowds who were so used to having the right of way they didn’t even register the Town Car until Claude beeped the horn. That moved them. The row of police cars alongside the square had lengthened, going one after the next for a whole block. There’s something ominous about a patrol car with its lights off. It reminds me of a power line that’s come down in a storm.
“We’re hunting nonnative spartina if anyone happens to stop you, okay?”
I nodded at her, but who knew what the hell she’d just said.
We crossed the tracks, the only private car to do so, and Claude pulled into a vacant parking lot. Four officers immediately approached the car, their hands floating toward their holsters. The Gray Lady and I stiffened in our seats, but Claude looked pleased, even giddy as they closed in. Now, what kind of black man has fun teasing police triggers? But that’s exactly what Claude did. Then, to make it worse, he threw open the driver’s door and jumped out. Pumped his two beefy fists in the air.
“This is a raid!” he yelled.
If I’d had a gun, I would’ve shot him.
Those police? They flinched, but to their credit they never drew their burners. As soon as they saw his face, they greeted Claude with smiles and hugs.
The Gray Lady said, “Claude worked alongside them for twenty-eight years.”
A cop. Of course.
As soon as I saw him hug his brethren, I could imagine him in the uniform. I should have known from the second I met him, because I can tell you for sure that he’d recognized me.
Police don’t believe in ambiguity. To them there are two kinds of people, the Guilty and the Good. After a few years on the job most of them truly think they’ve been blessed with the Lord’s eyes and they can pick a criminal by sight. When I came down the walkway at Garland International Airport, Claude saw Adele Henry plus one ex-con. Cops around the world have so many terms for us, for criminals: hamburger, mutt, shithook, toe rag, cluckhead, customer, mope, scrote, toad. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that in Garland the cops called all crooks Larrys.
There was a time when I’d have recognized Claude as a cop from as far off as Vermont. That type of intuition had helped me survive countless threats. Now he’d barely triggered an alarm. The Washburn Library had changed me for the good in many ways, but what instincts had I lost?
35
I WATCHED CLAUDE through the windshield. The other cops looked overjoyed to see him. This wasn’t a guy who’d worked his forty hours and gone home. He might’ve been the kind to risk his life for other officers, one who sacrificed for the good of the job. I think those cops would have had a hard time believing my impression of him.
“Was he police chief or something?” I asked.
“Claude? He never even made it to sergeant. Master patrol officer. I think that was his title up until they kicked him off.”
“Was he dirty?” I asked.
“That would make you happy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re smiling.”
I guess she’d known the man longer than me, so it made sense she might protect his privacy. And yet she and I were Unlikely Scholars. Where was that camaraderie? Besides, I just wanted to talk shit, but she had to go and make it seem childish.
Claude returned to us and opened the door on Ms. Henry’s side. After she got out, he ducked his head inside and stared at me.
“You ready to do some real work, Larry?”
As I got out, I said, “Couldn’t even make sergeant!”
He shut the door so fast it nearly clipped my hip. He butted against me with that belly, but I didn’t step back.
“What happened?” I asked. “Were you corrupt, or just stupid?”
“I retired,” he said.
“Because you had a burning desire to drive a taxi?”
Claude patted the roof of his ride. “This is a private car.”
“And my name is Ricky Rice.”
The Gray Lady had already started toward the site of the explosion, but she came back.
“It would look suspicious if you two got into a fistfight.”
Claude said, “You’ve been spreading rumors about me.”
She looked at me, then at him. “I didn’t tell Ricky one bad thing about you.”
“I just looked at you and guessed,” I said.
Claude raised his hand. I thought he was going to slap me. I was going to bite his nose off if he tried.
Instead Claude said, “You should hurry down there, Ms. Henry. It sounds like the federal arm will be here later tonight. I’ve got no influence over them.”
“You’ve done enough already, Claude. Thank you.”
He smiled, but not much, and not at me. Then he left us so he could go speak with the other police. He practically skipped as he returned to them. The cops waved at us, little gestures and a few nods, not like we should go over and make friends, but like the office staff acknowledging the janitors.
As we walked, the Gray Lady asked, “What are we looking for again?”
She was testing me for my own benefit, but damned if I remembered the term she’d used in the car. I was too busy feeling my wrists ache from phantom handcuffs as I slouched through the gathered forces of Garland’s police. I guess all the criminal hadn’t been knocked out of me. I still felt the paranoia.
“Nonnative spartina,” she said. “It’s cordgrass. I know it sounds a little silly, but if it’s growing in that pipe, it could’ve reacted badly with the sewage and released a highly combustible gas. There have been three cases in the last five years in Northern California alone.”
I stopped moving. “Is that true?”
The Gray Lady walked ahead two steps, quiet now. She touche
d her face absently. The hand roamed up and squeezed the black tam that hid her white hair.
“Yes, it is,” she said.
We reached the shoreline, where the mayor had spoken only that morning. I looked back at the patio where the Gray Lady and I had been, and wondered if Mr. Clay could’ve been there too. Right behind us. Solomon Clay.
The actual site of the explosion, including the remains of the lectern, was surrounded by crime tape and guarded by two young cops hunched forward in the nighttime chill. They talked with each other and only peeked at me and Ms. Henry to be sure we didn’t disturb the scene.
The Gray Lady kept going. It looked like she was about to hop right into the waters of the Bay. She opened a little gate at the very edge of the square and went down a ladder that led to a sandy shore. Down there we saw the rest of the damage done by the day’s explosion, a hole about the size of a washing machine in the concrete base wall of the square. There was crime tape across this too.
“Take out your flashlight,” she said, then peeled the tape off on one side.
We climbed in.
36
THE WADERS WERE A WONDERFUL IDEA because ten seconds in that muck would’ve eaten through the soles of our shoes. It wasn’t that deep, about two feet of sludge. Even with our flashlights and with moonlight coming through the hole, I only knew the Gray Lady was with me because of the shallow breaths ahead. Don’t get me wrong, there was a cone of light up there, but I couldn’t make out the person in control of it. Like I said, just her little breaths—sniffles, really—through the nose, an effort to fight the smells.
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