Wolf Hour

22 The Desert, October 2016

A flat light lay across the desert. A huge desert that I crossed alone. I saw no other people, there in that monotonous, desolate landscape, no sign of life at all. But of course, cars count as signs of life. And this parking lot. What if every person on earth apart from me had been whirled up into heaven just a moment ago by some generous-spirited Jehovah? That would have been fine actually, it wouldn’t have left me any more alone than I already am. That was my first thought as I woke up, and my last as I fell asleep. That I was lonely. Some days it was just fine, but at other times the loneliness and the burden of the emptiness were so great I felt they were going to crush me. But I couldn’t let it, not yet. First I had to do what I had to do. That was the only thing that kept me going now, the only thing that made it worth getting up in the morning. Worth going out. Worth eating the food on the plate in front of me. But afterward, when that was out of the way, what then? Then this eternity would end. Then we would be together again, my beloved. And rest. Eternal rest. So I carried on walking.

It was cloudy and at this time of the autumn the daylight was already noticeably less by six o’clock, which was the time he usually left work.

Suddenly I saw someone. She was standing by her car with the trunk open. She was overweight and out of breath and I could tell she’d been using that overfilled shopping cart as a walker on her way through the desert.

‘Hi,’ I said.

The big body jerked in surprise and she turned toward me. I could see the panic in her eyes. Then the relief.

‘Oh, thank God,’ she groaned.

She didn’t say it, but I knew anyway. That her first thought was that I was black. I guess Latino was a bit less threatening. Just a bit. I smiled. ‘I was wondering if you needed any help?’

‘Thanks, but that’s OK,’ she said, with a look that said help is exactly what she needed. She stared at my face, then at my hands. I walked on.

It took me a while to spot that big blue car, even though I knew where it usually stood and navigated there using the floodlight pylon in the centre of the parking lot. It was a Chevrolet Silverado High Country crew cab. I peered in at the driver’s seat. Noted that the neck support was at normal height. The seat pushed not too far forward nor too far back. I used the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the raindrops from the windshield, took out the roll of wide white tape and tore off three strips. Taped them to the windshield on the driver’s side, directly under the roof. It formed a white square approximately three by three inches. I looked at my watch. Five thirty. That gave me half an hour.

23 Wheel of Fortune, October 2016

Bob stopped the Volvo by the kerb outside Bernie’s Bar. The Happy Hour sign wasn’t up. He drummed on the steering wheel as he looked toward the yellow light behind the blinds. So what would that make it in there now? Unhappy Hour? And how unhappy would Chrissie Hynde be if he showed up again so quickly? Only one way to find out.

The man tending the bar looked more like a bouncer than a bartender.

‘Where’s Liza?’ asked Bob.

‘She’s not in today.’

‘I can see she’s not in, I asked—’

‘I heard what you asked, mister. Can I get you something?’

Bob breathed through his open mouth. He could feel the rushing start up. He laid his police ID on the bar. ‘You want to answer my questions here or down at the station?’

The bartender studied the ID as he poured a glass of beer.

‘The kid’s sick, so she’s at home,’ he said. ‘Is she in trouble?’

No, thought Bob. He grabbed up his ID and walked out again.

Back in the Volvo he beat his head against the steering wheel.

I’m the one who’s in trouble.

He tapped in an A. Then an L. Looked at the I and the C in surprise, and then remembered he had deleted her from his Contacts last night. Alas, he could still remember the number.

‘Stan.’

The voice was deep and calm.

The fact that Stan answered Alice’s phone without saying anything other than his name told him at least two things. That Alice trusted Stan with her phone, which was something she’d never done with him. And that Stan knew it was Bob ringing and he was ready for a confrontation. Bob could scrape the phone against his thigh and pretend it was a pocket dialling. But the rushing in his head had taken over now and it was the rushing that made the decisions.

‘Good evening, meathead. Is Alice there?’

‘She asked you not to call her, Bob.’

Bob howled into the phone. He didn’t know what had happened, for a moment he was lost, and when he came back his phone was gone. He located it and saw a rose-shaped shatter in a corner of the screen. He typed, Couldn’t do it, couldn’t be alone now. Had to... They only had first names, their surnames were the places he had met them for the first time, usually in a bar. For example, it looked like he knew two sisters with the surname ‘Riverfront’.

‘Carol.’

‘Hi, Carol. Bob here.’

Silence.

‘Bob Oz.’

‘I can see that. I’m wondering what to say to you.’

‘Oh?’

‘I know you screwed my friend the day after me.’

‘Really? Is—’ Bob looked at the phone — ‘Tonya Riv— Tonya your friend?’

‘Tonya? Have you screwed Tonya as well?’

Bob pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘OK, Carol, I’m in the doghouse and I deserve it. But I’m not looking to get laid, I just need someone to talk to. As in, a cup of coffee somewhere.’

Bob heard the rough, bitter laughter. Interrupted by a furious: ‘Are you sick?’

‘You mean venereal, or some other way?’

He never found out whether she enjoyed the joke or not, she’d already hung up.

He scrolled down. Spun through the names with his index finger the way you spin a wheel of fortune. The list stopped and his eye fell on a name. Dory Anvil. Anvil was a bar, he remembered it, but not Dory. So it probably hadn’t been that memorable. But that was exactly what he needed tonight, someone he didn’t feel he had to screw. He pressed Call.

‘Hi, Bob! At last!’

Bob hesitated. It sounded like it might have been more memorable for her than for him. Could mean she wanted seconds. On the other hand it didn’t sound like she would say no to a meeting.

‘Hi, Dory.’

‘Have you missed me?’ Her voice had a false, trilling quality, like a grown woman pretending to be a child.

‘Hugely,’ said Bob, noting as he did so the way he had unconsciously imitated Mike Lunde’s cautious irony.

‘Then why didn’t you call?’

‘Well, let me explain, I lost your number, and—’

‘Hilarious, just what I thought!’ Her laugh was so high up the register that Bob felt as though his brain was being sliced into by a circular saw. ‘That’s why I sent you a text with my number, Bob.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes!’ Her laughter died out. ‘So why are you lying?’

Bob took a breath. He was so tired. Tired and weary. Weary of Bob Oz.

‘To be honest, Dory, and that’s not something I usually am, I’m lying because it’s so much more fucking pleasant. And I think you should regard the obvious lie as a kind of lifebelt. Grab hold of it, and you’ll avoid the humiliation of having me tell you that it’s because you just weren’t interesting enough.’

A long pause. Then that circular saw of a laugh cut another slice through his brain.

‘Hilarious, Bob!’

‘Thanks. How are things, Dory?’

‘Not bad. I’m at home alone. Want to come over?’

Bob was about to say yes, but something held him back. Dory-Dory-Dory. What was the thing he couldn’t quite remember? Had she been crazy? Bit of a prude? Needy? Did she have the clap? A husband? Anyway, none of that mattered now.

‘Come on, Bob.’

‘Er...’

‘Hey, I feel horny when you play hard to get, Bob. But I know you want me. And I’ll do exactly what you want. Just tell me what it is.’

‘Can you make meatballs in brown sauce?’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing.’ Dory, Dory... ‘Why are you telling me that you’re at home and you’re alone?’

‘Well, you should know the answer to that.’

‘I should?’

‘You’re the one who put Tony in hospital.’

That Dory. Bob swallowed.

‘How... how’s he doing?’

‘Tony? Not too good. You broke his nose and his jaw.’

He heard her sigh. Heard the clink of ice cubes against glass.

‘Of course I feel sorry for Tony, but I love the way you fought for me, Bob. You fought for me, you did. Even though he’s much bigger!’

Bob heard the slur in her voice now. And the tears.

‘Dory, I’ve just remembered, I’m going bowling tonight.’

‘After the bowling then.’

‘It’s a tournament, be a long night.’

Silence at the other end. He heard a couple of snuffles. ‘How about tomorrow then?’

‘Would love to, but I think you’ve got something on tomorrow, Dory.’

‘I do?’

‘You’re visiting Tony in hospital and telling him you’re never going to hurt him again.’

Dory gave a bitter laugh. ‘Hilarious, Bob.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But he was the one who was going to fight for you, Dory. Not me.’

In the silence that followed he could hear her sobbing. He waited until the sobbing stopped. The clink of ice cubes on glass. She cleared her throat and then spoke in a slightly deeper, natural register.

‘Enjoy your bowling, Bob.’

Bob Oz drove.

He didn’t know where he was going, only that it wasn’t home to Phillips. And not to Alice in Cooper. He was tired of the music and turned it off. The radio took over. Bob gathered it was a debate programme when he heard the sonorous tones of the mayor of Minneapolis, Kevin Patterson, declaring that the right to own a gun was about the right to defend one’s family, one’s children, in the same way as his position on abortion was about the right to defend the foetus.

‘But, Mayor,’ said the chairperson, ‘are you aware that in this country, where there are more weapons than adult human beings, figures from 2010 show that a child or young person is getting shot at the rate of one an hour? That more children’s lives are lost from shooting accidents in the home — as many as one every two days — than are saved by all the guns in this country put together?’

‘Yes, sure, I know the statistics, Simon. But in the first place, they are produced by freedom haters—’

‘The figures are from Congress’s own survey—’

‘—and in the second place, that’s not the point. More people die in traffic, but I haven’t yet heard anyone suggest we ban cars.’

‘But theoretically perhaps one ought to consider it, if the deaths from traffic accidents get high enough?’

The mayor laughed. ‘I guess “theoretically” is the key word there, Simon. And as you know, I’m a practical mayor, I think and act on practical grounds. And I think the principle through. If banning guns means only the criminal element will use them, doesn’t that mean we’re depriving our citizens of the right to defend themselves? Then what’s next? The right to vote?’

‘Is that why you’ve accepted the invitation to open the NRA’s annual conference? Or is it because of the 40,000 dollars they’re contributing to your campaign?’

‘I have a number of viewpoints in common with the NRA and it was natural for me to accept the invitation, for that reason, and because the conference attracts a lot of people to Minneapolis, and the publicity is good for our city.’

Bob turned off the radio and called Kay Myers.

‘Yes, Bob?’

‘Sorry to be calling so late, but do you feel like a coffee?’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Talk about the Gomez case. If you have the keys, I could take another look around his apartment. Maybe he’s been back.’

Kay Myers’s sigh sounded like a drip in a well. ‘Even if I did have the keys, you’re suspended from duty. What are you up to, Bob?’

‘That,’ said Bob, ‘is one helluva good question.’

They hung up.

Bob searched his memory. It was his habit to use a system of associations to store information. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, like with Dory. An actor who plays the part of an insane captain, plus a man who really is insane. Gregory Dupont. Simple.