Christian? It doesn’t matter they’re different races. One to one, it’s like that. An African American and a normal American can be partners and respect each other. It’s only in groups people start whining and go bad.”
“Uh-huh, daddy,” Ginny said, but her eyes were on the set, where Chuck Norris was high-kicking an evil-looking Latino in the face.
“Perry.” His wife stood in the doorway, and his irritation flashed for a moment.
“What is it? You know this is my favorite show.”
“I’m sorry, dear. There’s a phone.”
He picked up the cordless on the end table.
“Yeah?”
“K?”
“Uh-huh.” He went very still inside, the TV flashing right out of existence, as still as he had gone on long-range reconnaissance patrols thirty years earlier, at the point of balance, ready to move .
“The guy’s hired somebody, a detective.”
“Is he heading our way?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Thanks. Keep me posted.” He hung up and set the phone down thoughtfully.
“I’m really sorry, dear. He sounded insistent.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“I mean, you know I wouldn’t cut in on—”
“It’s okay , Kelly, okay .”
“Daddy, he’s hurting the Mescan.”
“The Mexican must deserve it,” he said absently. “Walker only hurts bad guys.”
FIVE
Can You See More Clearly From There?
“Listen to this! It’s da bomb!”
Mary Beth squatted cross-legged on the other side of the old pink 45rpm record player with its fat spindle. The Leary home on the suburban edge of Claremont had central air, so at least they were comfortable hanging out in Mary Beth’s bedroom.
On the turntable was “Mony Mony” by Tommy James and The Shondelles. Mary Beth had been slamming through a stack of her dad’s R&B 45s like “Silhouettes” and “96 Tears,” playing about thirty seconds of each one before getting bored and whacking down another one.
That restlessness made Maeve nervous too. It seemed to suggest that the girl had never felt comfortable in her life, had never let herself settle into a rhythm. Unease was woven into the whole fabric of her life, Maeve thought. She looked around. Her cousin had collected a number of things willy-nilly, just because she could afford them, without knowing or caring enough about any of them. There were rows of ignored dolls in national dress, bags of POGs, an elaborate Victorian dollhouse, even a trunk of Archie comic books—another hand-me-down from a father who had inherited the Chevy dealership in town from his own father.
Mary Beth’s dad, too, seemed to spend his time on restless, barren projects, staring at his computer, moving his money around from investment to investment, or exercising in a half-hearted way with the expensive equipment in the back yard. Mary Beth’s mother lolled on a chaise by the pool reading romance novels.
Out the full-length window, Tom Leary now held a set of light-looking barbells over his head, pumping away at great showoff speed for about thirty seconds. Then he stopped to rub his pot belly.
“I like this song,” Maeve said.
“Yeah.”
But it was gone, wrenched away to make room for “In the Still of the Night,” by the Five Satins.
Maeve was beginning to wonder if she’d made a bad mistake. Three days , she’d told her dad. Come get me Saturday . Of course, it might have been worse. She might have been forced to listen to Mary Beth’s new CDs. The girl’s tastes seemed to run to Top 40 bubblegum like ’N Sync, while Smashing Pumpkins was about as mainstream as Maeve’s listening ever got.
But then she got lucky. “I read a Nancy Drew the other day,” she offered casually.
Mary Beth just lit up. She bounced and boiled with enthusiasm. “Yo, Maeve, you’re gonna just expire when you see this!” She skittered across the room on her hands and knees like a startled spider and pulled open the doors of a walk-in closet to show off a free-standing bookcase. “I got Trixie Belden, the whole set!”
“Uh-huh, daddy,” Ginny said, but her eyes were on the set, where Chuck Norris was high-kicking an evil-looking Latino in the face.
“Perry.” His wife stood in the doorway, and his irritation flashed for a moment.
“What is it? You know this is my favorite show.”
“I’m sorry, dear. There’s a phone.”
He picked up the cordless on the end table.
“Yeah?”
“K?”
“Uh-huh.” He went very still inside, the TV flashing right out of existence, as still as he had gone on long-range reconnaissance patrols thirty years earlier, at the point of balance, ready to move .
“The guy’s hired somebody, a detective.”
“Is he heading our way?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Thanks. Keep me posted.” He hung up and set the phone down thoughtfully.
“I’m really sorry, dear. He sounded insistent.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“I mean, you know I wouldn’t cut in on—”
“It’s okay , Kelly, okay .”
“Daddy, he’s hurting the Mescan.”
“The Mexican must deserve it,” he said absently. “Walker only hurts bad guys.”
FIVE
Can You See More Clearly From There?
“Listen to this! It’s da bomb!”
Mary Beth squatted cross-legged on the other side of the old pink 45rpm record player with its fat spindle. The Leary home on the suburban edge of Claremont had central air, so at least they were comfortable hanging out in Mary Beth’s bedroom.
On the turntable was “Mony Mony” by Tommy James and The Shondelles. Mary Beth had been slamming through a stack of her dad’s R&B 45s like “Silhouettes” and “96 Tears,” playing about thirty seconds of each one before getting bored and whacking down another one.
That restlessness made Maeve nervous too. It seemed to suggest that the girl had never felt comfortable in her life, had never let herself settle into a rhythm. Unease was woven into the whole fabric of her life, Maeve thought. She looked around. Her cousin had collected a number of things willy-nilly, just because she could afford them, without knowing or caring enough about any of them. There were rows of ignored dolls in national dress, bags of POGs, an elaborate Victorian dollhouse, even a trunk of Archie comic books—another hand-me-down from a father who had inherited the Chevy dealership in town from his own father.
Mary Beth’s dad, too, seemed to spend his time on restless, barren projects, staring at his computer, moving his money around from investment to investment, or exercising in a half-hearted way with the expensive equipment in the back yard. Mary Beth’s mother lolled on a chaise by the pool reading romance novels.
Out the full-length window, Tom Leary now held a set of light-looking barbells over his head, pumping away at great showoff speed for about thirty seconds. Then he stopped to rub his pot belly.
“I like this song,” Maeve said.
“Yeah.”
But it was gone, wrenched away to make room for “In the Still of the Night,” by the Five Satins.
Maeve was beginning to wonder if she’d made a bad mistake. Three days , she’d told her dad. Come get me Saturday . Of course, it might have been worse. She might have been forced to listen to Mary Beth’s new CDs. The girl’s tastes seemed to run to Top 40 bubblegum like ’N Sync, while Smashing Pumpkins was about as mainstream as Maeve’s listening ever got.
But then she got lucky. “I read a Nancy Drew the other day,” she offered casually.
Mary Beth just lit up. She bounced and boiled with enthusiasm. “Yo, Maeve, you’re gonna just expire when you see this!” She skittered across the room on her hands and knees like a startled spider and pulled open the doors of a walk-in closet to show off a free-standing bookcase. “I got Trixie Belden, the whole set!”
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