Up on the stage, five men sat in five chairs. The microphone was in front of them. They were dressed in suits and looked official, but in a different way than the clipboard, plastic-badge hurry-scurry bunch who’d been ordering teenagers around all morning. These men had the look of say, a mayor and city council members. (Which is what they turned out to be.)
And then the sound of sirens shattered the peace and quiet of the park, like crazy people let loose, screaming.
They were police type sirens, and Hopp hopped to his feet the moment he heard them.
So did just about everybody else.
The five people on the stage jumped out of their five chairs. The townspeople sitting on the benches behind us got to their feet, too. Teenage kids who’d been sitting on the grass behind the benches and off to the sides also leapt to their feet, and those folks who’d already been standing, stood a little taller.
And clapped.
Brother, did they clap.
Everyone was standing and applauding, and though Hopp hadn’t realized it at the time, when those sirens goosed him off that bench, he was leading a standing ovation.
And so Hopp and Elam and me, we just stood there and clapped till our hands got red, not knowing why the hell we were clapping, but when you’re in the front row and a standing ovation is going on, you don’t ask questions: you just stand and clap and grin like everybody else.
Over in the street, in front of the concession wagons and Highway Patrol car, in front of the stolen Mustang and the bank, in an open place vacated by the high school band members who had disappeared somewhere, two more Highway Patrol cars slid up and stopped, and behind them came a long black Cadillac, the sort of car you see in a funeral procession or gangster movie.
The high school band reappeared, bringing up the rear of the black Cadillac. They were marching and playing “On Wisconsin.”
(No, I do not know why a high school band in Wynning, Iowa, would be playing “On Wisconsin.” Why don’t you ask the Chinese lady in the Tacomobile?)
And then the black car came to a stop, too, and the Highway Patrolmen were out of their cars and swarming all over everywhere. I never saw so many Highway Patrolmen in my life. I have to admit, thinking back, I can only count six of them, but at the time it seemed like there was a Highway Patrolman for every citizen in that park.
A little man in a well-tailored conservative brown suit, with a nicely chosen yellow-and-white pattern tie, followed a pair of Highway Patrolmen from the black Cadillac to the stage. The pair of Highway Patrolmen cleared an imaginary path for him through a non-existent throng: the Wynning citizens were clapping wildly, but were a mild-mannered, mini-mob who stayed in their places while whoever this was made his grand entrance.
Soon the little man, who had short brown hair and was about forty and handsome in an ordinary sort of way, was standing on the stage, near the microphone.
When the applause finally began to dwindle, one of the five men who’d already been on the stage — a pudgy, jolly-looking bald man with glasses — spoke into the mike. “It is with great pride and pleasure that the people of Wynning welcome to this, our 100th Founder’s Day Celebration, our esteemed and honorable...”
(And this was shouted into the microphone)
“... Governor of the State of Iowa!”
I thought I could hear Elam moaning, but it was hard to tell as the applause again began to swell.
As the ovation continued, Hopp leaned across me to ask Elam, “What now, smartass?”
“We just gotta stick it out,” Elam said, leaning across me to answer Hopp. “We’ll just stay here and listen to what this jerk has to say. He won’t stay all day.”
“I hope we don’t,” I said.
“We’re okay as long as that goofy buddy of yours stays put,” Elam told me. “He won’t panic, will he? He’ll just wait out there till we can join him, right? I mean, if he drives in here, man, the way they got roads blocked off and cars parked in the streets, we could get stuck here till the cows come home.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I had already spotted a tall, awkward-looking apparition walking along the perimeter of the park, looking confused, searching for a familiar face in the sea of standing, clapping bodies. And he was grinning like a rabbit, coming toward us now.
“Hey you guys,” he said, joining in with the continuing applause, “what’s goin’ on? Is that really the Governor? I bet my mom’d get a kick out of this.”
Chapter 24
One good thing about being stuck there in the first row with all those people behind us and the Governor up on stage in front of us was that otherwise Wheaty probably would be dead right now. Because there was a moment when Elam and/or Hopp would have killed him, I think, if there hadn’t been so many witnesses. And maybe I would have, too. If his mom wanted some of the action, she’d have to stand in line.
Wheat was oblivious to the danger, of course. He still thought the robbery was only a trial run, and had just gotten bored out there waiting for us. Not scared, you heard me right the first time: bored. According to Elam’s plan of action, we should have reported back to that farmhouse within twenty-five minutes of leaving it. When an hour had passed, Wheat drove in to find out what was happening.
“What about the car?” Elam whispered, over the applause for the Governor, which was just beginning to dwindle.
“It’s parked back here,” Wheat said, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, as he squeezed in between Hopp and me.
Back beyond the crowd we could see cars parked bumper to bumper in the street behind the park.
That was the moment when Elam and/or Hopp (and maybe me) almost killed Wheat.
But the only thing that died at that moment was the applause, and suddenly everybody was sitting down and we were all listening to the Governor.
Sort of.
I mean, I can’t tell you what the Governor of the state of Iowa said that morning. It was a short speech, probably a lot like all the other pleasant, meaningless speeches you hear governors make in public, whether it’s at a Fourth of July picnic or the opening of a new supermarket.
There were some reporters taking pictures. Three of them. They wore shiny plastic badges that said where they were from, and had camera equipment in leather packing, slung over their shoulders like purses. One of them was from the Des Moines Register, another from the Daily Iowan of Iowa City, and one from the Port City Journal. All of them were young and had longish hair and were casually dressed; tomorrow’s Pulitzer Prize winners, starting at the bottom. At one time or another during the Governor’s speech, each of the three reporters was crouched directly in front of us. When they took a picture, there was a whirring sound from the camera vaguely reminiscent of somebody cocking a gun.
The presence of the reporters, and the sound their cameras made, made me uneasy. I began to squirm. Elam gave me a sharp look to let me know my uneasiness was showing, and to cut it out. Both Elam and Hopp did terrific jobs of acting inconspicuous and unconcerned. Elam, especially. Hopp just sort of sat there like a stone, the way he did when he was playing cards; but Elam looked like he really felt at home, and even managed to chuckle when something was supposed to be funny.
Wheaty also seemed to be enjoying himself. That same capacity that made him able to enjoy his stay in jail was allowing him to find fascination in these cornball Founder’s Day proceedings.
And those proceedings did have a certain fascination to them I must admit.
For example, when the Governor’s speech was over, the Mayor presented him with the key to the city. It was a small key, like the trunk key to a Toyota. Considering the size of Wynning, that only seemed fitting.