Kurtz was getting more and more suspicious about all this helpful assistance. He said, "Who will I be? Your partner?"
"You'll be absent," said Rigby. She dug out money for the check. "You go into the local sheriff's office with those raccoon eyes or wearing those sunglasses, with your scalp all carved up like that, they'll throw us both in jail on general principles."
"All right. Shall I meet you back at the car in an hour?"
"Give me ninety minutes," said Rigby. "I have to go find a doughnut place open. You don't go ask local cops for help, even on directions, without bearing gifts."
They'd noticed the green signs for the police station, only a block east of Main, and Rigby decided to walk. She said that she didn't want to lose
all credibility by having someone see her being dropped off in that rusted piece of Ford crap Kurtz was driving. Kurtz watched her disappear around the corner, her short hair still being stirred by the strong wind from the west and her corduroy jacket blowing, and then he opened the Pinto's trunk. The.38 was there, hidden under the spare tire, but that wasn't what he wanted. He pulled the still-sealed pint of Jack Daniel's out of its hiding place and slipped it in the pocket of his leather jacket. Then, pulling his collar up against the gusting wind, he headed off down Main Street in search of a park.
Even in an absurdly prosperous town like Neola, there had to be a place where the winos hung out, and Kurtz found it after about fifteen minutes of walking. The two old men and the stoned boy with long, greasy hair were sitting down by the river on a stretch of dirt and grass out of sight of the park's jogging path. The men were working on a bottle of Thunderbird and they squinted suspiciously as Kurtz settled himself on a nearby stump. Their eyes grew a film of greediness over the suspicion when he took out the sealed pint. Only the greediness disappeared when Kurtz said that he wanted to talk and.passed the pint over.
The oldest manand the only one who talkedwas named Adam. The other old man, according to Adam, was Jake. The stoned boywho was focusing on something just below the treetopsevidently didn't deserve an introduction. And although Jake did not speak, at every question and before every answer, old Adam looked to Jakewho made no visible sign but who seemed to pass along permission or denial telepathicallybefore Adam spoke.
Kurtz shot the shit for fifteen minutes or so. He confirmed Rigby's assumption that everyone in Neola either worked for the Major's South-East Asia Trading Company or benefitted from the money from it or was afraid of someone who did work for it. He also confirmed the details of the 1977 shooting at the high school that had put eighteen-year-old Sean Michael O'Toole in the state asylum.
"That fucking Sean was a crazy fucking kid," said Adam. He wiped the mouth of the bottle and handed the pint to Kurtz, who took a small sip, wiped the mouth, and handed it to Jake.
"Did you know him?"
"Everybody in the fucking town fucking knew him," said Adam, taking the bottle back from Jake. "Fucking Major's fucking kidlike a fucking prince. Little fucking bastard shot and killed my Ellen."
"Ellen?" said Kurtz. Arlene's research had reported that the O'Toole kid had gone to the high school with a.30-.06 one morning and killed two fellow studentsboth malea gym teacher, and an assistant principal.
"Fucking Ellen Stevens," slurred the old man. "My fucking girlfriend. She was the fucking girl's gym teacher. Best fucking lay I ever had."
Kurtz nodded, sipped some of the disappearing whiskey, wiped the mouth, and handed it on to Jake. The stoned boy's eyes were glazed and fixed.
"Anybody ever say why he did it? This Sean Michael O'Toole?"
"Because he fucking wanted to," said Adam. "Because he fucking knew that he was the fucking Major's fucking son. Because he'd fucking got away with everythinguntil Ellen gave him fucking detention that fucking week because the little fuck had drilled a hole in the wall of the girl's locker room and was fucking peeping at Ellen's fucking girls. That fucking old bastard the Major has run Neola since fuck knows when, and his fucking kid didn't know that he couldn't shoot and kill four fucking people and fucking get away with it You got another fucking pint, Joe?"
"No, sorry."
"That's all right. We got another fucking bottle." Adam showed a smile consisting of three teeth on top and two on the bottom and pulled the Thunderbird wine out from behind his stump.
"Whatever happened to the kid?" said Kurtz. "Sean Michael?"
Adam hesitated and looked to Jake. Jake did not so much as blink. Adam evidently got the message. "Fucking psycho went up to that big fucking nuthouse in Rochester. They say he got fucking burned up a few years later, but we don't fucking believe it."
"No?"
"Fuck no," grinned Adam, checking with Jake before going on. "Little kids in the town've seen himseen him wandering the woods and backyards at night, all scarred up from his burns, wearing a fucking baseball cap. And Jake here seen him, too."