Winter washed Monta Clare with resolution; white sky met white treetops, and the town existed in a bauble where snowflakes drifted no matter the hour.
That first week he did not leave the old house, just removed the dust sheets and opened each window wide to air so frigid he took to wearing his father’s gabardine overcoat, deerstalker, and fingerless gloves.
“What the fuck do you look like?” Sammy said, as he pushed his way in and decanted a bottle of Glen Grant he’d been saving into two glasses. In the tired living room Sammy looked around. “It’s so fucking dull in here, if I had a gun I’d blow my brains out just to color the décor.”
“I’ll go fetch my father’s Smith and—”
Sammy sat on a wicker garden chair and crushed it fully, cursing as it imploded, his feet kicking up as he landed on his ass, while he made a decent production of keeping his glass level. Patch laughed so hard he had to head into the yard to ease the pain in his stomach.
“You need to buy yourself some furniture.” With that he pulled a check from his pocket and placed it on the kitchen counter. “I sold a painting.”
Patch moved to protest, but Sammy held up a placating hand, the middle finger raised in case there was any room for discourse.
“You said take care of the house. Taxes.”
“What did you sell?”
“Relax. None of the girls. I sold the ice.”
Patch closed his eye and saw it, the two figures shapeless, Sirius casting the only light on the frozen lake as a dozen colors rained around them, the brightest emerald to the coldest cobalt, though the two could see only each other.
“Who bought it?”
“Same woman over in Jefferson City. I had seven bidding.”
“You reckon one day I can buy it back?”
“No. You paint another.”
He shook his head.
“Then you at least come collect the mail.”
“Sure, Sammy.”
“And this shit.” Sammy nodded toward the two large bags he had carried in. Video tapes. News taken from the past six years.
“You made these?” Patch said.
Sammy waved him off. “I was fucking the girl from channel 7. Archives. Had to take her to dinner. Jesus.”
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” Patch said.
Sammy stood, rubbed the base of his spine, and aimed a curse at what was left of the chair, another at Patch.
“How was prison? Your asshole still intact?”
Patch frowned.
“You get the package I sent each Christmas?” Sammy said.
“Guards took the cheese.”
“Beaufort d’été. The prince of Gruyères. What about the sashimi?”
Patch shook his head.
Sammy threw up his hands in despair. “The fucking Wagyu then?”
“You know they don’t let you cook your own—”
“Fucking warden. I furnished his feast six years in a row. Almost feel bad for adding it to your debt now.”
“Almost.”
Sammy drank three glasses.
Patch followed him to the door.
Sammy cleared his throat. “It’s good to—”
“I know.”
“I mean. This town without—”
“Yeah.”