River Rules Page 15

  “No, nothing. You two are grown-ups, so I don’t get the big deal.”

  “Let’s talk about the cake.” Carmen gestured dismissively at the conversation’s detour.

  “Yeah, some kind of salute to apples and mythology,” Marti said. “Like the opposite of the usual Eve and the apple symbolizing the fall of mankind, blah, blah, blah—everything’s all the woman’s fault. Let’s bring in some cool references to apples and their love powers.”

  “So, my guys could blast out a few apple ice sculptures with a chainsaw.” Carmen started to sketch apples on a piece of paper. “We could make the cake look like an apple or use marzipan and icing to decorate apple images along the top and up the sides.” She furrowed her brow in concentration as her pencil danced along the paper. “Like this.”

  “Yes, perfect.” Lori hugged herself with excitement. “Marti, that’ll work so great with Peter’s ideas. I can’t wait to hear the rough draft of his sermon.”

  “Oh my God,” Carmen laughed. “Pete’s marrying you? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “He’s totally into it. He’s going to be great,” Marti said. “But don’t ask Reverend Russo to do you and your honey.”

  “Never happening.” After Lori and Marti left, Carmen found herself chuckling randomly throughout the day. “Reverend Russo. Please.”

  CHAPTER 40

  IAN AND PETER SETTLED IN AT PETER’S TO WATCH the lightweight boxing match between Mikey Garcia and Dejan Zlaticanin on pay-per-view. It was over after Round Three on a technical knockout.

  “Boy, talk about a bust,” Ian said as he lay back on the pillows. “Imagine if you paid full price for those outrageous tickets.”

  “For a Brahmin or whatever, you sure like violence. Zlaticanin looked too lean, I think he dropped down too many weight classes.”

  “He didn’t have it. Sometimes we should just be what we are.”

  “True. Say, the flash drive still bugs me. I know you explained it, but what’s an encrypted drive, again?”

  “It’s a pricey item that has a self-destruct mechanism built into it. There’s software that’s called write-protection and by using third-party tools—”

  “So it’s a doomsday scenario. It goes nuclear on itself.”

  “Yes, sort of. Basically, yes.”

  “So why the hell didn’t you say so? What it means is we’ll never be able to access what’s on the drive, right?”

  “Yup. You still have the documents, though. Not that they’ll get you anywhere. The universe doesn’t want you involved. Listen to what it’s telling you.”

  “That’s not how I roll.”

  “Unfortunately.” Ian sighed. “Tell me more about Sherry. She seems so out of place here, yet it’s her hometown.”

  “It’s not a good bedtime story.” Peter poured himself another brandy.

  “Yeah, but I’m all grown up now, Mum. I think I can hear the scary story. And go easy on the alcohol.”

  “Sure I can’t tempt you?” Peter held the bottle of Remy Martin in the air. “It puts hair on your balls.”

  Ian chuckled. “Tell me her story.” He settled comfortably, curling his legs under a red fleece Red Sox blanket.

  “You gotta get yourself one of these babies. Look how cozy you are.”

  “Sod off and tell me about Sherry.”

  “OK.” Peter took a long pull on his drink. “She got fucked in the—what is it Warren Buffett calls it? Right, the uterine lottery. With an alcoholic mother and an evil sonofabitch for a father, she had no chance. She’s the youngest of four or five kids, the only girl. We didn’t know jack back then, and nobody talked, but Sherry no doubt was a punching bag and sex toy for her old man, the piece of shit. I can’t remember all of her brothers, but I know at least one died in ‘Nam. Maybe two.”

  “Poor Sherry. There’s no justice—just awful.”

  “Wait, there’s more. Sherry was really pretty, I know—hard to believe. She knew her way around men, let me tell you. Makes sense, unfortunately. Male teachers drooled over her, and she used it. She could get out of anything—cutting class, failing a test. She split as soon as she graduated high school, I mean she rocketed outta here. But then she comes back after like thirty years, a complete basket case.”

  “But, she comes back and she’s homeless, demented even. Why didn’t someone take her in?”

  “She doesn’t want ‘in.’ Carmen offered her a small cottage that some of the field-hands used back when immigration wasn’t such a big deal, and they brought their families. Sherry said no like a million times. I mean, people tried to help her.”

  For a while, Sherry took Carmen up on an offer to sort apples at the orchard. Fiori’s specialized in Macintosh, Maccouns, Winesap, and Ginger Golds. Carmen didn’t trust her at the retail operation just down the hill from the old cider mill, where people lined up for apple everything: apple fritters, candied apples, apple pie, apple butter, apple cider, apple crisp, and applesauce. Aldo Fiori held court as he sat by the cash register, and even though he felt sorry for Sherry, he wanted her gone after finding her drunk and passed out more than a few times. Aldo wanted to keep his regulars happy and coming back for more. He loved greeting them like long-lost relatives who owed him money. Everyone knew that beneath that joking exterior still beat an aching heart grieving for his wife and granddaughter.

  “So Sherry chooses to live rough out in the woods. What about winter?” Ian asked.

  “She goes into the shelters. I know, I know it sounds heartless, but that’s how she wants it. She always was stubborn. The booze and drugs and whatever didn’t kill that part of her.”

  “Living off her wits and the kindness of old friends. Not a good story at all.” Ian motioned for Peter to pass over the brandy. “I just want to smell it.”

  “Wait.” Peter moved the bottle away from Ian’s outstretched hand. “Are you sure? I mean, don’t trigger anything.”

  Ian wiggled his fingers impatiently. “Just a sniff is all I want and all I’ll do.”

  “Fine. Here.”

  Ian sat up straight while he held the bottle and read the label. “Forty percent alcohol and produced for 300 years.” He removed the corked top and inhaled the aroma. His abdomen expanded visibly. After one inhalation he passed the bottle back to Peter. “Tibetan breathing—prana. Not what you’re supposed to do with alcoholic vapors, but …”

  Peter cracked a smile. “Gotcha. When in Rome …”

  “Precisely. Now tell me, when are you and Carmen getting back together?”

  Peter closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch cushion. “Fuck off. Don’t even bring it up. She’s all involved with some rich ex-jock banker. Nancy told me.”

  “Just passing time until you’re both ready. Trust me.” Ian nestled into the couch and patted Brutus on the snout. “I’ll give you a pep talk tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 41

  IAN SQUIRRELED AWAY A LOT OF SECRETS. IF anyone had asked, he would’ve described his strengths and weaknesses the same way: compartmentalizing, avoiding, rising above, and ignoring.

  “I might hate people,” Ian confided to Andre as they stretched together after an exasperating day.

  “Duh.” Andre rolled on a foam cylinder to loosen his hamstrings. “How’s that go along with being a point of light, again?”

  “There is a bit of overlap, you tosser. I love humanity but am not attached to any one person. Certainly no family ties. It doesn’t make me a complete hypocrite, but I might be complicit in this madness.”

  “Honestly—since when do you care? Maybe you’re getting sick. Do one of those cleanses you love, flush out all the toxins.” Andre peered at Ian closely. “You look like shit, man. Stay away from me.”

  “That’s just my face, arsehole.” Ian half-heartedly flicked a towel at Andre.

  Andre got up to fill two plastic bags with ice and tried to prop them on his aching knees. “Getting old’s a bitch.” He leaned back against the wall to get comfortable before sneezing violently. “G
et your damn germs outta here,” he grumbled as one of the bags tumbled to the ground.

  Ian picked it up. “Here.” He rolled a yoga mat for Andre to put under his legs. “You need at least two high colonics, maybe three.”

  “Nobody’s sticking any hose up my ass.”

  “Your loss,” Ian said, sitting down next to him. “You know, for some reason, I keep remembering all the violence that was normal growing up—my brother, sister, parents. Punching, slaps, kicks. And, mind you, this is at home.”

  “Always for your own good, right? Man, I never lay a finger on my kids. I had AJ at eighteen, but I already knew I was gonna use words and motivation to get him to be his best self.”

  Ian offered an approving fist bump. “So, being a beat cop, well, violence and mayhem behind every corner. And all we had were these nightsticks and batons—no guns. They scared me then and they scare me now. Here—perps, cops, grannies; everyone’s got one.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir. Driving, walking, shopping—hell, just being a black man in America. Some cops here, man. I keep Tomassi’s card in my wallet in case something goes south.” Andre’s voice got more high-pitched. “I got it planned. ‘Call Sergeant Tomassi, please, sir.’ Don’t even get me started on my kids.”

  “Yeah, but school’s not a safe place for anyone, either. All these young male shooters, they’re armed to the teeth and stone-cold killers. I can’t wrap my head around what passes for normal now.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.” Andre fell silent. “But, you being a cop—you must got some karma comin’ back at you. Just sayin’.”

  “How did we get on this conversation?”

  “Talking, just talkin’ some heavy shit.” Andre got off the floor slowly and dumped the melting ice into the sink.

  When Ian checked his voicemail, he was bowled over by a message to call his yogi’s personal assistant as soon as possible.

  “This has to be a joke,” he muttered and considered ignoring it. Andre had already left to go grocery shopping. Ian hesitated as he locked up the gym. If he offended Baba, as the titular head of PARSLEY liked to be called, there could be serious repercussions.

  The personal assistant took his call right away.

  “Ian, Baba has been thinking about you very deeply. He will be so happy you are calling.”

  Baba spoke non-stop for several minutes during which time Ian’s normally regal posture dissolved into a hunchback.

  “I am honored to be selected for this committee,” he said. “But I know nothing about recruiting. I’m not good with people. I would much prefer to be on the building committee.”

  Brooding after he hung up, his preference shot down, Ian munched slowly on a pear. Its sugary over-ripeness felt sublime. But recruiting new worker bees felt like a punishment. For what, he didn’t know.

  Ian could have taken lessons from Marco, whose deft recruitment of Kenny as the hitting guru for his cousin’s team, found them both waiting for the kids to show up for extra batting practice.

  “You gotta help these kids hit more. They’re sucking it up.” Marco handed Kenny a water saved from the food truck and tilted his sideways baseball cap lower.

  “Dude, I already told them to shorten up their swings like a million times. Make contact, even go for the bunt. But, no. They want to look good for the TV cameras.” Kenny mimicked a long loopy swing that looked like it belonged in a ballet or on a golf course.

  “True dat. Let’s give ’em candy if they get a single or keep the line goin’. Snickers got magic powers.” Marco angled the brim even lower over the left side of his face. This time, Kenny noticed.

  “Jesus, what happened to you?” Kenny tried to peer closer, but Marco moved back before doffing his cap.

  “This ain’t nothin’. You should see the other guy.” Marco’s swollen and bruised cheekbone almost forced his eye shut.

  “Nasty.” Kenny whistled his admiration. “You can take a punch, that’s for sure. But, what the fuck? You got something to lose now, so come on—stay out of trouble.” Kenny stared at him hard.

  “Easy for you to say, man. Ain’t self-defense my right, officer?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Kenny remembered Marco, short and fast, being the first out on the field to protect a fighting teammate. And Kenny charged right behind him if he wasn’t on base or on deck. “But you can’t afford another bust.” And Peter went out on a limb for you. Don’t screw it up.”

  “So, I’m the bad guy? Bullshit. I spot you five seconds in the ‘hood before you in a fight. And I don’t mean in your blues. Just a dude trying to get home or catch the bus.”

  Kenny shifted uneasily as he nodded. “I hear you, but you read me?”

  “Like my Miranda Rights, homie. Hey, how ‘bout them Yankees?” Marco pointed to the logo on his cap.

  “Anyone but the Yankees. Go, Herrings.” Kenny backed off. “The kids need more practice with live pitching. Face it, getting a hit is the greatest feeling in the world. Well, I mean the best thing you can do with your clothes on, asshole,” Kenny added after Marco howled.

  “You gettin’ any, KJ? I can set you up with some sweet Latinas. Just say the word.”

  “Like I need your help with the ladies.” Kenny crumpled the empty water bottle and aimed it at a nearby garbage can. When it missed wide of the mark, he took his time retrieving it.

  “Hey—recycle, litterbug. Planet’s polluted enough.” Marco tipped his hat at two attractive twenty-something women walking by. Noting their interest, he yelled, “Hey, you wanna go out with this stud?”

  Kenny turned every shade of red. “Shut the fuck up, Marco.” He walked away, acknowledging the hooting and cat-calling women with a wave.

  “Man, you got no game aside from baseball. Aight, got my hands full here, I can see that.” He ambled alongside Kenny who had picked up a bag full of bats and balls. “All business.”

  Kenny ignored him, striding purposefully towards the backstop.

  CHAPTER 42

  WHEN JOSH RICHARDSON REALLY SCRUTINIZED THE Eautopia deal, making money didn’t look remotely like a problem.

  “This can’t be right.” Josh got up and walked over to the wall where he had hung a calendar called Fish of the Connecticut River. He loved the color photo of the solemn shad.

  “The poor man’s salmon,” he read out loud. The shad looked like a patient saint awaiting certain doom, its knowing eyes and tight lips acknowledging cruel fate.

  Josh enjoyed shad fishing with his father, a top-ten memory. Learning how to cast from shore, his father the picture of patience and encouragement, Josh could practically hear his voice in his ear urging him on.

  Emmie kept asking him to give up animal protein, especially fish if he thought they were so special. She’d been a vegan for ten months and kept trying to convert Josh. He humored her at first, but Emmie was no slouch. She quickly caught on that an all-or-nothing approach would backfire. She started by showing him articles about the toxins that decimated river fish like shad decades ago.

  “Watch this documentary, babe. Poisoned, they were poisoned by contaminants like fertilizers, PCBs, dioxin, DDT, and mercury.”

  “Those poor shad.” Josh absorbed the news mournfully. “I might have eaten them if my dad didn’t know better.” He managed to give up fish; he didn’t miss eating it too much. But he refused to give up meat, no matter how hard she pushed.

  “One step at a time, babe. I can’t do it all at once.” He staked out his position as they shopped at Whole Foods.

  “Well, I’m not buying it or cooking it. Have it for lunch when you’re at work. I don’t even want it in the house.” She reached into their cart and jettisoned the artisanal pork sausages marinated in hard apple cider. “These are history.”

  “Wow, way harsh.” Josh’s light blue eyes darkened with annoyance. He stopped pushing the cart and gestured toward the cheese counter. “Is cheese banned, too?”

  “One day, you’ll get it. And harsh is how these animals are treated. They ar
e living, breathing creatures with feelings.”

  Josh rolled his eyes. He’d heard this too many times. “Yeah, I know. They had a mother and a face. I’m not a criminal, Em. I just like meat.”

  “Promise me you won’t eat meat except at work, and I swear we can split for California whenever you feel ready.” She put her hand on his chest and scooted close to whisper in his ear. “I’ll even throw in a BJ every day.”

  Josh titled his head and smiled winningly. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Back at his desk, after a juicy burger for lunch, Josh deconstructed the deal, trying to see if he had miscalculated the venture’s potential net profit. The figures, if correct, would yield astronomical riches. He thought there had to be an error, a misplaced decimal. But he had strict instructions to get moving on the double, so he ran some quick scenarios.

  Josh projected revenue using increases of 10, 15, and 20 percent. The millions of single-serve plastic bottles would come out of the massive 500,000 square foot plant located at the reservoir in Bridgeville. Josh frowned again at the location. Why Bridgeville? Josh made a mental note to hike at the reservoir; he remembered it as a beautiful pastoral panorama. Endless clear water, pine trees, steep banks.

  “Focus, come on,” he said to himself. “Back to the spreadsheet, asshole.”

  Once production at the bottling plant ramped up to four lines, full capacity, everything looked golden. Profitability went through the roof for Eautopia, and the Consortium pocketed a boatload of money.

  The water bottles would be packaged into cases, loaded onto trucks and sold at the big chains like Costco and Walmart. Eautopia’s deal built in a discounted price based on volume and premium access to the reservoir’s water as well as tax credits and abatements with the town and state.

  “Wow. There are like no downsides to this deal.”

  Josh ran the numbers for one bottling line, two, three, and four. The number of workers Eautopia needed didn’t increase by much once they had two lines going, and the minimum wage jobs would be very easy to fill given Hatfield’s lousy economy.