Spencerville

Keith commented, "Law and order is his job."

"Yeah," agreed Jeffrey, "but I'll tell you something else — he's not real good at that either. We still have low crime here, but it's starting to get worse. There are drugs now — not good grass, but hard stuff — and Baxter doesn't have a clue about where it's coming from, who's selling it, or who's buying. The nature of crimes and criminals has changed, and Baxter hasn't. We have more domestic violence, we had a few car-jackings, we had two rapes so far this year, and we had a gang who came from Toledo by car and pulled off an armed robbery at the Merchants Bank. The state police caught them, not Baxter. Anyway, the state has offered the Spencerville force advanced training, but it's not mandated, so Baxter blew them off. He doesn't want anyone knowing how inept or corrupt he and his gestapo are."

Keith didn't respond. In fact, he'd been charitable enough to think that maybe Cliff Baxter was a tough but effective cop. A lousy human being but a good chief, dedicated to public safety. On the other hand, the incident in the supermarket parking lot and the police car drive-bys had already told him he was dealing with a corrupt police force.

Jeffrey went on, "Baxter blames drugs for this mini crime wave, and he's partly right. But he also blames the schools, parents, television, MTV, movies, music, video arcades, smut magazines, and all that. Okay, maybe some of this is true, but he doesn't see the relationship between crime and unemployment, and teenage boredom, and lack of opportunities, and lack of stimulation."

Keith commented, "Jeffrey, when has small-town America been any different? Maybe a tough police force is just what's needed. Look, maybe progressive solutions could work in the cities, but this is not Columbus or Cleveland, my friend. Here we need small-town solutions to small-town problems, and you guys need a reality check."

Gail said, "Okay, we're open to reality. We're not the wild-eyed ideologues we used to be. But the problem remains the same." She asked him, "Do you care?"

Keith thought a moment, then replied, "Yes, it's my hometown. I thought maybe things hadn't changed much, and I could find some peace and quiet here, but I see you two aren't going to let me go fishing."

Gail smiled and said, "Old revolutionaries don't fade away like old soldiers, Keith. They just find a new cause."

"So I see."

Gail continued, "We think Baxter is vulnerable, that he's developed some career problems which we want to exploit."

"Maybe he just needs counseling and sensitivity training. That's what progressives like yourselves offer criminals. Why not cops?"

Gail said to Keith, "I know you're baiting us, and you're good at it, but I also know you're an intelligent man. You know, or you're soon going to find out, that Cliff Baxter is beyond salvation, professionally, spiritually, or otherwise. Christ, he knows that. And he's getting nervous, like a trapped rat, and that makes him more dangerous."

Keith nodded and thought, And certainly not a better husband.

Gail said, "We think it's time to get him fired. We need a moral victory, something to galvanize public opinion." She added, "Keith, with your background..."

He interrupted, "You don't know my background. Whatever I told you doesn't leave this house."

Gail nodded. "All right. With your intelligence, wit, and charm, you can help us. We'd like you to join us."

"Who is us?"

"Just a group of reformers."

"Do I have to become a Democrat?"

Jeffrey laughed. "God, no. We have no party affiliation. We have people from all parties and all classes. We have ministers, businesspeople, schoolteachers, farmers, housewives — hell, we've got most of Annie's family with us."

"Is that a fact? I wonder what Thanksgiving dinner is like at the Baxters?"

Jeffrey said, "Like a lot of our supporters, they haven't gone public yet." Jeffrey asked, "Can we count on you?"

"Well..." In truth, Keith had his own grudge against Cliff Baxter, which was that he was married to Annie Baxter. Keith said, "Well... I'm not sure I'm staying around."

Jeffrey observed, "I had the impression you were."

"I'm not sure."

Gail said, "We're not asking you to meet him on Main Street at high noon for a duel. Just say you're in favor of getting rid of him."

"Okay, In principle, I'm in favor of getting rid of any corrupt public official."

"Good. That's Cliff Baxter. There's a meeting next week, Thursday night, at St. James Church. You know it?"

"Yes, it's my old church. Why are you meeting outside of town?"

"People don't want to be seen at this meeting, Keith. You understand that."

"Indeed I do. But you may be overdoing the revolutionary melodrama. This is America. Use the damned town hall. That's your right."

"Can't. Not yet."

Keith wondered how much of this was the Porters trying to recapture the romance of revolution and how much was real anxiety and fear. Keith said, "I'll think about being there."

"Good. More pie? Tea?"

"No, thanks. Time to hit the road."

"It's early," Gail said. "None of us has shit to do tomorrow." She stood, and Keith thought she was going to clear the table, so he stood, too, and picked up his plate and glass.

Gail said, "Leave that. We're still pigs." She took his arm and led him into the living room.

Jeffrey followed, carrying a potpourri jar. He said, "The dinner was superb, the conversation stimulating, and now we retire into the drawing room for a postprandial smoke."

Gail lit two incense lamps and two scented candles in the dark room. Jeffrey sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, and, by the light of one of the candles, he transferred the contents of the potpourri jar into rolling papers that he'd spread out on the low table.

Keith watched him in the candlelight, quick fingers and a flicking tongue, producing five nicely packed joints faster than an old farmer could roll a single cigarette.

Gail put a tape in the deck, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, then sat on the floor with her back to an armchair.

Jeffrey lit a joint, took a toke, and passed it to Keith. Keith hesitated a moment, took a drag, then passed it across the coffee table to Gail.

The Beatles played, the candles flickered, the smell of incense and pot filled the air. It was 1968, sort of.

The first joint was now held with a pair of tweezers, then snuffed out, and the roach was put carefully in an ashtray for future use in the pipe that Keith noticed on the table. The second joint was lit and passed.

Keith recalled the protocols and rituals as if it were yesterday. No one said much, and what was said didn't make a whole lot of sense.

Gail, however, did say in the low, hushed tone associated with cannabis and candlelight, "She needs help."

Keith ignored this.

Gail added, as if to herself, "I understand how and why a woman stays in that kind of situation... I don't think he abuses her physically... but he's fucking with her head..."

Keith passed the joint to her. "Enough."

"Enough what?" She took a toke and said, "You, Mr. Landry, could solve your problem and our problem at the same time..." she exhaled. "...right?"

Keith had trouble forming his thoughts, but after a few seconds, or a few minutes, he heard his voice say, "Gail Porter... I've butted heads with the best in the world... I've had enough experience with women to write the book on the subject... don't try to fuck with my head..." He thought this was what he wanted to say. It was close enough.

Gail seemed to ignore him and said, "I always liked her... I mean, we weren't big buddies, but I... she was kind of like... always had a smile, always doing some good deed... I mean, I could puke, you know... but deep down inside, I envied her... completely at peace with her man and her... like, uninvolvement with anything..."