Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(22)

Virgil laughed, shook his head.

Alice asked, “Is he right? Are you a cop?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Virgil said. “No, actually, I’m sure I am.”

“Who you coppin’ for?” Harry asked.

“Minnesota BCA. Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

“That’s pretty amazing,” Alice said to Harry. And again to Harry: “Another one?”

“Might as well,” Harry said, pushing his empty glass across the bar to her. To Virgil: “You workin’ on a case?”

“Yeah, I’m taking a look at the professor who got killed over at the university.”

“Hey, I read about that,” Harry said. “You gettin’ anywhere?”

“We’re early in the game,” Virgil said.

“Bullshit. I read about it two weeks ago. If you don’t have the killer by now, you’re in big trouble.”

“Nah, we’re breaking it down,” Virgil said.

“You don’t mind talking about it?”

“Oh . . . no . . . I guess not.” Virgil didn’t mind talking. His attitude was, the killer knew everything about the case; and the cops knew some of it. Not talking about it didn’t keep information from anyone but the taxpaying citizens. He gave Harry a one-minute summary, and Harry took it all in.

Alice the barmaid came back with Harry’s beer, said, “On the house because of the cop guess,” and Harry said, “Virgil’s investigating a murder.”

“What murder?” she asked.

“Professor over at the university,” Harry said.

She shook a finger at Virgil. “I heard about that. The one at the library. You catch the killer?”

“We’re working on it,” Virgil said.

“Let me tell you something,” Harry said. “I own three McDonalds, but I don’t know the first thing about murder investigations except what I’ve seen on NCIS. You know that show?”

“Sure. Gibbs and those guys. I’ve gotten a few tips there,” Virgil lied.

“Mark Harmon, hell of a football player. You’re not nearly old enough to appreciate this, but Harmon was a quarterback at UCLA, and they kicked Nebraska’s ass back sometime in the seventies. Huge deal. Nebraska was the defending national champ at the time.”

“Didn’t know that,” Virgil said.

Harry leaned closer, breathing beer breath on Virgil. “That’s because you’re not old enough. I’m seventy and I remember it like it was yesterday. I wish it was yesterday. I remember when Joe Namath and the Jets upset the Colts.”

“I know about that, though I wasn’t born yet,” Virgil said. “My dad was a jock; he told me about it maybe, mmm, two hundred times.”

“You a jock?” Harry asked.

“I guess. Baseball, mostly. Here at the U. Couldn’t see a college fastball that well.”

“Played golf myself, at Michigan,” Harry said. “I once shot a 66 against the Badgers over in Madison. Best I ever did.”

They talked about sports for a few more minutes, and Virgil had a second beer, and then Harry said, “Let me tell you something about your case.”

“Go ahead.”

“A young person did it,” Harry said. “I don’t know if it was a male or a female, but it was a young person.”

“Why is that?”

Harry held up a heavy index finger. “I started running my first McDonald’s when I was twenty-seven years old. I’ve got three now. Most of my life is hiring young people to work in them, though we’ve got a few senior citizens. I’ve hired hundreds of young people. And fired quite a few, too. Here’s the thing about young people now: a lot of them are no goddamn good. Mean little fuckin’ wolverines.”

“I don’t want to say that’s bigoted . . .” Virgil said.

“Not bigoted,” Harry said. “I know bigoted. I was playing in an NCAA regional when I was in college, and we had this black kid on the team. The country club—this was down in Kansas City—got all out of joint because they didn’t know there was a black man in the field. Didn’t allow black guys on the course unless they had a rake in their hands. Seen a lot of that shit over the years; half my McDonald’s kids are black and they tell me about it.”

“But young people—they seem to me like anybody else, sort of all over the place,” Virgil said.

Harry nodded. “Some of them are. Maybe most of them, I don’t know. But I get three types at my McDonalds. I got kids who want to make money for a whole lot of reasons, and they’re serious about it. They want to buy a car or go to college, or whatever. They hang in there, and they’re determined and they’ll work hard until they get what they want. Or a better job. Good kids. Hate to see them go, but they always do. Then I got the kids who don’t have any choice. Maybe they’ve got to work to eat, maybe they’re bright enough to work at McDonald’s but don’t have a lot more going for themselves. I like those kids because I’ve had some of them stay with me for twenty years. But the third type: they’re no goddamn good.”

“How’s that different than it’s always been?” Virgil asked.

“It is, believe me. There have always been kids who were no damn good, but now it’s everywhere. Everywhere. It’s kids who know they’re not going to be millionaires or billionaires or movie stars or famous singers or in the NBA, and it’s all they want. They can’t see past that. It’s like they’re not alive if they’re not on TV. They don’t want to be doctors or dentists or lawyers or businessmen, they want to be rich and famous right now. They don’t want to work. All they want is to be a celebrity. Then at some point they realize it ain’t gonna happen. They’re not talented enough or smart enough, and they sure as shit don’t want to work at getting to be famous. When they figure that out, that it ain’t gonna happen, they turn mean.”