CHAPTER 4

At one time, each small town in America had a unique identity, a way for a traveler to know whether they were in some backwoods burg in Rhode Island or Connecticut or New Jersey. That time had passed, and it seemed these days it was impossible to distinguish one strip mall of fast food restaurants and retail chain stores from any other strip mall anywhere along any road in our country. America seemed to have blended into one endless stretch of commercial conformity. I wondered if the same thing had happened in East Hastings.

It felt more than a little macabre to rush to see someone placed in a hole in the ground, so rather than take Rte. I-95 south I decided to drive along the less direct back roads down to Stevie’s funeral. Not that I really had that much of a choice. There wasn’t much chance my reliable, old 1989 Toyota Camry was up to competing with SUVs and tractor trailers on the interstate for the more than six-hour drive south. I didn’t mind, really. It only seemed appropriate that neither my car nor I seemed capable of driving in the fast lane anymore.

The Camry was the first, and only, new car I had ever bought. When I got it, I thought I’d hold onto it for a few years before I traded it in for a newer model, probably something a little sportier. I used most of my very first paycheck for the down payment, but seeing as how I was single and renting a studio apartment, I didn’t mind the expense. It suited my needs. It was dependable transportation, good gas mileage, and so what if it wasn’t a chick magnet? It wasn’t that bad-a-looking car. I’d take good care of it, keep it clean. The women could wait a year or two to fight over me.

What’s that old saying? If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans? Well, my sportier car never happened. I made good money at the paper and had actually built up a little bit of a savings account when I met Jan. Things moved fast. Next thing I know we’re living in an overpriced two-bedroom apartment in downtown Boston on my salary, while Jan was working her way through med school. We could’ve found a cheaper place outside of the city, but she had to be close to school and the hospital where she spent extra hours volunteering, and I figured, since I was going to be the Boston Herald’s next great investigative reporter, I should get to know the sinister back streets and alleys of the city I was going to clean up. Any extra money we happened to scrape together went toward saving for the house we intended to buy after she graduated. We would get something real nice with the extra income, once she was working and had paid off all her tuition debts. We’d need room for the kids, after all. Nice plans. I think comedians call it the set-up.

Instead, Jan got ovarian cancer and even though she was surrounded by the best medical minds and technology and had access to the very best treatment available in the entire country, the cancer won and took her away from me. I got a little bitter. I guess I started looking for a bad guy. There had to be a bad guy. Beautiful, bright, full-of-life people like Jan just didn’t die.

I found my suspect--PharmaHeal, one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the country. Rumor had it the cancer drug they developed, the one prescribed for Jan during her treatment, was about as useful against her cancer as a fly swatter against a swarm of locusts. And they knew it.

I went after them. Man, did I go after them. But I guess I got a little stupid, lost a little perspective on who I could trust and who I couldn’t. There was a lot at stake. I didn’t listen to the warnings because I was going to take them down. I didn’t care that PharmaHeal was big and powerful--ex-governor, an ex-presidential candidate, and a member of one of the most powerful families in Massachusetts on the board of directors powerful--to say nothing of being the Herald’s biggest advertiser. My story got squashed and I was not-so-delicately told to keep quiet and consider how much I treasured my career as a journalist.

Why didn’t I listen? I’d keep asking myself that for a long time to come. I would listen today, no doubt about it. But back then...well, every time I closed my eyes I saw my lovely Jan fighting against that damned disease, and I saw how strong she was trying to be for me. For me! So I got a lot of stupid. I gave the story to a rival paper and waited for the fireworks.

Well, they came, and they were all directed at me. Sources recanted or completely disappeared. PharmaHeal--with plenty of help from the Herald--portrayed me as an out-of-control, angry, --okay, so I did tend to end my days with my butt plastered on a bar stool--and unprofessional opportunist with an axe to grind. I guess I was lucky not to end up in jail or sued for libel. I think everyone was just happy to see me go away.

So I packed the Camry, left Boston, and started driving downhill.

Still, I loved this old car. It was one of the few vehicles that my six-foot-three-inch frame comfortably fit into, and now after twenty years, the driver’s seat felt as cozy as a living room recliner. A lot of forty-one-year-old men probably wouldn’t feel the same affection for a car with dried out cracks on the dashboard; mysterious rattles from inside the door frames; and a smell that seemed like a mix of rotting banana peels and stale, spilt milk. Throw in the fact that every personal belonging I owned was either stuffed into the trunk or piled on the back seat, and my situation sure didn’t scream “success.” I didn’t care. It was the one thing I owned, and it was full of memories from better times.

I drove along my back roads of America, hoping to find a down-home tavern along my route, a no-frills place where I could get a quick lunch, a mid-day eye opener or two, and maybe play some darts or long board. No such luck. It would probably be easier to find a gas station with attendants that squeegeed my front window than a tavern.

I gave up and the best I could do was a bright, wholesome-looking place with a name that I knew had been cooked up in a boardroom by a bunch of advertising executives who would never set foot in the place themselves. Upon entering, I was met by a twenty-something, cute, bright and wholesome-looking hostess who seemed just a little too glad to see me.

“How you doing today? You’re all alone?” she asked.

Damn, was it that obvious? “Yeah, afraid so,” I answered.

“Right this way,” she said, snatching a menu the size of a placemat, only razor thin and laminated, out of a holder by the front desk. She turned and began to lead me into a dining room filled with tables covered with checkered tablecloths and chairs with metal heart-sculptured backs. A few booths lined the walls. The room was filled with mid-day light that streamed in through the large windows at each booth.

There was a decent lunch crowd, with the noise level somewhere more than a murmur and less than a buzz.

Using the sharp skills honed over years of investigative reporting, I looked around and noticed that nowhere was there a person sitting alone, by themselves, at a table or in a booth.

“Excuse me,” I said before the hostess took me too far into the dining room, “do you have a bar I can eat at and maybe get a drink?”

“Of course, right this way,” she said, turning around, and leading me out of the room. As we passed back by the hostess station she grabbed a different, but just as large, menu from a holder by the front desk.

“These are our drink specials and bar appetizers,” she explained. “We offer over fifty fabulous cocktails for you to choose from--Sex on a Beach, Fuzzy Nipple, Mai Tais--”

“That’s all right. I just want a Powers or two?” I interrupted.

The hostess slammed on the brakes, and I nearly ran into her from behind. She wheeled around, almost slicing my neck with the edge of the menus she was cradling in her arms.

“A Powers?” she asked. “Is that some kind of energy drink?”

“Depends on the time of day,” I answered.

She scanned the large drink menu.

“We have one with Red Bull, vodka, and cranberry juice--called a Molotov Cocktail--but not a Powers. How do you make it?”

“You don’t have to,” I answered. “It comes premade right in the bottle.”

“Oh, then I doubt very much that we have it. Our bartenders make all our drinks fresh while you wait. That’s what makes them taste so good.”

I didn’t bother asking about darts or long board. No need to, because I knew, up in heaven, God was busting a gut.