and furthermore..

This is an epilogue. Fair warning.

The River of Time flows, no matter. Some grab on to each other and hold on tight, swirled in a gentle eddy, shielded from the heavier currents. Others flounder, go under and are swept into the future.

    The chief of police came out of McInerney’s pub and walked to the back of the sandy lot where he’d tucked his wife’s brand new pearl white Pontiac away from assholes, idiots, and drivers from Rhode Island. Whether he was fit to drive was debatable. He fumbled the key around the lock for a few seconds and, anxious about scratching the finish, leaned on the car with his head down on his forearm a moment to steady himself. When he opened his eyes, he was astonished to see what appeared to be a large puddle of piss right in the middle of the roof. Yellow rivulets had run down the windshield and there were spatters on the glistening hood. Furious, he went back inside the bar, dragged half the patrons outside, and waited, fists on hips, for someone to say something. Even though it was only a little piss, no one dared giggle, and no one fessed up in drunken hilarity.

    “What are you gonna do, Chief? Call forensics down in Hartford?” came a voice from the back row.

    The bartender shouldered through the crowd with two sweating pitchers of water and ceremoniously poured them over the urine. “Problem solved,” he said. “Now everybody come back inside and settle your damn tabs.”

    Before anyone could move, there was the sound of a branch cracking from overhead and a rifle fell, stock first, neatly punching a hole in the windshield. A handful of red and gold leaves fluttered down, but before they could land, a large man landed face down on the hood, buckling it, his boots taking out the rest of the windshield. Those not crowding in to gawk at the body- the man was clearly dead- stepped back to look up into the tree for whatever might be next. The chief bent down and peered into the man’s face. “Motherfucker better be as dead as he looks. Somebody call this shit in and take note, Margie’s going to kill me.”

    A few blocks away on the southern edge of town, an explosion shook the ground under their feet, and a fireball reached a finger into the night. An onshore breeze brought them a pall of acrid smoke that stank of burning rubber and oil.

        “Arma-fuckin-geddon?” the bartender offered cautiously.

~O~

       Brad stood beside the car hauler trying to count the cash while the driver scrambled around the car, attempting to conceal it with a floral, king-sized, fitted sheet and failing badly. No matter how he tugged the cloth, the gleaming paint and chrome shivered and twitched with reflected light—the moon, the streetlight on the corner, the neon “closed” sign in the window of the gas station across the street— the reflections and its pent-up energy giving the illusion of life.

    Parked directly behind the truck, Jen fumed behind the wheel of her mother’s Vistacruiser. She was pissed because Brad had made a point of losing her, goosing the Chevelle’s engine, laying forty feet of rubber in her face. She got out and slammed the door hard enough to get everyone’s attention. “What the fuck is taking so long?”

    The driver hopped down from the truck bed, landing in the dirt right beside her. “Hey, honey, you must be the brains of this outfit. Dude, why don’t you let her count it?”

    Brad had a fistful of tens and twenties in each hand. “Six fifty, six sixty, six seventy...”

    She poked the driver on a tattooed bicep. “Jeez, what did you do? Take up a collection in church?”

    “Two thousand, seven hundred. Jen, shut the fuck up before I lose count.”

    Behind them, a crackling shower of sparks trickled from under the Chevelle. A hollow popping noise stopped Brad’s count, and an explosion blew the car's hood skyward as fire filled the cabin and blew out the windows. They were knocked sprawling to the dirt by the concussion before any of them had the chance to jump. One of the chrome cable rings landed on the truck driver's ass, scorching his jeans, branding him as he lay face down in the dirt, howling. They were peppered with chicklets of safety glass.

    A second explosion, much larger than the first, launched the Chevelle up and over the end of the trailer to land upside down, crushing the station wagon, drowning it in flames. Everything was ablaze. Jen’s sweater caught fire and Brad fell on her, smothering the flames. Jen decided it was love after all until pieces of burnt money started drifting down over them. Scorched tens and twenties littered the lot. Come daylight, kids would prowl the scrub for burnt money and, rumor had it, blackened bones.

    Fire department volunteers sober enough to function responded to the call. All the radio chatter had was “car fire. minor injuries”. Then a call came for the beleaguered sheriff. Foul play suspected. They hosed a full tanker of water over the three burning carcasses, the flatbed’s diesel oil stubbornly refusing to be squelched. A young volunteer firefighter picked up a blackened piece of metal from the scrub—the SS badge from the grill of the Chevelle. He rubbed it on his sweaty shirt, looked around, and tucked it in the pocket of his yellow rubber coat. The rear tires of the flatbed blew out and the burnt frame settled onto the sandy dirt.

    The other two vehicles were tangled in a charred embrace. The large, two-door sedan lay upside down on what had been a station wagon. A big-block engine smoldered in the weeds at the back of the sandy lot. Someone stumbled across a rear windshield with ‘GOTCHA’ written in big white letters on the cracked glass. A charred license plate was recovered, and the slightly scorched survivors were taken into custody.

~O~

             

    The newlyweds tied the boat up at the town pier across from the Mill rather than venture the backchannel approach. Jack wasn’t sure whether the tide was coming or going. A car with New York plates was parked by the ramp, the only light coming from a single streetlight. Delgado leaned against the trunk, his arms folded across his chest.

    Jack held up the jacket so Anna could put her arms through the sleeves, the blood-stained shirt under it not quite concealing the black boxers. All Jack was wearing were his pants. They looked as if they’d been playing some kinky game that had turned rough. He whispered in her ear, “Guess we’re about to find out what the fuck. You ready?” He rubbed a smudge of soot from her face and kissed the spot.

    She nodded. “I’ll be gentle with him. Engine trouble, right?” Jack patted her ass as he helped her up the ladder. 

    Daniel reached for her good hand as she climbed from the boat to the pier. “It’s about time. We were just about to call the Coast Guard. What did you do to yourself?” Daniel’s tone went from angry to genuine concern in the space of a breath as he lifted her bandaged hand close to his face. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss it.

    “You should see the other guy,” Jack called up from below her.

    “A broken glass. I don’t suppose you have a first aid kit with you?” She looked toward the Mill and the spot where they’d left the car. “Hey. Where’s my car?”

    Jack scrambled up the ladder. “Hell, I forgot to tell you. Just before we left, I asked Go to run it back up to O&M. Danny Boy. Why are you still here? Where’s your partner? I wasn’t kidding about that threesome. She and Wendy gonna start the party without you, man.”

    But Daniel was only half listening to Jack, and that half dwindled to nothing quickly. He was focused on the warmth of Anna’s hand in his and the tone of her voice reverberating in his head. The scents of gardenia, champagne, and sex wrapped around him and drove off the night’s seaside chill. He closed his eyes.

    Anna lifted their clasped hands to his heart.

    Daniel answered her unspoken question. “No one was hurt. A couple of kids stole the car not long after you left. They were closing the deal in that lot across from the Shell station when something happened.“

    Jack shrugged and said, “So you caught ‘em? Assholes. Christ, I left the keys over the visor, I...”

    Let him finish. There might be more we need to know.

    Daniel put his hand up, eyes closed. “It might have been a bomb.” He paused, seemed to grope for the next words, then gave up trying.

    Will they be able to connect it to the Grolovs?

    What's the difference?

    Daniel still held Anna’s wounded hand to his heart. Jack slipped his arm around her waist and insinuated his hand under the waistband of the satin shorts to rest on her bare hip, fingers wide. He slung his other arm over Daniel’s shoulder, suspending the man in a loop of wonder. 

    The streetlight fluttered gold to white, white to gold, and went out with an arcing snap. The black bowl of the sky reeled over their heads, the ragged gash of the Milky Way curving to and away from view at the same time. The claw moon was too high and pale to matter.

        Are we going to light him up, or what? Just kidding.

        I need him to forget something.

        Hmm? What’s that? He gave her a squeeze. Jeez, your ass is warm.

        That I would have slept with him if he’d helped me get rid of Ray.

        My woman, the hustler. He kissed her, then patted Daniel on the cheek gently. Nah. Leave him with it. Nothing’s wrong with a little hot history. Besides, he’s the kind of ace you want to keep up your sleeve.

        “I love you.”

        “Fuckin' ay.”

     Anna pulled her hand from Daniel’s grasp and broke the spell.

     Jack snapped his fingers under Daniel’s nose. “Dude, are you high? You zoned out on us for a second.”

     Daniel scrubbed his hands over his face and stifled a yawn. “It’s been a very long day.” He offered Anna his arm, and she took it. “Let’s get you back to O&M and look at that hand.”

     Jack flanked him and whispered, “And you need to find out where Sylvie and Wendy went. Don’t tell me you never been the cream in an Oreo!”

~O~