(2004) Citizen Vince (30 page)

She nestles into his chest. “Tell me again.”

“Well,” he says. “I’m going to borrow some money and we’ll find a building and open a restaurant.”

“And I’ll be the waitress.”

He speaks barely above a whisper: “You’ll be the waitress. I’ll be the chef. It’ll be called The Picnic Basket and we’ll serve everything in picnic baskets and the walls will be painted like trees and some of the tables will be blankets spread out on the floor. We’ll serve cold fried chicken and sandwiches and whole pies. And there’ll be kids everywhere, slides and swing sets…it will be like a park, but inside.”

Kenyon toddles out with a toy bear.

“Bear,” Vince says.

“And we’ll live in a house?” Beth whispers.

“We’ll live in a great house, with a barbecue and a front porch, and while I’m gone you and Kenyon can wait for me there with a big glass of lemonade.”

ALAN DUPREE WINCES
as he grabs his suitcase from the luggage carousel.

Phelps is still laughing. “You’re the only cop I know goes to New York and gets himself mugged.”

Dupree lets Phelps take the suitcase.

“So what, this guy just jumps you, out of the blue, gives you a black eye and breaks your ribs?”

“Something like that,” Dupree says.

“Tell me you chased him.”

“I chased him.”

“Did he get your wallet?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good, at least. That’s a little less embarrassing.”

They walk out the doors of the white, swooping jet-age airport, to Phelps’s car. Dupree moans as he settles in. Phelps drives them back toward town, curls onto the freeway, and descends Sunset Hill into Spokane, the sun breaking through the clouds behind them—just in time to set. Phelps updates Dupree on everything that’s hap
pened—the diesel repair instructor over at the community college they found stuffed in the trunk of his own car, and just today, a stereo-store owner found stabbed to death in the passenger seat of his car at Dicks Drive-in. With Doug, the passport-shop owner last week, that makes three bodies in eight days.

“And no connection between any of them?” Dupree asks.

“Not that we can see,” Phelps says. “Don’t hold your breath, rook. Sometimes you just get a streak like this. Who knows why? Something in the water, maybe.”

Dupree stares out the window.

Phelps says there’s been no sign of Vince Camden since he popped in at the marshals service. “Probably left town again.”

Phelps exits the freeway into the neighborhood just below the South Hill. He turns onto Alan and Debbie’s street and into their driveway. The lights are all on. “You taking tomorrow off?”

“No,” Dupree says. “I’ll be in.”

Phelps jumps out and tries to get Dupree’s suitcase, but Alan shakes him off and carries it himself. He’s halfway up the porch when Phelps calls after. “Hey, good job, by the way. Figuring out Camden was in witness protection. You did good, rook. You can’t always catch the guy.”

Dupree says, without turning, “Yeah.”

Inside, he buries his face in Debbie’s neck, and repeats the story about being mugged. She rubs his back and then goes to make him something to eat. Dupree eases into a dining-room chair, pulls a number from his wallet, picks up the phone, and dials.

“Fair Oaks Treatment Center.”

“Yeah, I wanted to see about a patient I checked in there this morning.”

“I’m sorry. We can’t release information on clients.”

“Please. I dropped him off there myself. I just want to know if he’s still there. His name is Donnie Charles. He’s a cop.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t.”

“Please. It’s important.”

“Are you family?”

“No. I’m…his partner.”

The woman on the other end is quiet for a moment and Alan can hear the pages ruffling. “He’s here,” the woman says.

THEY EAT DINNER
quietly. Dupree has just lowered himself in a bath when he hears the phone ring. He hears Debbie say, “I’m sorry. He’s in the bath.” And then he falls asleep and the next thing he knows he jerks awake in cold water and sees Debbie standing in the doorway of the bathroom. “Alan. I think you better come out here.”

Dupree comes out in a robe and sees Vince Camden, his back to them, sitting on Dupree’s couch, drinking a cup of coffee, and watching the late election returns. Dupree looks over at Debbie. “I’m sorry. He said he had something for you. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He pats her reassuringly on the hand and she goes back into the kitchen.

On TV there’s a square-jawed guy, his arm around his wife, waving to a roomful of supporters at a downtown hotel, shaking hands as the numbers on the screen tell the story:
60% of precincts: Grebbe 61.4%; Thomas 38.6%.

Finally Vince Camden turns. “Hey.” He holds up the business card Dupree gave him days earlier, his home number on the back. “I’m sorry. I called and got your address from your wife. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you—”

Vince Camden nods. “Turning myself in.”

“For—”

“What’ve you got?” Vince asks. He smiles. “I’ve been stealing credit cards. Dealing pot.” Vince shifts on the couch. “And I can tell you who killed Doug, the passport guy. And Lenny, the guy in the car at Dicks today. And maybe more.”

Dupree just stares at him.

“It wasn’t me,” Vince says. “It was this guy, Ray. He was at my house the day you came by. He did it.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I saw him kill Lenny. Stabbed him in the shoulder with a paring knife.”

“Do you know where this Ray is?”

“No,” Vince says. “I don’t. He was staying at a motel on the west side of town. But he’s not there now. The last time I saw him he said he was going back to New York.”

“By himself?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

Dupree isn’t sure about the inflection—if Vince can’t tell him, or won’t.

Vince turns back to the TV. Dupree stands behind him, in his robe, unsure what he’s supposed to do now. Or what he wants to do. He’s just so goddamned tired. Finally, he sits down in his easy chair, next to the couch and across from the console TV.

Debbie returns from the kitchen, sets a plate of sliced banana bread on the coffee table, and fills up Vince’s coffee cup.

Vince takes a bite of banana bread. “This is very good, Mrs. Dupree.”

“Thank you.” She looks at her husband for help.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dupree says. “This is—” He stops. “Is it Marty, or…”

He smiles. “Vince. Please. Call me Vince.”

“Vince. This is my wife. Debbie.”

They shake hands, and then Vince goes back to his banana bread, breaking off bites above his little plate. They sit together like a family, watching the local returns. The Republicans are making major gains; even heavyweights like Warren Magnuson and Tom Foley are in danger of losing. The presidential race was called hours ago, with Reagan winning by nine points and four hundred electoral votes. There’s some anger directed at Jimmy Carter for
conceding so early, when the polls were still open in the West, and the news anchor cuts to a tape of Carter’s concession, flanked by huge red and white stripes, brace-knuckled at the podium, Rosalynn and Amy standing shamefully at his side like co-conspirators, their arms dead at their sides, the three of them resembling nothing so much as a poor Southern family being turned out of their home. His eyes are puffy and red—
I promised you four years ago that I would never lie to you, so I can’t stand here tonight and say it doesn’t hurt
—and his face seems different in some profound way from the face of the man who arrived just four years earlier, as if time and pressure have conspired to sever the muscles and allowed the familiar features to drift—
I call on the new administration to solve the problems still before us. And to bring Americans back together.

Dupree looks over at Vince Camden. His mouth is open a few inches and he’s watching as if this were all happening to him.

“I’m gonna get dressed and then we’ll go,” Dupree says quietly.

Vince nods without looking away from the screen.

Dupree comes back out in jeans and a sweater. He keeps his handcuffs at his side, hoping Vince won’t notice them, unsure why it even matters. Debbie sees the cuffs and raises her eyebrows. On TV Reagan is ebullient, confident; he belongs—
I am not frightened by what lies ahead and I don’t think the American people are frightened by what lies ahead
—jet-black hair hard-parted on the right, cuff links peeking from the sleeves of a pressed white shirt, beneath shoulders built to fill a dark suit, and already he looks more presidential than the man he beat, and Nancy beams skeletal at his elbow—
Together we’re going to do what has to be done. We’re going to put America back to work again
—and he raises his thumb to the throng of supporters and the Reagan signs bounce and confetti rains on the hotel ballroom.

History is just the memories you haven’t had yet. History is this cycle of arrogance and fall, arrogance and fall, and as soon as something happens, you can’t remember when you didn’t know it would
happen, when there was any other outcome than the one in front of you. Reagan waves.
Even if it had been the cliffhanger we were expecting, it would have been the same. This is the most humbling moment of my life.

And finally, Vince sits back on the couch. Looks up and smiles.

Dupree can’t quite read the look on his face—a kind of be-mused surrender, the recognition of irony, perhaps. “What is it?”

“I just realized: I’m going to be convicted of credit-card fraud.”

At the very least, Dupree thinks. But he doesn’t want Vince to clam up, so he says, “Look, if you cooperate, if what you say is true about your friend Ray, who knows—you could be out in a year or two. Maybe even less.”

“No, I know,” Vince says. “But it’ll still be a felony.” Again that ironic smirk.

“Yeah,” Dupree says, waiting. “So…”

“Nothing…Nothing.” Still smiling, Vince turns to the TV—the screen a blur of confetti and balloons and bunting, and at the center of it, an almost seventy-year-old man vowing to free his people of their fears and insecurities, to make them stop feeling puny and vulnerable, boldly promising to lead them into the past.

Vince turns away. “So was I the crow or the lake?”

“I don’t know,” Dupree says. “Both, maybe.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought,” Vince says. “Ready?” He stands, offers Dupree his wrists, and begins his life.

The following shall be thanked for their contributions relating to this book, including but not limited to: editing, support, over-service and patience, in accordance with grammatical law and authorial appreciation.