White Fire

40

Mockey Jones was smashed again and glad of it. Jones often thought of himself in the third person, and the little voice in his head was telling him that here was Mockey Jones, titubating down East Main Street, feeling no pain (or cold), with five expensive martinis and an eighty-dollar steak in his gut, his loins recently exercised, with a wallet full of cash and credit cards, no job, no work, and no worries.

Mockey Jones was one of the one percenters — actually one of the one-tenth of one-tenth of one percenters — and, while he hadn’t actually earned a dime of his money, it didn’t matter because money was money and it was better to have it than not have it, and better to have a lot of it than only some. And Mockey Jones had a lot of it.

Mockey Jones was forty-nine and had left three wives and as many children scattered in his wake — he gave a little bow as he proceeded down the street in homage to them — but now he was unattached and totally irresponsible, with nothing to do but ski, eat, drink, screw, and yell at his investment advisors. Mockey Jones was very happy to live in Roaring Fork. It was his kind of town. People didn’t mind who you were or what you did as long as you were rich. And not just millionaire rich — that was bullshit. The country was lousy with cheap middle-class millionaires. Such people were despised in Roaring Fork. No — you had to be a billionaire, or at least a centimillionaire, to fit into the right circle of people. Jones was himself in the centi category, but while that was an embarrassment he had gotten used to, the two hundred million he had inherited from his jerk-off father — another bow to the memory — was adequate for his needs.

He stopped, looked around. Christ, he should have pissed back at the restaurant. This damn town had no public restrooms. And where the hell had he left his car? Didn’t matter — he wasn’t stupid enough to get behind the wheel in his condition. No way would there ever be the headline in the Roaring Fork Times: MOCKEY JONES ARRESTED FOR DUI. He would call one of the late-night drunk limo services, of which there were several, kept busy squiring home those like Mockey who had “dined too well.” He pulled out his cell phone, but it slipped out of his gloved hands and landed in a snowbank; with an extravagant curse he bent down, picked it up, brushed it off, and hit the appropriate speed dial. In a moment he had arranged for the ride. Those martinis back at Brierly’s Steak House had sure tasted good, and he was looking forward to another when he got home.

Standing at the curb, swaying slightly, waiting for the limo, Mockey Jones became vaguely aware of something rapidly intruding on his right field of vision. Something yellowish — and glowing unnaturally. He turned and saw, in the Mountain Laurel neighborhood on the eastern hillside just at the end of town, not even a quarter mile away, a large house literally exploding in flames. Even as he watched, he could feel the heat of it on his cheek, see the flames leaping ever higher into the air, the sparks rising like stars into the dark sky…And — oh, dear God — was that someone in an upstairs window, silhouetted by fire? Even as he watched, the window exploded and the body came tumbling out like a flaming comet, writhing, with a hideous scream that cut like a knife through the midnight air, echoing and re-echoing off the mountains as if it would never end, even after the burning body had disappeared below the fir trees. Almost immediately, within seconds it seemed, sirens were going off; there were police cars and fire trucks and bystanders in the streets; and — moments later — television vans with dishes on their roofs careening about. Last of all came the choppers, plastered with call signs, sweeping in low over the trees.

And then, with that hideous scream still echoing in his confused and petrified brain, Mockey Jones felt something first warm, then cool, between his legs. A moment later he realized he’d pissed his pants.