Chapter Twenty-two

“Two more this morning,” Johnny Kennerly said.

He was in his cruiser on a cell phone. I was in my office.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to snap myself out of the deepening darkness in which the play party phenomenon was threatening to engulf me. “What did you say?”

“Fielbert’s Garden Supplies and Rogie’s Donair Emporium. Every available inch of their wall space has been spray-painted with weird drawings and oversized letters. All of them signed, I might add.”

“Robber Xmas?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“I think we’ve reached critical mass. It’s time to raise the stakes.”

“How do we do that?”

“By getting the word out that we’re serious about apprehending these dickheads. Big rewards for those who lead us to them. Big penalties once they’re caught.”

“And we go about doing this how?”

“We print Wanted signs and post them everywhere. Every possible Internet outlet should be posted as well. We establish a Graffiti Hot Line and man it twenty-four/seven.”

“How do you propose we pay for all this?”

“By legislative decree. Which has already been granted.”

“You mean the Council is going to fund this?”

“I do.”

“How did you arrange that?”

“Helena Madison.”

“No shit. Helena’s gotten this approved?”

“She has.”

“No shit,” Johnny repeated. “How did you get her to do it?”

“I said yes to a little one on one contest.”

“Excuse me?”

“She and I are going to play a little one on one together.”

“What are you, crazy? She’ll wipe the floor with you.”

“Is there any way I might convince you to keep your opinions to yourself?”

Johnny snickered. “Oh, baby. This, I can’t wait to see.”

“Play parties,” my father exclaimed.

We were having lunch on the back patio of his house, his favorite spot, more so because it had also been cherished by my late mother.

It was a balmy, windswept afternoon and a pair of red-topped house finches caught my attention as they chased each other around the yard, stopping on occasion to forage for something to eat, then noisily resuming the chase.

Lunch for me was a chicken salad sandwich. The Sheriff’s was a peanut butter and jelly, which was all he was currently able to eat. His health was still on a downward spiral and he had begun to experience difficulty swallowing. Rather than adopting a liquid diet, he became defiant, forcing himself to eat solids, and having some success with the PB and J. “So, that’s what was going on?”

“Seems to be all the rage. Marsha read me blog postings from play party participants all over the world. Without going into detail, it does appear that this phenomenon has caught on big-time. Reflective, I’m guessing, of the changing philosophy regarding sex and commitment.”

“Changing how?”

“A loosening of moral standards, perhaps. The rejection of traditional values such as marriage and monogamy as the sole criteria for sexual relationships.”

“Must be right up your alley.”

This comment hit home. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sounds like your kind of lifestyle.”

“Where are you going with this, Burton?”

“You’re what now, thirty-four?”

“Thirty-two.”

He looked more closely at me, as if he were appraising my candidacy for non-monogamous hook-ups. “Whatever,” he muttered. “You never married. Never even had a girl you thought seriously enough about to bring home. Aren’t you a perfect example of a changing world philosophy regarding sex and commitment?”

“I’m not sure I would agree with that. You don’t see me involved in any play parties.”

“Probably because you didn’t know they existed.”

It struck me that the old man was purposely needling me. I discovered the edges of a smile at the corners of his mouth. And even though I was his victim, it pleased me to see him rising to the occasion. “Were you looking to get my goat this morning?”

“Hey, if the shoe fits.”

“It doesn’t fit. Okay?”

I pushed my plate back and stood.

“Oh, sit down, Buddy. Don’t be so thin-skinned. I’m the one who’s dying here, remember?”

I sat back down, somewhat contrite. I took a bite of my sandwich and with my mouth still full, offered, “This play party thing might conceivably have had some connection to Henry Carson’s death.”

“Because?”

“There’s a rift happening between members of the swim team.”

“Where he was a coach.”

“Less a coach than a kind of glorified consultant—whose attentions were directed not toward the team as a whole, but only to certain members of the team.”

“What certain members?”

“The better-looking ones. There’s an undercurrent of resentment among the kids who didn’t make the cut.”

“You mean the not-so-good-looking ones.”

“So it would appear.”

“Proof?”

“Not yet. I first heard the term play party from one of the swim team kids who hadn’t been invited to any of them. He said he had no actual knowledge of what took place at one, but whatever went on was ultra hush hush. Then he became frightened and ended our interview.”

“So, what’s next?”

“Further investigation.”

“This could get nasty.”

“I think it already is. Someone killed Hank Carson. Someone who knew him. Someone who was likely wounded by him. I’m going to find that person.”

We both sat silently. I finished my sandwich and watched as my father wrestled with his. He took tiny bites and chewed carefully. He was earnest about it and it was difficult to watch. At some point, he put the sandwich down and sat back in his chair. “You also mentioned something about graffiti.”

“Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“Are you up for a little ride?”

“With you?”

“Why not?”

“I wish I thought more highly of your driving.”

“Ditto,” I said.

We toured Freedom and the neighboring townships. I showed him the places that I knew had been defaced. And we discovered a couple of new ones along the way. He shook his head. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“The prevailing wisdom in the universe of the graffiti artist seems to be, ‘If I want to paint something, I’ll damn well do it. Anywhere I choose. Public property, private property. It’s all the same to me.’”

“Talk about disrespect.”

“There have been half-hearted attempts to stop them, but although the defacement of both public and private property is clearly an act of vandalism, these self-righteous, sanctimonious assholes somehow manage to get away with it.”

“How do they do that?”

“They regard themselves as groundbreakers of a new art form. Street art. The wave of the future. Surpassing modern art, postmodern art, and contemporary art.

“They believe an empty wall belongs to whomever sees it first, regardless of whose property it might be on. They think of themselves as superstars. They even sign their so-called work.

“The worst of it is that this tagging, as it’s called, has become a worldwide scourge. It’s everywhere. Removing it is no longer possible because as soon as they clean up one piece of graffiti, it’s soon replaced by another. As a result, more and more cities are rife with this crap and local governments seem no longer able to combat it.”

“Because?”

“It costs a fortune to remove. And even if they spent that fortune, it would be to no avail. These rats live in the shadows. They perform their defacements in the dead of night. They’re like stealth bombers who travel around freely, never identifying themselves beyond their signature tags. Cops can’t identify them, never mind apprehend them.

“And not only that, if anyone did find them, the penalties for what they’ve done are meaningless. Not even the equivalent of a slap on the wrist.”

“So what can we do about it?”

“You mean here in Freedom?”

“Yes.”

“We find them and take them down.”

“If no one else can find them, how can you?”

I pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the Sheriff’s house. I turned off the engine and lowered the windows. We stayed seated in the car.

“The Town Council has agreed to heighten the penalties. Large fines and jail time.”

“How did you convince them to do that?”

“Helena Madison. She gets it.”

The Sheriff chortled. “I still don’t see how you can find any of these clowns when no one else can.”

“Because I’m obsessed. I’ll find them, all right, and when I do, I’m going to make their lives miserable.”

“Good luck with that, Buddy.”

“That’s what everyone says.”