There were some pressing decisions as well. The city council had just come out with the new budget, the infrastructure was crumbling, and the EPA had ordered the city to repair the sewer system, which had been spilling sewage into the Mon during heavy storms. The Buell PD's share of the budget had gone from $785,000 to $541,000—the biggest cut in the department's history. In addition to cutting back training and keeping the department's already clapped- out vehicles in service indefinitely, he would have to lay off three of his full- time guys. Which was nearly everyone.
He looked at his six- by- six elk and wondered when he'd be able to get to Wyoming again. Not till after retirement. As of next month, the department would consist of him, Steve Ho, Dick Nance, and twelve part-timers. Bert Haggerton was gone for sure. No one would miss him. But Harris would also have to get rid of Ron Miller, who had kids in college. Miller, who he'd known twenty years. But Miller was lazy, a clockwatcher, if Miller got a call in the middle of lunch, he would order dessert. Jerzy Borkowski, who was also going to get cut, was no better. They were small- town cops but things were changing, you needed a different attitude, the Mayberry days were over. He felt another surge of relief at keeping Steve Ho—he'd thought the council would make him keep Miller, who was the most senior officer. He could probably lie to Borkowski and Miller—tell them the council had made the decision on who to fire and who to keep—but in a town this size they would hear the truth soon enough. Neither one of those men would ever speak to him again. He would have to accept that. Haggerton wouldn't, either, though he didn't care about Haggerton.
The steak, he thought. He went out and flipped it. All was not lost.
“Beat it,” he told Fur, who was inching closer to the grill.
Eventually, everyone knew, the department's budget would be cut again and the Buell police would cease to exist—they would have to merge with the Southwest Regional out of Belle Vernon. Three years before there had been another budget crisis; the city ran out of money in late November and for the last four weeks of the year all the city employees went to the Mon Valley Bank and took out loans in lieu of paychecks. On the first of the New Year everyone took their loan slips to the city cashier's office and the city paid them off. Harris was pretty sure those things did not happen in other places.
The Valley's population was growing again but incomes were still going down, budgets still getting smaller, and no money had been put into infrastructure for decades. They had small- town budgets and big- city problems. As Ho said, they were approaching the tipping point. Most of the other Valley towns, with the exception of maybe Charleroi and Mon City, were over the edge and would never come back. The week before, a man had been shot in the face in broad daylight in Monessen. It was like this all up and down the river and many of the young people, the way they accepted their lack of prospects, it was like watching sparks die in the night. Just to get an office job you had to go to college and there were not enough of those jobs to go around—there could only be so many computer programmers, only so many management consultants. And of course those jobs were moving overseas now at the same rate they'd once shipped the steel jobs.
He didn't see how the country could survive like this in the long run; a stable society required stable jobs, there wasn't anything more to it than that. The police could not fix those problems. Citizens with pensions and health insurance rarely robbed their neighbors, beat their wives, or cooked up methamphetamine in their back sheds. And yet, everyone wanted to blame the cops—as if the department could somehow stop a society from collapsing. The police need to be more aggressive, they would say, until you caught their kid stealing a car and twisted his arm a little hard—then you were a monster. Civil rights violator. They wanted easy answers, but there weren't any. Keep your kids in school. Hope those biomed companies move down here.
In the meantime, enjoy what you can. He fixed his plate and gave Fur his two cups of kibble. The dog looked longingly at Harris sitting there with his plate in his lap, his steak and his chive potato. Harris shrugged and went on eating.
There would be time later for a nice fire, maybe he would finish that book. James Patterson. He would forget about Billy Poe.
“Get over here, meathead.”
Fur came and sat down next to Harris, knowing he was about to get some steak.
— — —
When he went into the office the next morning there were already messages. The important one being from the DA—they'd found a witness in the case who claimed to have been present at the time of the murder. The witness was fingering a football player whose name he couldn't remember, but he was positive he'd know him in a lineup. Did that ring any bells?
Harris returned the call but the DA was out somewhere. He sat at his desk and rubbed his temples. His little stunt with the jacket had not mattered one bit. It was still there, for all he knew, but it was no longer relevant. Murray Clark—the name of the witness—Harris ran him in the computer. DUI in ’81, another one in ’83, an arrest in ’87 for disorderly conduct. Nothing since. He rubbed the stiff muscles on his neck. A man who had, most likely, turned himself around. Not enough to discredit him on a witness stand. He switched off the computer monitor. He couldn't let himself think about this anymore—it would turn him inside out.
The office felt hot; he opened all the windows and sat down in his big leather chair, looking over the river, leg bouncing. He deserved a cigar. It would clear his mind. The humidor was right there. The air currents were good—the smoke wouldn't bother anyone. After finding the one he wanted and lighting it he eased farther into the chair, savoring. A glass of whiskey would top it off. You're going a little far now, he told himself.
It was a good place, his office. More of a clubroom, really. Everyone hated the new building and he didn't blame them, cinderblock and fluorescent lights, but it was all what you made of it. The old building had cost a hundred grand a year to keep in operation. Of course, it had also been a piece of artwork—towers and gables and wood panels inside, high ceilings, open spaces. You felt like someone working in a place like that. The new place, everyone rightfully said, looked like a garage.
He turned the smoke around in his mouth. He thought about Grace, looked at his own skinny legs and scuffed ropers on the desk, then around the office again. He'd salvaged a few things from the old building, this big oak desk, table lamps, leather furniture, a few impressionist paintings of the Valley as it had been in the old days, men poling flatbot-tom boats up the Mon, the night sky glowing orange above a steelmill. There were deer heads, another elk, a moose he'd shot in Maine. One of the deer was a little spike that the taxidermist had been embarrassed to mount. But Harris had carried that deer from deep in the woods, it was the last day of the season and he'd walked in four miles and got his deer and then carried it out, four miles, the others on the wall had similar stories, none of them were trophies but they all reminded him of times he liked to think about, times that had turned out better than they should have.
As for Billy Poe he'd dealt with this a million times—it was the downside of working in a small town, knowing who you arrested, knowing their mothers. In this case, sleeping with their mother, though obviously it was more than that. There was a mountain of paperwork as always but he decided to let himself watch the river for a while, twenty minutes to sit and watch the sky change, the river just flowing, it had been there before man laid eyes on it and it would be there long after everyone was gone. It was a good way to clear his head. Nothing mankind was capable of, the worst of human nature, it would never linger long enough to matter, any river or mountain could show you that—filthy them up, cut down all the trees, still they healed themselves, even trees outlived us, stones would survive the end of the earth. You forgot that sometimes— you begin to take the human ugliness personally. But it was as temporary as anything else.
Only a few minutes had passed since he'd started the cigar but he went down his to- do list anyway, both the one on his notepad and the real one he kept in hi
s head. He banished Billy Poe from his mind for good—the boy had built up a good head of steam but he was about to run out of track. He felt bad for Grace but that was all.
So why was his headache coming back? In eighteen months he could retire, had always presumed he would, though the closer it got the less sure he was about how he really felt about it, he liked coming in to work every day, liked his job. An extra day or two off a week would be nice, but seven days off might kill him—he couldn't spend the whole time hunting. It suddenly struck him what an enormous mistake it had been to move into the cabin: once he retired, he'd be completely alone. Steve Ho and Dick Nance, Dolly Wagner and Sue Pearson who worked in the city council's office, Don Cunko, even Miller and Borkowski—those people were the closest thing he had to a family. Everything, all of it, seemed like a mistake. He had done it to himself.
He stood up quickly and went to his bag to get a Xanax, shook one into his hand but didn't take it. He put the pill back and did three sets of situps and pushups. If you took care of your body, your mind would follow. So they said. He was not doing badly. Well, in fact—enough money had been put away, he wouldn't end up like Joe Lewis, the Monessen chief who'd had to work as a school security guard when he retired. And, as he reminded himself constantly, he did good work, he could be proud of what he'd done. Despite being one of the poorest, Buell was still one of the better towns in the Valley to live in, the kids didn't spraypaint so much, the dope dealing was not public. But it was only a delaying tactic. A young woman's body had been found a few weeks back, she lived in Greene County and her system was full of methamphetamines, no one knew what she was doing in Buell. There had been six other bodies in Fayette County this year as well, half of them gave up no leads at all. The newspapers were onto this and the new DA was on the defensive. And the last two are in your jurisdiction, thought Harris. He's gonna need to bang this one out of the park.
There was a knock and Harris unlocked the door to see Ho, carrying his big belly in front of him. He had strangely small hands and feet. His parents were from Hong Kong and they owned the Chinese Buffet in North Belle Vernon. He came into the office, pushing past Harris and sniffing the air, and, upon finding the cigar in the ashtray, picked it up and pitched it out the open window.
Harris grimaced. It was a seven- dollar cigar.
“It's ten in the goddamn morning,” said Ho.
“I'm a grown man,” said Harris.
Ho shrugged. “We might be getting a complaint,” he said. “Last night I got a noise violation at the Sparrows Point Apartments and ended up deploying my carbine. Twelve rounds.”
Harris blinked and then he thought no, if it was bad I would have heard about it already. Either way he was glad for the distraction. A good number of their problems came from Sparrows Point, a block of HUD apartments at the edge of town.
“It was just a pit bull,” Ho continued. “You know that little bald-headed dude, the one with all the tattoos on his face? He let the dog go on purpose to come after me, like I'd jump on the roof of the car or something, act like a funny Chinaman.”
“Did anything get hit besides the dog?”
“Hell no. But you should have seen all those motherfuckers, diving behind cars and shit. Wish I had it on tape.”
“What were you doing with the rifle for a noise violation?”
“There was like seven or eight of them. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
“Do you know what our insurance costs,” he said to Ho.
“Fuck the insurance,” said Ho. “What about shock and awe? Those fuckers are cooking up crystal in the units back there. It's a fuckin environmental hazard.”
“They don't bother the citizens,” said Harris. “People will get it somewhere.”
“That's just your liberal politics talking,” said Ho.
“Libertarian.”
“Whatever.” Ho grinned.
“You better watch your mouth if you want to keep that rifle.”
“Yessir.”
“You do the paperwork yet?”
“I wanted to ask you first.”
Harris rubbed his temples. All in all, it was better if there was no record of Ho shooting a dog with an automatic rifle. But if a complaint was ever filed … “Lemme think about it. In the meantime, around eleven o'clock why don't you get some Dairy Queen for Billy Poe.”
“That boy's fucked, ain't he? Heard about Carzano's witness.”
“We'll see.”
“Sorry, Chief Like I said before, looks like it'd be better if that prick Cecil Small was still the DA.”
“Alright,” said Harris. “I got work to do.” He gave a little wave and Ho left him alone in the office.
Ho was right. Cecil Small, who'd been DA of Fayette County longer than Harris had been a cop, had come looking for Harris's help in the election last year. Harris had demurred and Cecil Small had lost by fourteen votes. Cecil Small could have made something like this go away—in fact, he'd already allowed Billy Poe to plea down an assault charge. But Harris had never liked Cecil Small—he enjoyed playing God a little too much. It was undignified, a seventy- year- old man still getting high off locking people up. Expecting people to buy him drinks every time he won a trial. Like he was a key player in the battle between good and evil. For thirty years he'd been the emperor of Fayette County, though finally it had caught up to him—the voters got sick of it. The new DA, who was only twenty- eight years old, and who Harris had both voted for and essentially put in office by not making the requisite phone calls for Cecil Small, needed to prove himself and was now tripping over his own feet to be getting a case like this. There were consequences to voting your conscience.
He wondered what Ho thought about all this, about his protecting Grace's son. Most likely he just accepted it as natural behavior. Ho was very realistic. He did not think he could change things. He was part of the new generation, his stubby assault rifle went with him everywhere, he dressed like he was walking into a war zone, whereas Harris rarely even bothered to wear his bulletproof vest, his “duty boots” being these cowboy ropers he'd bought on a Wyoming trip—not a good choice if he had to run someone down. But Ho was right. If something went wrong, backup in the form of the state police was at least half an hour away, things were changing, the kids were all on speed now, they were cooking it up themselves and you didn't know what they might do. No, he thought, even thinking that way is a problem. Puts you and them on opposite sides before the word go. He shook his head at himself. There's probably never been an old man who didn't think that all the young people were degenerate. Nature of youth and age. Painful to see the world changing without you.
Still, he couldn't blame Ho for not wanting to walk into those situations with only a sidearm. Not to mention Ho was still here because Harris made the job fun, gave him carte blanche. The feds were getting rid of all their old M16s, giving them away to police departments, and Harris had ten of them, free except for shipping costs. They'd also gotten binoculars, night vision, riot shields, old ballistic vests, all free. They had more weapons and gear now than they had cops, they had more gear than Harris had had when he'd gone to Vietnam with the marines. It was all because of Ho, who had spent weeks of his own time filling out the paperwork, then thousands of dollars of his own money to customize his rifle, a ten- inch barrel and holographic sight. At the moment, Ho was happy living in his parents’ basement, doing gunsmithing on the side, but someday he would decide to move on. Sooner than later if Harris made the job boring. He would miss Ho. But he was getting ahead of himself again. Ho wasn't gone yet.
He tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing but then Billy Poe was on his mind again, and what this would do to Grace. He vaguely remembered the man Ho said was the owner of the dead dog, he'd just moved to town from West Virginia, typical toothless speed freak, had relatives here. He wondered if the man deserved a special visit. But probably watching his dog get machine- gunned was enough.
After an hour more of catching up on paperw
ork, he decided he couldn't stand it. He went and got Billy Poe from the cell. Billy looked depressed. That was a good sign.
“Let's talk in the office,” said Harris.
Billy Poe followed him into the office and stood politely until Harris motioned him to a chair. It occurred to him that the kid had been through this plenty of times before, called to the principal's office and lectured. Called to this very office and lectured. He tried to recollect what he'd said last time. He hoped he didn't repeat himself—they all remembered.
“I watched you play ball,” he said.
Billy Poe didn't say anything. He was looking at the floor.
“You should have gone to college with it.”
“I was sick of school.”
“Won't tell you that's smart. I know other people did, or just didn't say anything. But I won't. That was one of the dumbest moves you ever made.”
Poe shook his head. “You ought to be able to grow up in a place and not have to get the hell out of it when you turn eighteen.”
Harris was slightly taken aback. “I might agree with you and I might not,” he said, “but either way it doesn't change a goddamn thing.”
“I'm gonna call up the coach at Colgate.”