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When Stickman and Maple pulled in shortly after sundown, an older model sedan was parked next to the trailer April had occupied. Lights were on, but it was not the time for introductions. Stickman parked out of sight of the new neighbor and quickly helped a sweaty and dysfunctional Maple into the trailer’s relative safety.
The final leg of the trip, which seemed to last forever, was on two-lane roads. Once, they saw an array of flashing lights at what had to be a major traffic check. They worked around it but clearly, the dragnet had been expanded. Their path was zigzag, trial and error across Pennsylvania, along the way meeting three sheriff’s deputies who luckily didn’t slow.
The biggest development in news reports about the patrolman was that his union was offering a twenty thousand dollar reward for the killers. Small change, Stickman smiled. More personal details about the patrolman crept into the reports. Eagle Scout as a teen, he had been awarded a citation the previous year for saving an elderly couple from their burning car. His brother said he had always wanted to be a law officer, that he had died doing what he loved. He was active in his community, doted on his children and was always in church on Sundays. “I killed a freaking saint,” Stickman said aloud after one broadcast. More important to him was the absence of coverage about Rouhani and his men. Stickman could only conclude that police were not called, the deaths were being covered up, and the checkpoints were solely for the patrolman’s killers.
If true, that would suit him fine. For the first time ever, he was starting to feel overwhelmed. The steady drumbeat of tension the past few months had taken a toll. Decision making wasn’t as crisp as it should be, or at least demanded more concentration. He wasn’t sleeping as well as usual, even excluding the previous night. With Maple shot, he knew the next mission had to be delayed. That was all right with him if it meant a few weeks of relative calm.
Though the long day of driving had caused Maple pain, he had improved slowly from incoherent rambling to feverish sleep to finally being semi-aware. He was very weak, but Stickman was relieved that his admittedly unpracticed eye still saw no infection as he carefully changed the bandages.
With Maple sleeping again, Stickman shut off lights to discourage a visit by his new neighbor. He sat quietly with his thoughts for more than an hour until first the lights and then a TV’s glow went dark next door. He did not think about the man he had killed, which was done, but about what he needed to do next. As quietly as possible, he eased through the trailer door and went to the pickup, lifting the hard cover from the bed. With the aid of a small flashlight he found three shell casings overlooked in getting out of the warehouse. Missed, too, had been smudges of Maple’s blood and he scrubbed them out as best he could with lubricated wipes, then moved to the cab to do the same. Satisfied that the pickup would pass cursory inspection, he fell into bed.
A car starting for an early morning commute awakened Stickman. He sat up reluctantly to face the gray that telegraphs dawn. A groggy Maple refused breakfast. After suffering through another change of bandages, he took a few sips of herbal tea and returned to bed. “Sorry, mon, but I’m going to have to get you up soon,” Stickman warned. Outside, he washed down the pickup bed with soapy water, then scrubbed the cab.
He gently shook Maple. “I need to hide our cargo and I need a lookout.” Maple nodded and slowly followed Stickman to the corner of the trailer. From there, the driveway could be seen all the way to the county road. Stickman unfolded a lawn chair and put a block of wood in Maple’s right hand. “Sit here. If anyone pulls in the driveway, clap the block twice on the arm of chair. Hard. Do it hard and then go back in the trailer.”
Stickman unwired the makeshift gate and walked into the clearing where Maple had killed April. He followed the trail into the woods only a few yards – still within easy distance for hearing a signal from Maple – before stepping around a huge multiflora rose bush and into another clearing. Using a spade, he peeled back a large patch of sod, which he carefully rolled and laid aside. He dug a hole for four boxes – the three gray ones plus a black metal one for the additional guns and ammunition he had taken from Rouhani. He tossed a foot of soil over the boxes before replacing the sod. It fit a little above ground level, enough to allow for settling. Fertilized and watered, he hoped the sod would not turn telltale brown should there be an unwelcome visitor.
It was mid-morning before he could trundle Maple, badly in need of rest, off to the trailer and turn to other tasks. Locating a Ford dealer who had a new tailgate in stock was easy. He picked it up and drove back to the trailer to make the change. With an eye to the future he salvaged the sheet of extra armor from the tailgate before taking it to the river for burial. Stickman had just returned to the trailer when his new neighbor pulled in. “Might as well get this over with,” he said, walking forward for introductions.
Wally Cornell wore the uniform of a heating, ventilation and air-conditioning technician. With protruding Adam’s apple punctuating a skinny neck, stooped shoulders, over-long legs and arms, and middle-aged paunch on a lanky frame, his body poked in every which direction. But his eyes were bright and Stickman, having worked start-up jobs with many technicians, immediately took him to be smart, or at least not to be underestimated. Being an HVAC tech demanded not only keeping up with challenging changes in the field. To repair and install heating and cooling units and often fashion their frameworks, techs were plumbers and electricians and welders and metalworkers and God knows what all. Hands down, Stickman would take a flighty neighbor like April, and tell Maple to keep it in his pants.
Cornell was a talker, which wasn’t all bad. Stickman felt little pressure to carry the conversation. But the man’s slow drawl masked a curious streak and, combined with an assumed familiarity, put Stickman on guard.
“Violet and Wilbur said ya have a roommate.”
“Yes, I do.” Stickman went on to answer the obvious question. “He’s got Montezuma’s revenge, we think from the deep-fried shrimp we had last night.”
“Ugh, bad seafood is the worst. I’ve had dynasty myself, a couple times. Thought I’d never get plugged up.”
“Yes, well,” Stickman began, not sure how to respond. “Well, as I’m sure you know then, dysentery can actually be dangerous, but hopefully he’s not that bad.”
“Where’d ya get them shrimp? I’ll try to avoid that place.”
“I can’t remember the name. It was a little roadhouse about half-way back from Pittsburgh.”
“Did ya get caught up in any roadblocks? I hit two today. One this morning that ‘most made me late for work. So I took a different way tonight and danged if another one still didn’t get me. Radio says that’s going on all around the Northeast and even down to D.C. and Virginia. Such a big area, they’re just random. John Law is really worked up about that patrolman getting shot. I figure ya heard about it.”
“Of course. Turn on the radio and you can’t hear anything else.”
“Know what I think? I think ole Johnny Law has made a connection to something else. Bigger. Like shooting up that commie embassy maybe. Or they’ve got it tied in to something that’s coming up. Domestic terrorism, ya know?”
“You could be right. They sure are worked up. We saw a lot of patrol cars, but were lucky that we weren’t delayed, I guess.”
Cornell spat a thin stream of chaw and went about explaining the world of heating and plumbing, slipping in enough questions to get the story Stickman and Maple lived under. When he thought Cornell had covered ample ground, Stickman turned to leave, saying he needed to check on his sick friend.
“See ya got a new tailgate. Unusual to have to get a new tailgate. Most folks get along if they’ll just close. What happened to the old one?”
“You’re right about tailgates, but I couldn’t get it bent back in line enough to close. There was nothing to steal from an empty bed, so it must have been vandals. But why would someone want to bend a tailgate? Sometimes it’s hard to figure people.”
Finally getting away, Stickman found Maple in a deep sleep, as had become his wont. His slow progress created problems a couple of times when Cornell showed up at the door, inquiring after the neighbor he had yet to meet. Stickman felt like telling him to get a grip. Instead, he patiently speculated that Maple must have e-coli or something worse than they first thought. “He’s coming along but very weak. I should have taken him to a doctor, but he refused. He did say he’d like to grab a beer with you as soon as he feels better,” Stickman lied.
One afternoon as Maple slept, Stickman drove to an interstate rest stop, ignoring the reduced but still uncomfortable traffic checks by law enforcement. He used a pay phone to reach Assiri, who was still in Chicago, and told him their bridge game had been delayed. “My friend had an accident. He’s slowly getting better, but we’re weeks away from hooking up with your crew for a nice weekend, maybe more.”
Stickman’s worry about Maple grew as he continued to eat very little, mostly surviving on sips of water, tea and broth. More than once Stickman came close to insisting on taking him to an emergency room. Maybe they could say he had been in a hunting accident in the West. Stickman was still toying with that idea when he was pleasantly shocked one afternoon when Maple appeared in the bedroom doorway and declared, “I’m hungry.” Nearly a month had passed.
After a few days on soft food he began light exercises – endlessly walking the trailer end to end and doing cheater sit-ups, then what passed for a push-up. He wasn’t whole by any means, but claimed to move without discomfort.
“You really have to shake hands with our not-so-new neighbor. He’s the curious sort and you need to put his mind at ease,” Stickman prodded. “Just don’t forget, the bug from that roadhouse shrimp turned out to be really nasty.”
The next day, when he returned from an errand, Maple was sitting in the sun, waiting to have the niggling meeting as soon as Cornell got in from work. Maple was purposely reserved and Cornell, his curiosity satisfied, took the hint that his neighbors weren’t interested in adopting a new friend.
Ignoring Maple’s progress, Stickman decided he should be the one to take the rent to Wilbur and Violet that month, eschewing their mailbox just as Maple had. When he explained that Maple was recovering from food poisoning, Violet allowed she would find her soup recipe featuring pig intestines, a sure-fire cure from a Greek friend. “They use tripe for hangovers, but it’s even better for a bad stomach. Just leave the spices out.”
“One good thing,” said Wilbur, “is we finally get to spend a little time with you. You know, you look a lot like that movie star we see on the TV.”
“Really? Which one is that?” Stickman tried to keep his tone nonchalant.
“His name escapes me but I see him every once in a while. By the way, how’s your vacuuming going?”
A confused Stickman was rescued by Violet. “You don’t have to answer that,” she said firmly. “Wilbur, you really shouldn’t ask people you barely know such personal questions.”
Stickman caught on. “No problem, sir. I don’t mind. Actually it’s going quite well. How about yours?”
“I quit the vacuum. Violet’s in charge of it now. I finally decided anyone who has a presidential award could quit the vacuum.”
“Wilbur, you are confusin’ our guest. Just try to ignore him, young man, while I get that recipe for tripe soup.”
Several seconds passed. “I don’t think you’re confused, young man, and I would recommend quittin’ the vacuum even if you don’t happen to have a presidential award.”
“I don’t, sir. I have had a chance to see the outside of the White House, but I’m sure I’ve never done anything the president would give me an award for. What were you recognized for?”
“It was my work on Hoover Dam. Roosevelt himself gave me credit.”
Seeing an unwanted story coming, Stickman quickly searched for something else to talk about. “With all respect, at your age you and your wife must have a large family,” he said presumptuously.
“No, but not for lack of tryin’. Violet lost her babies. Now it’s too late, of course.” After a pause, a twinkle lit his eye. “Of course, we can still try. That girl gets hot enough to boil water. And I don’t need any little blue pills, not by a long shot.”
Stickman wished he had encouraged the Hoover Dam story.
“I just can’t believe someone like Bob Dole comin’ on the TV to sell little blue pills. Maybe you’re too young to remember, sonny, but he was a United States senator and a presidential nominee. To think he would advertise that he can’t ...Those TV people must have paid him a load of money ...Speakin’ of TV, we were watchin’ the late news not all that long ago and there were stories about this domestic terrorism stuff.
“One story was about a gang rape of two young girls in L.A. or some place. Now it was awful, mind you, but I got to thinkin’ about what I could do when I was young and virile. Not rape, of course, but underline virile. Those were the memories flittin’ through my mind ...”
Stickman was feeling an information overload when hit by the random thought that his nerves handle shooting a cop better than this inappropriate ramble from a man easily old enough to be his grandfather.
“ ...and spare me any of those ‘how old people fuck’ stories. They’re not just crude. They’re not real.”
I’ve never even heard such a story. They must have been popular with an earlier generation, Stickman thought, desperately wishing for Violet’s return. Even if she, too, had confused him since his own grandmother’s tripe soup called for ox stomach and not pig intestines.
But Wilbur was not to be denied, recounting in detail a night not long ago when a shadow in one of his rental trailers kept moving. Stickman fidgeted uncomfortably, thinking he likely knew who was starring. “ ...Anyway, I told Violet we probably didn’t have much time. You know what she did? She shut the light right off.”
As if on cue, Violet returned, recipe box in hand. “Had a little trouble findin’ it. Kept lookin’ under the Ps and the Ts and shoulda been lookin’ under Soup. Now you just give me two minutes, young man, and I’ll copy it for you.”
It was a slow-moving two minutes, prolonged by chances of Wilbur starting yet another unwanted story. Once armed with recipe and receipt, Stickman found himself backpedaling out the front door, more than ready to return rent duties to Maple.