HASTINGS LISTENS TO RANDY MELVIN’S gray, exhausted mother plead for help. She says something is very wrong. Her son’s in bad trouble. She cradles freshly printed missing persons flyers. Cathy, a fellow mother, comforts her, holds her shaking hands, promises her son will be found, nobody’s forgotten him. Hastings steps around the front desk and hugs Mrs. Melvin and reminds her that her son’s criminal lifestyle and all its consequences are not her fault or responsibility.
Later, Hastings finds Durum asleep in the staffing room. He approaches quietly and draws his revolver and sets the barrel against Durum’s kneecap. Sam snickers in the corner.
“Wakey wakey,” Hastings says.
Durum’s eyes flicker open. “Good afternoon, psycho.”
“You work about as hard as Congress, don’t you?” Hastings holsters the gun.
“Nah, man. Harder. I don’t go on vacation every other month. And unfortunately, I don’t got any interns sequestered under my desk.” He rubs his face. “Was a bad night.”
“We talked about this. What kept you up? More serial killers?”
“No. Watched Channel Nine. Election talk. I just ain’t decided yet. I went to every representative’s website, but it all just sounds like horseshit.”
“Any word on the treads?”
“Wharton’s got it,” Sam says. “He’s trying to open a PDF.”
Hastings pours a cup of coffee. He hates drinking from a percolator, all the plastic valves and reservoirs, carcinogens leached into the hot water.
Sam points at his mug. “I made that fresh. It’s a dark roast, something from France.”
Hastings looks out the window. “On NPR this morning, they were talking about democracy in crisis. It was about segregated districts, voter suppression, what they called systemic discrimination. I lost count of how many times they whined about injustice.”
“You listen to NPR?” Sam says.
It’s raining hard outside. By the dumpsters behind the pizza parlor, an old man in a flannel jacket picks through the trash, mumbles to himself, and gathers beer bottles for recycling. His hair is matted with lice. He wears gloves without fingers. Everyone in town calls him Larry the Loon. He lives in a bungalow beside the old railroad tracks and calls himself a scavenger.
“Now, see,” Durum says. “That right there is what pisses me off. Look at Larry. We live in a country where guys like him can vote. And we wonder why we got serious problems. That’s what I think about when I’m trying to make an informed decision at the ballot box. That son of a bitch is right behind me, next in line. That poor bastard picks his ass and smells his fingers. He eats his boogers. He can’t read, can barely write his name. And he votes!”
“I don’t vote,” Sam says. “I just don’t care that much.”
Hastings nods. “I don’t vote either.”
“What?” Durum says. “Really?”
“I do not vote,” Hastings says.
“That really surprises me, bud. Why the hell not?”
“Because democracy is stupid. It’s an irrational belief system founded on fantastical values. The true crisis is that nobody actually believes in this shit anymore.”
Durum shakes his head. “Well. I believe in it, man.”
Wharton comes in carrying a sheet of paper. He waves it in the air. “We got him. Kid’s tires are a match. Talked to Judge Meade. I’ll have a warrant by the time we get to his fucking house.”