Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  Up here, the fountain was still the fountain. The bench, where he had sat with Somers so many times, just so they could be alone together, was still the bench. He sat and waited.

  When Glenn Somerset arrived, he was huffing, swinging his arms with what Hazard guessed was supposed to look like determination or purpose—some mayoral trait that his campaign advisors had probably impressed upon him. He was alone, which was good, and he was also obviously out of shape. Maybe a heart attack, Hazard thought. Or a stroke. Maybe not far off.

  “Well,” Glenn said as he came to a halt in front of the bench. “Do you have it?”

  “Sit down,” Hazard said.

  “I’ve got an important meeting with Barry Waterman in half an hour. Do you have it?”

  “You’ve got time for this. Have a seat.”

  “Where’s John-Henry? This is ridiculous. If it’s about money, I don’t have cash with me; you called me at a bad time, and I had to leave an important meeting early.”

  “Lots of important meetings.”

  “I’m running for mayor. Every meeting is important.”

  “Glenn, take a fucking seat. This might be the most important meeting you ever take.”

  After a moment of huffing and wiping at his red cheeks, Glenn sat on the bench. Behind the screen of trees, a semi blew past the park, and the air from its passage stirred the budding green leaves. Hazard watched them, the way they trembled, a few of them fluttering to the ground. Everything died, he thought. Even things that had barely had a chance to live.

  “Well?” Glenn said. “I’m waiting.”

  Drawing the hard drive from within his jacket, Hazard held it up for display. “Do you know what a plushy is?”

  “A child’s toy.”

  “I suppose that’s right. It’s also one name for people who dress up in those big costumes, kind of like what a mascot wears. They find it erotic. They have sex while wearing those costumes.” Hazard shrugged. “It makes for a very visual experience, of course. Much more attention grabbing than just a few bad photographs of someone having an affair.”

  “And you’ve got Sackeman on video? You can see his face when he’s wearing one of those stupid costumes?” Glenn grinned. “God, that’s too good to be true.”

  “I don’t like shaming people for their sexual preferences, Glenn. I know what that does to someone.”

  “Very compassionate of you,” Glenn said, snapping his fingers. “I’ll get the cash to John-Henry, of course. Now let’s have it.”

  “I wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t a case of tit for tat. This is neutralization, Glenn. Not a weapon.”

  “Good God,” Glenn said with a laugh.

  “What does he have on you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You know what I think?” Hazard turned the hard drive in his hands; he pictured what it would look like, smashed on the ground, all those shiny electrical parts spangling the gravel. “I think you don’t act like a man with blackmail hanging over his head.”

  “And I suppose this has all been for my health?” Glenn checked his watch. “Christ, I’m going to be late.” He reached for the hard drive.

  Hazard pulled it away.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “This,” Hazard said, “is a negotiation tactic.”

  Glenn’s jowls quivered; his whole face trembled with suppressed emotion. “You want more money.”

  “I think,” Hazard said, “you were never being blackmailed at all.”

  “How much more? Name your price; you think you’re negotiating, but you haven’t even put out a number. Negotiations start with a number.”

  Shaking his head, Hazard said, “No, Glenn. We started negotiating a long time ago, when we were sitting in your Aston Martin and you extracted a promise from me. A promise you cashed in a few days ago, by the way. A promise that I’d think, really think, about what marrying John would mean. For him. What it would do to him.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind,” Glenn said. “Have you given it any consideration? He’s a pariah, you know. None of his old friends want anything to do with him. Do they call? Do they stop by? Does he go for a beer or a pickup game or to the movies?”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot,” Hazard said. “Just the fact that we’d do this, jump through your hoops, that’s enough. I wouldn’t have done it for anybody else. I’d do it again for John, though. Don’t tell him; this is a moment of weakness, and he doesn’t need anything else to hang over my head. But we do crazy things for the people we love, don’t we, Glenn?”

  A sparrow fluttered down onto the gravel a few yards away; its beak clicked against the stones as it foraged for something. Somewhere on the next block, an asshole was laying on the horn, really blasting it, and then it cut off and a man’s shout carried through the air: “Cynthia!”

  “Bob Sackeman wasn’t blackmailing you,” Hazard said. “He was blackmailing Grace Elaine. Or, I suppose, he had something on Grace Elaine that he was using against you.”

  Glenn stood. “I don’t have to listen to this. I’ll talk to John-Henry; he can bring me the hard drive.”

  “That’s the only reason I can imagine you doing something as stupid as this. During an election, of all things. You had a lot of smart options, but you chose a stupid one. What do they have on her?”

  Hazard couldn’t tell if the quiver in Glenn’s face was a spasm or an aborted attempt to shake his head in denial; a moment later, Glenn said in a quiet voice, “She said that she had stopped seeing Jeremiah Walker. Those pictures would have destroyed my chance at this election.”

  “Pictures of your wife sleeping with a black man. That would certainly burn any bridges with the Ozark Volunteers and their lot. And that’s it? You’re not going to tell me you did it because you loved her, in spite of the affair? You’re not going to tell me you wanted to spare her the humiliation?”

  Glenn set his jaw. He had Somers’s eyes, tropically blue, and Hazard recognized the mule-stubborn expression on his face; Somers wore it when he really dug in his heels.

  “Ok,” Hazard said. “Maybe you’ll tell John.”

  “Ten thousand dollars. On top of your standard rates.”

  Hazard snorted.

  “Twenty,” Glenn said.

  “Give me a break; your son would spend it on something ridiculous. Do you know he spent a hundred dollars on a pair of shoes? One hundred dollars. Like he’s the fucking king of England.”

  “You don’t want money, fine. What do you want?”

  “I want something only you can give me,” Hazard said.

  The calculation in Glenn’s face was so transparent it was almost comical; Hazard wondered how this man had ever gotten to where he was. Negotiating against himself, the complete lack of anything resembling a poker face. Glenn Somerset ought to have been dead in the water a long time ago. But he’d made a lot of money, Hazard reminded himself. And he’d managed to stay on top when so many of Wahredua’s elite had fallen. Dangerous, Hazard reminded himself. Glenn Somerset was still very dangerous.

  “This is extortion,” Glenn said, his voice calm now. “You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Since you’re purchasing blackmail material, I don’t think the Better Business Bureau will be interested. You can check, though.”

  “Let me guess what you want. It’s not money. It’s something only I can give you. And, if you give me that material, I will win this election. It’s guaranteed.” Glenn pointed at the screen of budding branches, towards the station. “You want back on the police.”

  Hazard laughed; the force of it surprised him, escaping before he could stop it. Shaking his head, he said, “Pass.”

  Ugly red circles darkened Glenn’s cheeks. “You want my blessing then. You want me to tell John-Henry that I approve, that I’m happy about your plans.”

  “Glenn, I couldn’t give two fucks about your blessing. Not even a single fuck, actua
lly.”

  “Then what?” The words were practically a scream. “Jesus Christ, this is ridiculous. What do you want?”

  Hazard turned the hard drive again in his hands; he could hear what the plastic casing would sound like, snapping against the gravel.

  “For the rest of John’s life,” Hazard said. “You’re going to do better.”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “Better, Glenn. An improvement. You’re going to build a relationship with your son, a real one, and you’re going to do a fucking spectacular job of it. Do you understand me? John likes to draw attention to my quirks; here’s one of them.” Hazard drew a folded piece of paper from his jacket and held it out.

  Glenn accepted the page, opened it, and scanned the contents. “Weekly calls on a random schedule.”

  “Not just a quick chat on Sundays, Glenn. You’re going to vary it up. Make him think you spontaneously wanted to check in.”

  “Bi-weekly lunches.”

  “He likes burgers. And pizza. And wings.”

  “I know my son, thank you very much.”

  “I’m not sure you do. But you’re going to.”

  “Five new pieces of praise monthly.”

  “That’s a little more than one a week. Be creative, Glenn. And remember, nothing predictable. If John figures out something is up, your ass is toast. And new, Glenn. New. As I said: be creative.”

  “This is insane,” Glenn said, running his finger down the page. “It goes on and on like this.”

  “Just so we’re clear, Glenn, I am now blackmailing you. I’ve recorded this conversation. If you don’t live up to the terms of our agreement, I’ll turn this over to, well, just about everyone I can think of. You’ll be convicted of a number of crimes, starting with blackmailing Bob Sackeman.”

  “So will you,” Glenn said. “You just said it yourself: you’re blackmailing me.”

  “Yes, but I think I’ll handle prison better than you.” Hazard stood, holding out the hard drive. “Well?”

  “He won’t fall for it,” Glenn said with a sudden clarity and conviction. “He’s very smart. He’s intuitive. He’ll know.”

  Hazard thought about this for a moment, and then he wagged the hard drive. “He’ll know if it’s fake, Glenn. But it’s not going to be fake. Not a single minute of it. Because for some reason I cannot understand, John wants to have a relationship with you. And with his mother. And so you’re going to be very, very diligent about making sure that happens.” Hazard allowed a smile to slip out. A small one. “Think of it like this: if John’s happy, everyone’s happy.”

  “What a ridiculously sentimental agreement,” Glenn said, snatching the device. “You’ve gotten soft, I suppose. Probably for the best that you don’t want back on the force.”

  “Probably,” Hazard said as he released the hard drive.

  “And you’ll support my bid for mayor?”

  “Reluctantly,” Hazard said. “Because I know it means a lot to John. You’ll need to explain to him that the blackmail situation has been resolved to your satisfaction; you can simply tell him I brought you the decrypted hard drive, if you like. But first, item number one. I’ll stay and watch, just to make sure.”

  Glenn glanced at the paper, making a moue of distaste.

  “Call your son,” Hazard said, crossing his arms, “and tell him you love him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  APRIL 13

  SATURDAY

  3:02 PM

  HAZARD WAS TRYING TO READ Proust. À la recherche du temps perdu had been on his reading list for a long time; novels weren’t exactly high art, in Hazard’s opinion, but every once in a while he read one to expand his horizons. Proust, however, was not expanding any horizons. In fact, Proust—half of Swann’s Way, anyway—had ended up on the other side of the living room after Hazard’s fourteenth time trying to understand the fucking episode of the fucking madeleine.

  “Hey,” Somers said from the opening to the kitchen. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Reading.”

  “Where’s your book? Oh.”

  “It fell.”

  “Into two pieces.”

  “The binding was cheap.”

  “And one of those pieces ended up in the fireplace.”

  “Weird.”

  “One of life’s little mysteries,” Somers said with a smile, running his fingers through his hair, shifting his weight, one arm loosely hugging himself. “Want to go for a drive?”

  “No, I’m going to finish my book.”

  “Let’s go for a drive.”

  “I’m going to wrap up here.”

  “You ripped the book in half,” Somers said. “There’s nothing left to wrap up.”

  “I can put it through the shredder.”

  “Ree, let’s go for a drive. Please.”

  More messing with his hair. More rocking back and forth. A blush climbing his cheeks.

  “Why are you acting weird?”

  “I’m not acting weird. God, get off your butt, and let’s go for a drive. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll put the windows down.”

  “You’re planning something.”

  “I never plan anything.”

  “You’ve got a surprise.”

  “God damn it. I mean, Ree, sweetheart, precious angel of my soul—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get in the damn car, please, before I remember why having Sherlock Holmes as your fiancé is absolutely exhausting.”

  “Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character,” Hazard said, standing, turning back to the sofa, shifting the cushions.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

  “Trying to find my socks. If you want to compliment me, you could call me William J. Burns. He was considered America’s Sherlock Holmes. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle actually said that. And, even better, he’s not fictional.”

  Somers made a noise that might have been a very tiny scream.

  “My socks are gone,” Hazard said, lifting another cushion and shaking it. “Where’d they go?”

  “This is it,” Somers said. “This is how I die. The Case of the Missing Socks. They’ll say, ‘He just had an aneurysm or an embolism. Just dropped dead because his fiancé spent so much time looking for his goddamn socks.’”

  Hazard pressed the cushion back into place, making sure it was square with the back of the sofa, and then he turned around. “You’re agitated.”

  “Ok,” Somers said, looking around the room. “Ok, I tried. I really tried. No socks.” He walked behind Hazard and started pushing him toward the door. “We’re doing this with no socks before I go out of my mind.”

  “When you said you might die of an embolism,” Hazard said, resisting just enough to make Somers work for it, planting his feet and then stumbling when Somers really leaned into him, “you probably meant a stroke. When people get really agitated, they don’t die of embolisms. But maybe a stroke.”

  This time, Hazard was sure it was a scream. It was right in his ear, after all.

  In the Mustang, Somers drove them slowly out of town. With the windows down, the air smelled like fresh-turned earth and asphalt washed by rain, but the sky was clear, and the sun threw crisp shadows. The first green blades of corn blurred together in the fields. A pair of dogs, one brindled and one brown with white paws, were snuffling at an overturned log; as Somers slowed to take a corner, a cat burst out of the log, and the dogs took off after it, barking, tails wagging like mad.

  “This is nice, right?” Somers said, reaching over to squeeze Hazard’s arm.

  “Of course. And I’m excited to see your surprise.”

  “Good God, you are relentless.”

  They drove a few more miles; this was the state highway that would take them to another state highway that would take them to Kermit, Missouri, where Hazard’s mother now lived alone.

  “I’m glad you’re back home,” Hazard said.

  “Well
, the election is over. And my dad has been over the moon since he won.” Somers ran his hands along the steering wheel. “It’s kind of uncanny, actually. He’s acting weirdly nice. He called me and . . . he told me he loved me.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It’s not just nice, Ree. He’s told me he loved me like, I don’t know, five times in my whole life. And four of those times were before I turned ten. It’s weird.”

  “It sounds nice,” Hazard said with a shrug. “He’s probably grateful that you helped him with the election.”

  Somers didn’t answer that; the wind whistled at the windows, and Somers played with the radio for a few minutes until he hit something he liked, a country station, but old, twangy country.

  “I’m really sorry,” Somers said.

  “What?”

  “For moving out. I shouldn’t have done that. You were right; I should have told my dad no.”

  “We already talked about this: we had both promised to pay a debt, and he called it in. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “But I’m sorry anyway. Because I love you so much, and I shouldn’t have . . . shouldn’t have done anything, honestly, that even made it look like I didn’t value what I have with you. That was wrong. It was stupid. You’re the best thing in my life. The single best thing that’s ever happened to me. I shouldn’t have given anyone a chance to think anything otherwise.”

  Hazard cupped the back of Somers’s head; he ran his thumb over his hair, which was getting shaggy, smoothing it over Somers’s ear.

  “I didn’t think about what you gave up,” Hazard said. “To be with me. I never even considered it. Sometimes, I’m not very social—”

  “You?” Somers murmured.

  Hazard tugged on the hair above his ear; Somers yelped.

  “Be nice,” Hazard said. “Sometimes I’m not very social, and I guess I just took it for granted that it was normal for you to spend all that time just with me.”

  “Well, for the record, I enjoy spending all that time with you.”

  “Even the documentaries?”

  Somers managed to say, “Even the documentaries.”

  “Even Gona and Gonads: A Sexual History of Papua New Guinea?”