From a Buick 8(116)

Eddie had begun showing up for duty with liquor on his breath, and no one covered for him very long; the situation was too serious. When he refused counseling, and a leave of absence to spend four weeks in the spin-dry facility the PSP favors for their stricken officers, he was given his choice: quit quietly or get fired noisily. Eddie had quit, with about half the retirement package he would have received if he'd managed to hang on to his job for another three years ? at the end, the benefits really stack up. And I could understand the outcome no more than Shirley ? why hadn't he just quit? With that kind of incentive, why hadn't he just said I'll be thirsty for three years and then I'll pull the pin and take a bath in it? I didn't know.

The Tap became Eddie J.'s home away from home. Along with the old Bel Aire, that was. He'd kept it waxed on the outside and spotlessly clean on the inside right up to the day when he'd driven it into a bridge abutment near Redfern Stream at approximately eighty miles an hour. He had plenty of reasons to do it by then ? he was not a happy man ? but I had to wonder if maybe there weren't a few reasons just a little closer to home. Specifically I had to wonder if he hadn't heard that pulse near the end, that tidal whisper that's like a voice in the middle of your head.

Do it, Eddie, go on, why not? There's not much else, is there? The rest is pretty well used up. Just step down a little brisker on the old go-pedal and then twist the wheel to the right. Do it. Go on. Make a little mischief for your buddies to clean up.

I thought about the night we'd sat out on this same bench, the young man I currently had my eye on four years younger than he was now and listening raptly as Eddie told the tale of stopping Brian Lippy's bigfoot truck. The kid listening as Eddie told about trying to get Lippy's girl to do something about her situation before her boyfriend f**ked her up beyond all recognition or maybe killed her. The joke turned out to be on Eddie, of course. So far as I knew, that bloodyface girl is the only one of that roadside quartet still alive. Yeah, she's around. I don't road-patrol much anymore, but her name and picture come across my desk from time to time, each picture showing a woman closer to the beerbreath brokennose f**k-ya-for-a-pack-of-smokes hag she will, barring a miracle, become. She's had lots of DUIs, quite a few D-and-Ds, a trip to the hospital one night with a broken arm and hip after she fell downstairs. I imagine someone like Brian Lippy probably helped her down those stairs, don't you? Because they do pick the same kind over and over. She has two or maybe it's three kids in foster care. So yeah, she's around, but is she living? If you say she is, then I have to tell you that maybe George Morgan and Eddie J. had the right idea.

'I'm going to make like a bee and buzz,' Shirley said, getting up. 'Can't take any more hilarity in one day. You doin okay with it?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Hey, he came back that night, didn't he? There's that.'

She didn't have to be any more specific. I nodded, smiling.

'Eddie was a good guy,' Shirley said. 'Maybe he couldn't leave the booze alone, but he had the kindest heart.'

Nope, I thought, watching her walk across to Ned, watching them talk a little. I think you're the one with the kindest heart, Shirl.

She gave Ned a little peck on the cheek, putting one hand on his shoulder and going up on her toes to do it, then headed toward her car. Ned came over to where I was sitting. 'You okay?' he asked.

'Yeah, good.'

'And the funeral . . . ?'

'Hey, shit, it was a funeral. I've been to better and I've been to worse. I'm glad the coffin was closed.'

'Sandy, can I show you something? Over there?' He nodded his head at Shed B.

'Sure.' I got up. 'Is the temperature going down?' If so, it was news. It had been two years since the temp in there had dropped more than five degrees below the outside temperature. Sixteen months since the last lightshow, and that one had consisted of no more than eight or nine pallid flickers.

'No,' he said.

'Trunk open?'

'Shut tight as a drum.'

'What, then?'

'I'd rather show you.'

I glanced at him sharply, for the first time getting out of my own head enough to register how excited he was. Then, with decidedly mixed feelings ? curiosity and apprehension were the dominant chords, I guess ? I walked across the parking lot with my old friend's son. He took up his sidewalk super's pose at one window and I took up mine at the next.

At first I saw nothing unusual; the Buick sat on the concrete as it had for a quarter of a century, give or take. There were no flashing lights, no exotic exhibits. The thermometer's red needle stood at an unremarkable seventy-three degrees.

'So?' I asked.

Ned laughed, delighted. 'You're looking spang at it and don't see it! Perfect! I didn't see it myself, at first. I knew something had changed, but I couldn't tell what.'

'What are you talking about?'

He shook his head, still smiling. 'Nossir, Sergeant, nossir. I think not. You're the boss; you're also one of just three cops who were there then and are still here now. It's right in front of you, so go to it.'

I looked in again, first squinting and then raising my hands to the sides of my face to block the glare, that old gesture. It helped, but what was I seeing? Something, yes, he was right about that, but just what? What had changed?