did, and one of the McClatchys answered, and they had a brief gossipy chat, and then his father hung up and said, “Now we
are
good. And thank the good Lord for that.”
• • •
VIRGIL DROPPED HIS FATHER off and went back to the motel, watched a movie on pay-per-view, got undressed, took a shower, then lay on his bed and thought about God, and eventually, almost drifted off to sleep. Almost.
Then he was wide awake, said to the ceiling, “Ah, bullshit.” He lay there for a few more seconds, then looked at the telephone. Not that late; but then, his parents usually went to bed about nine o’clock.
He picked up the phone, pushed the “home” button, and ten seconds later his father asked, “Virgil?”
“There are two McDonald’s in town. Do the McClatchys own both of them?”
“No, the one out on 23 is Rick Box. I don’t know where they live . . . in town, though. Are you going over there?”
“Maybe. Rick Box.”
“Yeah. Rick and Nina. Maybe Paul Berry would know, I think they belong there. You want me to come with you?”
Berry was a Catholic priest, and an old golfing pal of Virgil’s father. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll get back to you. Like, tomorrow.”
“If anything happens, call me tonight.”
Virgil didn’t call the priest. Instead, he brought his laptop up and signed onto the DMV computers. Rick and Nina Box were both licensed drivers. Rick was thirty-six and overweight, and Nina was thirty-four, and they lived on Parkside, not far from the McClatchys.
Virgil got dressed, went out to his truck, and drove over; not
really
that late, still well before midnight, but the streets were empty. The Boxes lived in a brick-and-clapboard ranch house that was elbow-to-elbow with other ranch houses, and right next door to the parents of a guy, Randy Carew, with whom Virgil had played high school basketball seventeen or eighteen years earlier. Old man Carew always had a couple cases of beer in the garage, and Virgil had stolen more than a few bottles from him.
Virgil went on past the Boxes’ place, past the Carews’, to the next house, stopped, got out, and walked up the Carews’ driveway. There was no sign of a light, but there was no sign of a light in most of the houses on the street. He leaned on the doorbell. Nothing happened for a moment, and then he heard an impact, feet hitting a floor. A minute later, an older man came to the door, looked out through the glass panel, turned on the porch light, opened the door, and said, “Virgil?”
Virgil thought,
God bless you,
and said, quietly, because he couldn’t remember Carew’s first name, “Mr. Carew, I’m with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension now. I’m a cop.”
“I knew that.” Carew was wearing a pajama top and jeans, and was barefoot.
“I need to come inside and talk to you for a minute,” Virgil said.
“You’re not here for the rest of my Budweiser, are you?”
Made Virgil laugh, and he said, “Not at the moment, but maybe later. I need to take a second of your time.”
“Sure, come on in,” Carew said, holding open the door.
Virgil stepped across the threshold and Carew called, “Viv? It’s Virgil Flowers.”
“Virgil? What’s he want? The rest of your beer?” She came out a minute later, a robust woman in a pink terrycloth bathrobe, and Virgil remembered that her name was Vivian. She said, “C’mere, you,” and grabbed Virgil by the cheeks and bent him over so she could kiss him on the forehead.
Carew asked, “What’s going on?”
“Probably nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m trying to chase down some kids who’ve gotten themselves in a lot of trouble. . . . Killed some people over in Bigham and Shinder.”
“We saw it on TV,” Carew said. There was wonder in his voice. This didn’t happen. Not here.
“The thing is, one of them worked at a McDonald’s over here, and they’re kinda dumb, and it’s remotely possible . . .
remotely possible
. . . that
are
good. And thank the good Lord for that.”
• • •
VIRGIL DROPPED HIS FATHER off and went back to the motel, watched a movie on pay-per-view, got undressed, took a shower, then lay on his bed and thought about God, and eventually, almost drifted off to sleep. Almost.
Then he was wide awake, said to the ceiling, “Ah, bullshit.” He lay there for a few more seconds, then looked at the telephone. Not that late; but then, his parents usually went to bed about nine o’clock.
He picked up the phone, pushed the “home” button, and ten seconds later his father asked, “Virgil?”
“There are two McDonald’s in town. Do the McClatchys own both of them?”
“No, the one out on 23 is Rick Box. I don’t know where they live . . . in town, though. Are you going over there?”
“Maybe. Rick Box.”
“Yeah. Rick and Nina. Maybe Paul Berry would know, I think they belong there. You want me to come with you?”
Berry was a Catholic priest, and an old golfing pal of Virgil’s father. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll get back to you. Like, tomorrow.”
“If anything happens, call me tonight.”
Virgil didn’t call the priest. Instead, he brought his laptop up and signed onto the DMV computers. Rick and Nina Box were both licensed drivers. Rick was thirty-six and overweight, and Nina was thirty-four, and they lived on Parkside, not far from the McClatchys.
Virgil got dressed, went out to his truck, and drove over; not
really
that late, still well before midnight, but the streets were empty. The Boxes lived in a brick-and-clapboard ranch house that was elbow-to-elbow with other ranch houses, and right next door to the parents of a guy, Randy Carew, with whom Virgil had played high school basketball seventeen or eighteen years earlier. Old man Carew always had a couple cases of beer in the garage, and Virgil had stolen more than a few bottles from him.
Virgil went on past the Boxes’ place, past the Carews’, to the next house, stopped, got out, and walked up the Carews’ driveway. There was no sign of a light, but there was no sign of a light in most of the houses on the street. He leaned on the doorbell. Nothing happened for a moment, and then he heard an impact, feet hitting a floor. A minute later, an older man came to the door, looked out through the glass panel, turned on the porch light, opened the door, and said, “Virgil?”
Virgil thought,
God bless you,
and said, quietly, because he couldn’t remember Carew’s first name, “Mr. Carew, I’m with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension now. I’m a cop.”
“I knew that.” Carew was wearing a pajama top and jeans, and was barefoot.
“I need to come inside and talk to you for a minute,” Virgil said.
“You’re not here for the rest of my Budweiser, are you?”
Made Virgil laugh, and he said, “Not at the moment, but maybe later. I need to take a second of your time.”
“Sure, come on in,” Carew said, holding open the door.
Virgil stepped across the threshold and Carew called, “Viv? It’s Virgil Flowers.”
“Virgil? What’s he want? The rest of your beer?” She came out a minute later, a robust woman in a pink terrycloth bathrobe, and Virgil remembered that her name was Vivian. She said, “C’mere, you,” and grabbed Virgil by the cheeks and bent him over so she could kiss him on the forehead.
Carew asked, “What’s going on?”
“Probably nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m trying to chase down some kids who’ve gotten themselves in a lot of trouble. . . . Killed some people over in Bigham and Shinder.”
“We saw it on TV,” Carew said. There was wonder in his voice. This didn’t happen. Not here.
“The thing is, one of them worked at a McDonald’s over here, and they’re kinda dumb, and it’s remotely possible . . .
remotely possible
. . . that
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