“Have you given any thought to your future plans, son?” he asked. “You’re quite a celebrity these days. There’s a lot going on in Stagger Bay right now, and I’d like you to be part of it, come on over to our side of things. You’re not the man I thought you were; we had you pegged all wrong.
“You shouldn’t be staying there in the Gardens with those riff raff – we need to put you up in a nice B & B, get you used to being one of us. Hell, I’ll set you up in a cush apartment in Old Town. Or even a house if you like; I own half this town.”
“Maybe I’m more comfortable in the Gardens, Mr. Tubbs. There is cush enough for me.”
“I suppose that’s as good a place to hide as any, though we knew where you were as soon as you lit. Did you know I used to be Chief of Police here, before I handed over the job to Jansen?” he asked, studying his fingernails.
The sidewalks were increasingly crowded the closer we got to Old Town; some big shindig must have been getting ready to throw down.
“Yep, our boys in blue still come to me for advice on tough cases. I still keep my hand in. They came to me about the Beardsleys, actually,” Tubbs said, looking out his side of the Bronco at the thickening crowd, all of them watching us as we passed. “A man like you, an outsider from Oakland with a violent record like yours? We keep a close and wary eye on ‘em no matter how well they behave.
“I’ve seen your rap sheet, Markus. I know you were in CYA for a decent hunk of your teens, I know all about what you were. You were born to pin what happened to the Beardsleys on.”
“What are we saying here?” I asked. “You hung the frame on me?”
“Now, don’t be putting words into my mouth, son,” Tubbs said. “I’m not confessing to nothing.”
“Pull over now,” I said, sitting as far from him as I could.
“You’ll hear the rest first,” he said. He took his hat off and toyed with the pretty feather. “My daddy taught me never to complain, never to explain, and never to apologize. Well, I’m going to break that rule here, for the first time in my life. I’m sorry for what happened to you, Markus. I know you didn’t do it, and I’m glad you’re free again, and that’s as much as I’m going to say.”
The withered bastard looked at me hard, but his eyes glistened. “Thank you for putting paid to those whore sons for my girl. I owe you my marker. You can cash it in any old time. I don’t care whether you like it or not, I’m going to keep an eye out, and if there’s ever anything I can do for you-”
“We’re here,” the driver said as we crossed 4th Street on F and entered Old Town proper.
We were coming up on the Plaza’s wide expanse of cobblestone. Its fountain’s water jets danced and gurgled merrily in front of its spiral-ramped, raised gazebo. Bunting hung from surrounding buildings.
Usually the Plaza was crowded with scavenging pigeons and the shrieking children and barking dogs that chased them. Today its cobblestones were surrounded by barricades, with people of all ages packed against them held back by security personnel. The streets were blocked off and free of traffic, and the surrounding sidewalks were crowded with people who commenced a loud cheering as the Bronco rolled into view.
Mr. Tubbs guffawed at the expression on my face. “Relax, Markus. This is just the dress rehearsal. Enjoy yourself, son – you earned it. But you and me’ll be talking again later after the main event.”
The Bronco stopped and I climbed out, facing up to the cheering crowd. Church bells started clanging and bonging in the distance – from the direction it sounded like it was Stagger Bay Lutheran making their belfry sing.
Those ubiquitous news vans were here – but they were parked off to the side in a small group, they weren’t the star of this particular show. Several big television studio cameras were strategically deployed on pedestals, all aimed toward the gazebo where a group of people stood.
Cables snaked in various directions across the ground, connecting stacked speakers and an open air sound board which techs tinkered with. A man with a meter was doing a check in front of a bank of lights; another man snuck a cigarette while standing to the side holding a boom mike; a bald guy with a clipboard in his hand gave some kind of briefing to a small attentive crew.
A man and woman hurried up to me, bursting with energy and dazzlingly well groomed. The man had white, shiny chiclet teeth, made me wonder if they glowed in the dark. The woman was dark, and had an East-Coasty vibe.
She took in my combat-weary outfit and her eyes widened. “Yes,” she hissed. “He’s wearing the same clothes he fought in. We’ll have the cameraman get a full length shot of him.”
“You can’t be serious,” the man said. “People aren’t going to want to see him in rags – we’ll find a suit for him somewhere.”
“No,” she insisted. “That’s his brand, don’t you get it? The everyday, everyman look.”
“The bandaging has to go,” he muttered. “It’s tacky.”
The people standing in front of the gazebo drew my attention, as they seemed to be at the focus of the entire setup. A bunch of kids stood in front of the dancing fountain, looking strangely familiar. Next to the kids stood a podium crowned with a bank of microphones; the mayor of Stagger Bay stood behind it, goggling at me. The gazebo reared up behind them all on its spiral-ramped ziggurat pedestal.
I turned away from the still squabbling couple and moved toward the kids. My manic handlers ran after me.
“Wait, Markus,” the man said as they paced me. “We have to get some makeup on you before the run through. You don’t even know where you’re supposed to stand, this is out of order. The children are supposed to be last on the program.”
He had to raise his voice almost to a shout. The crowd screamed and whistled behind the barricades; people clapped and stomped their feet in rhythm, faces red and excited as they chanted my name in unison over and over, with the monotonous ding-dong-DING of the church bells as back beat.
I looked to one side as I walked, and quickly returned my gaze forward: there was Bill, the man who’d once been my barber, who’d spat in my face when I was on the way into the courthouse for sentencing. Now he bobbed up and down in excitement, his eyes glittering as if drunk. Perhaps he thought we were friends again.
At the outskirts of the crowd I saw Officer Hoffman, looking down at the ground. Next to him sat that omnipresent Cougar, its wide-shouldered long-haired blond driver standing next to his ride and staring at me through the interposing mob; his feet were spread shoulder-wide, and both fists were on his hips with his elbows jutting out.
As I tried for a clearer look at him a big, strapping woman darted past security to pick me up in a lusty bear hug and plant a kiss on my cheek. The townspeople roared riotous approval.
And then I was in front of the kids, whom I finally recognized: they were the children from the classroom at the School. They watched wide-eyed as I came up, their parents standing behind them and eying me avidly as well.
This silent group of families faced me without any of the fidgeting or shuffling around I’d have expected from such a meeting. This was stage management, I realized – they were all standing exactly where they were told for this dress rehearsal.
“Smile at them Markus!” the woman handler yelled from behind me.
The non-stop celebratory noise from the crowd and the pealing church bells was almost overwhelming as I looked the kids over: they appeared none the worse for wear from their ordeal.
They broke ranks suddenly and ran to surround me, patting at me with their hands and chattering in excitement. Their parents followed as quickly, and these families ringed me in from the rest of the world. I goggled down at the kids in wonder as they touched me and stroked my arms, as if making sure I was all right, or as if they doubted my reality.