the passenger seat next to Carver. The white Cadillac had been only a few feet behind the Olds; the shot had been a deliberate miss.
Carver could still see out the driver’s side of the smashed windshield, and damage to the Olds from the accident was minimal. Anyway, the car was almost as dented and rusty as the truck it had hit. Here was an accident to make an insurance adjuster shake his head.
Carver eased his sore body back behind the steering wheel, started the Olds’s engine, and slipped the shift lever into Drive. He was tentative at first, but within a few blocks he was sure the massive and outdated car was running as well as ever. It was a rolling symbol of Detroit’s long-ago best; it wasn’t easy to harm a monument. After winding around side streets in the depressing neighborhood, he found his way back to Beachside Avenue and drove home.
He knew Edwina would still be out trying to sell real estate, but there was someone seated at the table on the veranda. It was dusk and Carver couldn’t make out who it was.
There was an old umbrella on the backseat of the car. Carver twisted around and managed to reach it.
Using it as a cane, he climbed out of the car. The unopened umbrella supported him okay, but he had to stoop slightly to walk, and he had to be careful to plant the pointed metal tip on hard surfaces.
He swung the gate open and limped toward the seated figure, trying to think who it might be. A man, very tall—basketball-player tall. Loose-jointed and slouched in a casual—almost insolent—attitude. As if this were his home and Carver was dropping by to see him. Though almost entirely in outline, the man was familiar to Carver. Familiar in a way that stirred something unpleasant in the murky depths of memory.
When he got closer and the figure raised a can or glass in a mock toast, Carver still didn’t know for sure who it was. Didn’t know until the man spoke:
“Heard my old asshole buddy had some trouble, so I hustled right over here. Lock on your cunt’s house is cheap shit, easy to pick, so I wandered on in and helped myself to a beer while I waited.” A loud belch. “Knew you wouldn’t mind.”
McGregor.
9
C ARVER LIMPED TOWARD the table where McGregor sat sipping beer. McGregor watched him silently, and when Carver was about ten feet away extended a huge foot and shoved out the chair opposite him in an invitation to sit down. Playing the genial host as if he lived here. The grating noise of the metal chair legs on the bricks irritated Carver. He said nothing as he scooted the chair nearer to the table and sat down. He hooked the handle of the unopened umbrella over the back of the chair next to him.
McGregor hadn’t changed much since Carver had last seen him. He was a lanky tower of a man, awkward yet with a suggestion of coiled strength. Homely, elongated face to match his long body, with a prognathous jaw, pale blue eyes, and straight blond hair and bleached-looking eyebrows. Nobody had ever told him about good grooming. His clothes were always wrinkled, he substituted cheap lemony cologne for bathing, and he looked as if he gave himself haircuts with a dull knife. There was a wide gap between his front teeth, contributing to the most lascivious grin Carver had ever seen. He gave no indication that he’d noticed anything about Carver, but Carver knew he’d noticed everything.
Without glancing at the umbrella McGregor said, “Think it was gonna rain?”
“Couldn’t be sure it wasn’t,” Carver said.
“Where’s the cane?”
“Broke it.”
McGregor chewed on something infinitesimal for a moment, clicking his eyeteeth together and gazing out over Carver’s head. “Walnut cane, wasn’t it? That’s hard wood. Not easy to break.”
Carver wondered if McGregor would believe how the cane had really been snapped. He wasn’t sure if he believed it himself; it had been astonishing, like witnessing a magic trick. That kind of strength and hand speed was only barely
Carver could still see out the driver’s side of the smashed windshield, and damage to the Olds from the accident was minimal. Anyway, the car was almost as dented and rusty as the truck it had hit. Here was an accident to make an insurance adjuster shake his head.
Carver eased his sore body back behind the steering wheel, started the Olds’s engine, and slipped the shift lever into Drive. He was tentative at first, but within a few blocks he was sure the massive and outdated car was running as well as ever. It was a rolling symbol of Detroit’s long-ago best; it wasn’t easy to harm a monument. After winding around side streets in the depressing neighborhood, he found his way back to Beachside Avenue and drove home.
He knew Edwina would still be out trying to sell real estate, but there was someone seated at the table on the veranda. It was dusk and Carver couldn’t make out who it was.
There was an old umbrella on the backseat of the car. Carver twisted around and managed to reach it.
Using it as a cane, he climbed out of the car. The unopened umbrella supported him okay, but he had to stoop slightly to walk, and he had to be careful to plant the pointed metal tip on hard surfaces.
He swung the gate open and limped toward the seated figure, trying to think who it might be. A man, very tall—basketball-player tall. Loose-jointed and slouched in a casual—almost insolent—attitude. As if this were his home and Carver was dropping by to see him. Though almost entirely in outline, the man was familiar to Carver. Familiar in a way that stirred something unpleasant in the murky depths of memory.
When he got closer and the figure raised a can or glass in a mock toast, Carver still didn’t know for sure who it was. Didn’t know until the man spoke:
“Heard my old asshole buddy had some trouble, so I hustled right over here. Lock on your cunt’s house is cheap shit, easy to pick, so I wandered on in and helped myself to a beer while I waited.” A loud belch. “Knew you wouldn’t mind.”
McGregor.
9
C ARVER LIMPED TOWARD the table where McGregor sat sipping beer. McGregor watched him silently, and when Carver was about ten feet away extended a huge foot and shoved out the chair opposite him in an invitation to sit down. Playing the genial host as if he lived here. The grating noise of the metal chair legs on the bricks irritated Carver. He said nothing as he scooted the chair nearer to the table and sat down. He hooked the handle of the unopened umbrella over the back of the chair next to him.
McGregor hadn’t changed much since Carver had last seen him. He was a lanky tower of a man, awkward yet with a suggestion of coiled strength. Homely, elongated face to match his long body, with a prognathous jaw, pale blue eyes, and straight blond hair and bleached-looking eyebrows. Nobody had ever told him about good grooming. His clothes were always wrinkled, he substituted cheap lemony cologne for bathing, and he looked as if he gave himself haircuts with a dull knife. There was a wide gap between his front teeth, contributing to the most lascivious grin Carver had ever seen. He gave no indication that he’d noticed anything about Carver, but Carver knew he’d noticed everything.
Without glancing at the umbrella McGregor said, “Think it was gonna rain?”
“Couldn’t be sure it wasn’t,” Carver said.
“Where’s the cane?”
“Broke it.”
McGregor chewed on something infinitesimal for a moment, clicking his eyeteeth together and gazing out over Carver’s head. “Walnut cane, wasn’t it? That’s hard wood. Not easy to break.”
Carver wondered if McGregor would believe how the cane had really been snapped. He wasn’t sure if he believed it himself; it had been astonishing, like witnessing a magic trick. That kind of strength and hand speed was only barely
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