Mr. Mercedes

Yeah, he thinks. Yeah. He closes his eyes, and tumbles off the crate like Humpty off his wall.

The roadie grabs him but can only soften the fall, not stop it. The other roadies gather.

‘Who knows CPR?’ asks the one who grabbed Hodges.

A roadie with a long graying ponytail steps forward. He’s wearing a faded Judas Coyne tee-shirt, and his eyes are bright red. ‘I do, but man, I’m so stoned.’

‘Try it anyway.’

The roadie with the ponytail drops to his knees. ‘I think this guy is on the way out,’ he says, but goes to work.

Upstairs, ’Round Here starts a new song, to the squeals and cheers of their female admirers. These girls will remember this night for the rest of their lives. The music. The excitement. The beachballs flying above the swaying, dancing crowd. They will read about the explosion that didn’t happen in the newspapers, but to the young, tragedies that don’t happen are only dreams.

The memories: they’re the reality.

43

Hodges awakens in a hospital room, surprised to find himself still alive but not at all surprised to see his old partner sitting at his bedside. His first thought is that Pete – hollow-eyed, needing a shave, the points of his collar turning up so they almost poke his throat – looks worse than Hodges feels. His second thought is for Jerome and Holly.

‘Did they stop it?’ he rasps. His throat is bone-dry. He tries to sit up. The machines surrounding him begin to beep and scold. He lies back down, but his eyes never leave Pete Huntley’s face. ‘Did they?’

‘They did,’ Pete says. ‘The woman says her name is Holly Gibney, but I think she’s really Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. That guy, the perp—’

‘The perk,’ Hodges says. ‘He thinks of himself as the perk.’

‘Right now he doesn’t think of himself as anything, and the doctors say his thinking days are probably over for good. Gibney belted the living shit out of him. He’s in a deep coma. Minimal brain function. When you get on your feet again, you can visit him, if you want. He’s three doors down.’

‘Where am I? County?’

‘Kiner. The ICU.’

‘Where are Jerome and Holly?’

‘Downtown. Answering a shitload of questions. Meanwhile, Sheena’s mother is ru

A nurse comes in and tells Pete he’ll have to leave. She says something about Mr Hodges’s vital signs and doctor’s orders. Hodges holds up his hand to her, although it’s an effort.

‘Jerome’s a minor and Holly’s got … issues. This is all on me, Pete.’

‘Oh, we know that,’ Pete says. ‘Yes indeed. This gives a whole new meaning to going off the reservation. What in God’s name did you think you were doing, Billy?’

‘The best I could,’ he says, and closes his eyes.

He drifts. He thinks of all those young voices, singing along with the band. They got home. They’re okay. He holds that thought until sleep takes him under.

THE PROCLAMATION

THE OFFICE OF THE MAYOR

WHEREAS, Holly Rachel Gibney and Jerome Peter Robinson uncovered a plot to commit an act of Terrorism at the Mingo Auditorium adjacent to the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex; and

WHEREAS, in realizing that to inform MAC Security Perso

WHEREAS, they did confront said Terrorist themselves, at great personal risk; and

WHEREAS, they did subdue said Terrorist and prevent great loss of life and injury; and

WHEREAS, they have done this City a great and heroic service.

NOW THEREFORE, I, Richard M. Tewky, Mayor, do hereby award Holly Rachel Gibney and Jerome Peter Robinson the Medal of Service, this city’s highest honor, and proclaim that all City Services shall be rendered to them without charge for a period of ten (10) years; and

NOW THEREFORE, recognizing that some Acts are beyond repayment, we thank them with all our hearts.

In testimony thereof,

I set my signature and

The City Seal.

Richard M. Tewky

Mayor

BLUE MERCEDES

1

On a warm and su

Holly’s behind the wheel today. She looks ten years younger. Her long hair – formerly graying and untidy – is now a glossy black cap, courtesy of a visit to a Class A beauty salon, recommended to her by Tanya Robinson. She waves to the owner of the Prius, who’s sitting at a table in the picnic area not far from the Little League fields.

Jerome gets out of the Mercedes, opens the trunk, and hauls out a picnic basket. ‘Jesus Christ, Holly,’ he says. ‘What have you got in here? Thanksgiving di

‘I wanted to make sure there was plenty for everybody.’

‘You know he’s on a strict diet, right?’

‘You’re not,’ she says. ‘You’re a growing boy. Also, there’s a bottle of champagne, so don’t drop it.’

From her pocket, Holly takes a box of Nicorette and pops a piece into her mouth.

‘How’s that going?’ Jerome asks as they walk down the slope.

‘I’m getting there,’ she says. ‘The hypnosis helps more than the gum.’

‘What if the guy tells you you’re a chicken and gets you to run around his office, clucking?’

‘First of all, my therapist is a she. Second of all, she wouldn’t do that.’

‘How would you know?’ Jerome asks. ‘You’d be, like, hypnotized.’

‘You’re an idiot, Jerome. Only an idiot would want to take the bus down here with all this food.’

‘Thanks to the proclamation, we ride free. I like free.’

Hodges, still wearing the suit he put on that morning (although the tie is now in his pocket), comes to meet them, moving slowly. He can’t feel the pacemaker ticking away in his chest – he’s been told they’re very small now – but he senses it in there, doing its work. Sometimes he imagines it, and in his mind’s eye it always looks like a smaller version of Hartsfield’s gadget. Only his is supposed to stop an explosion instead of causing one.

‘Kids,’ he says. Holly is no kid, but she’s almost two decades younger than he is, and to Hodges that almost makes her one. He reaches for the picnic basket, but Jerome holds it away from him.

‘Nuh-uh,’ he says. ‘I’ll carry it. Your heart.’

‘My heart’s fine,’ Hodges says, and according to his last checkup this is true, but he still can’t quite believe it. He has an idea that anyone who’s suffered a coronary feels the same way.

‘And you look good,’ Jerome says.

‘Yes,’ Holly agrees. ‘Thank God you got some new clothes. You looked like a scarecrow the last time I saw you. How much weight have you lost?’

‘Thirty-five pounds,’ Hodges says, and the thought that follows, I wish Janey could see me now, sends a pang through his electronically regulated heart.

‘Enough with the Weight Watchers,’ Jerome says. ‘Hols brought champagne. I want to know if we have a reason to drink it. How did it go this morning?’

‘The DA isn’t going to prosecute anything. All charges dropped. Billy Hodges is good to go.’