“They don’t usually like to release mental patients.”
“I think I can get the governor’s intervention on this one. Kirkpatrick has been looking for an excuse to duck out on our Fourth of July parade. This would be a useful tradeoff for him.”
“There are some risks.”
“I think we should take them. Now, what’s happening with that sonuvabitch who assaulted Tommy? The girl’s been fired and mortgage papers have been served on the father. Why hasn’t the city gone ahead with a criminal prosecution against the asswipe who’s responsible for all this?”
“I’m still checking into all the legal issues, Ted. Meanwhile he has been suspended from the police force.”
“What does that mean? I walked by yesterday and he was still in there.”
“His movements have not been restricted. If he has friends…”
“Nick, that’s not good enough. A cop in uniform beats up an innocent civilian: that’s a crime.”
“Well, I know, but it can be tricky. We can assume he’ll put up a stiff defense. Want to have everything in place before we get involved with the courts. You also asked about getting a parade permit for the Fourth. That’s been done. And the bank picnic will be set up out on the high school football field, with part of the raffle proceeds going to the school’s athletic program. Working out the contract arrangements now.”
“All right. People will want to use the unoccupied Main Street commercial properties to exhibit or sell things. Let’s offer them small grants for fixing them up. Stick a notice up on the old Chamber of Commerce windows. I’ve put Tommy in charge of the parade and the fireworks. We’ll have a small brass band for the parade made up mostly of school kids from here and the towns around, fire engines and police cars, at least one float built by the New Opportunities for West Condon steering committee, and some marching groups like the American Legion, Knights of Columbus, what’s left of the miners’ union, the Christian Patriots—”
“Isn’t that J. P. Suggs’ private militia? They’re just the Klan under another name.” “I know, Nick, but the request came through the sheriff’s office, and it seemed better to fold them into the community on the day than to exclude them, especially with Suggs himself out of the picture now. We’ll have an essay contest — what it means to be an American, that sort of thing — and I’ve got people rounding up raffle prizes.”
“You can probably get a whole bunch of shoes from Dave Os-borne.”
“Yes, he’s a problem. We have to close that embarrassment down before the Fourth. Wouldn’t want the governor to see it, if he did turn up. I was also wondering if we might make some use of the old hotel? Display the town history in the lobby or something?”
“It’s not in great shape, but I suppose it’s doable.”
“Maybe we can get the prospective new owners to put a little money into it. Nick, what do you know about that group, the Roma Historical Society?”
“Not much. Italian Americans. With money. I think one of them is from a family that used to live here twenty, thirty years ago.”
“What family is that?”
“I’ll ask.”
“Unh-hunh. Nick, did the Roma Historical Society have anything to do with the hiring of Charlie Bonali?”
A guy comes in. Vaguely familiar. He’s wearing some kind of scarlet desert smock with blue robes. He announces himself as Jesus. Yeah, that’s probably who he looks like all right. “Son of God? That one?”
“Verily, my friend. The same yesterday, and today, and forever. All hail. But what is this? None of your shoes have laces!”
“Yeah, it’s a kind of plague. One your old man didn’t think of.”
“I count it more a parable, whose meaning as yet escapes me, though I will search for it.” Jesus points down at his feet, one sandaled, one bare. “Behold my feet,” he says.
“First thing I noticed when you came in.” Dave shows him one of his hand-painted CLOSING DOWN SALE signs, not yet up on the front door. “Perfect timing. First two pair free today.”
“I was hoping only to match the one I have.”
“All out. There’s been a run on those things. My entire stock got wiped out in a single day. Must be the weather. But I may have just the ticket. What size is your foot?”
He lifts the bare one to look at it. “I’m not sure. It belongs to someone else. But nine and a half, I’d judge.”
“I think you need to wash that foot, no matter who it belongs to.”
“Well, it has had no rest. If you will wash it, my friend, I will make you a disciple, for he that humbleth himself shall be exalted, as I myself, in a foreign tongue, have been erroneously quoted as saying.”
“That’s mighty generous, pal. I appreciate your pitch, but it’s not my line of work. Nor discipling neither, which is strictly against my principles. But, here, try these on. What do you think?”
Not far away, in the city firehouse, Georgie Lucci is pleading with the fire chief: “C’mon, Mort. Be a buddy, goddamn it. Lemme drive the engine in the big parade.”
“With your record, Georgie, I wouldn’t let you drive my kid’s tricycle, if I had a kid and he had a tricycle, which, thank God, I don’t and he don’t.”
“Is that a long way round of saying yes, Mort?”
They are drinking Mort Whimple’s double-strength coffee, Georgie sweetening it with the hair of last night’s mutt. Another big one tonight: Stevie Lawson’s bachelor party. Have to get braced for it. They’ve already dipped into Steve’s sister-in-law’s gift to them, which accounts for this morning’s hangover, but there’s plenty left. They’d hoped to book the Blue Moon Motel for the party, but he and Steve have been banned from there and they’ve got bouncers now, and besides, they’re dead broke and limited to the bottles of cheap rye supplied by Tessie, so it’s a B.Y.O.B. drift about town tonight. At least they’ll be welcome wherever they go.
Mort fills him in on all the raunchy new songs those hillbillies have been singing out at the Moon, songs about whoring in buses and trailer camps, a jukebox-killer sex maniac, and a new one called “The Night My Daddy Loved Me Too Much,” which Mort says so shocked the locals they couldn’t even clap or hoot afterwards, they all just sat there with their jaws gapping. But after a moment of dead silence everybody started hollering for them to sing it again. “The old beauty I was with started blubbering and couldn’t stop, like it had just happened to her. I never heard nothing like that before, not in mixed company.”
“That’s pretty wild,” Georgie says, sucking up coffee and wondering if he can hit Mort up for a plate of bacon and eggs over at Mick’s. The pressure’s off him now that the mayor has canceled his reelection campaign in the Italian neighborhood, but it also means most of the commissions have dried up. “I gotta hear that.”
“Well, tune in the radio tonight. They’re going live. Some big-ass record company is turning up. They’re headed for the big time.”
When Vince Bonali sees Sal Ferrero arriving with a bag of eggs and a plucked chicken, he nearly breaks into tears again, so he lurches to his feet, bites down on the cigar, and growls: “Hey, Sal. What the hell. Come for the goddamn wake?”
“Yeah, soon as I heard, Vince. That’s rotten news. What’s up anyway?”
“Oh, nothing special. Angela’s fired and probably knocked up, Charlie’s suspended and may get sent to the pen, and the bank’s taking my fucking house away. I’m out on the street, Sal. Other than that…”