Last Night In Twisted River

But at a time when the cook and his son were confronted with the chaos of going on the run again, Roland Drake’s attack on Da

“Revise the chickenshit title!” Drake had scribbled on the cover of East of Bangor, in deep black. “Change the author’s fake name!”

And in red, throughout the novel, while the writer carpenter’s criticism demonstrated no great range or in-depth perception, Drake had underlined a phrase or circled a word-on four-hundred-plus pages-and he’d added a cryptic comment, albeit only one per page. “This sucks!” and “Rewrite!” were the most repeated, along with “Cut!” and “Dog-killer!” Less common were “Lame!” and “Feeble!” More than once, “Lengthy!” had been scrawled across the entire page. Only twice, but memorably, Drake had written, “I fucked Franky, too!” (Perhaps Drake had slept with Franky, Da

“Have a look, Jimmy,” Da

“Gee… this makes more work for you, I suppose,” Jimmy said, turning the pages. “‘Year of the Dog wouldn’t publish this shit!’” the state trooper read aloud, with deadpan puzzlement. Jimmy always looked pained by what he didn’t understand-at once heartbroken and baffled. For a cop who’d shot his share of dogs, Jimmy had the sad, droopy eyes of a Labrador retriever; tall and thin, with a long face, the trooper looked questioningly at Da

“Year of the Dog was a small literary magazine,” Da

“Franky is a girl?” Jimmy asked, reading further.

“Yes,” the writer answered.

“That young woman who lived here for a while-that one, right?” the trooper asked.

“That’s her, Jimmy.”

“‘You write with a limp!’” Jimmy read aloud. “Gee…”

“Drake should bury his own dog-don’t you think, Jimmy?” Da

“I’ll take Roland’s dog back to him. We’ll have a little talk,” Jimmy said. “You could get a restraining order-”

“I don’t need one, Jimmy-I’m leaving, remember?” Da

“I know how to talk to Roland,” the trooper said.

“Just watch out for the other dog, Jimmy-he comes at you from behind,” Da

“I won’t shoot him if I don’t have to, Da

“I know,” Da

“It’s hard to imagine anyone out to get your dad,” Jimmy ventured. “I can’t conceive of someone having a score to settle with the cook. You want to tell me about that, Da

Here was another intersection in the road, the writer thought. What were these junctions, where making a sharp-left or sharp-right turn from the previously chosen path presented a tempting possibility? Hadn’t there been an opportunity for Da

Well, wasn’t this another opportunity to escape the conundrum? Just tell Jimmy everything! About Injun Jane, about Carl and Six-Pack Pam-about the retired deputy with his long-barreled Colt.45, that fucking cowboy! Short of asking Ketchum to kill the bastard, what other way out was there? And Da

But all Da

“A crazy ex-cop… that’s not good,” Jimmy said.

“The former deputy sheriff is getting old-that’s the good part. He can’t keep looking much longer,” Da

There was more to the story, of course, and the state trooper probably could discern this in the writer’s atypically vague telling of the tale. (And what trouble could Da

“Have you got some of those large green garbage bags?” Jimmy asked. “I’ll take care of that dog for you. Why don’t you get a little sleep, Da

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Da

From his driveway, Da

Da

IT TURNED OUT THAT Da