Lee slammed a dent into the Skylark with his boot. It seemed there wasn’t enough air he could pull in. The men on the ground were breathing but they weren’t making any motions to get up. Lee walked backwards until he was out of sight of them.
When he got home he turned on the lamp and looked at his hand. His knuckles were swollen but not opened up. His shoulder was tender where the pool ball had struck it. He took off his new jacket and laid it on the table and inspected it closely for damage to the fabric, for blood. There wasn’t any. He hung the jacket in the closet. He went to bed and lay awake for the rest of the night.
A few days later, after work when Lee was walking home with a bag of groceries, he became conscious of a vehicle tracking along beside him. At first he thought it was the police car again but then he saw it was a GMC Caballero. The vehicle angled to the curb beside him and the driver-side window came down. That big man with the glasses from the roadhouse. Maurice.
— Looks like you could use a lift.
— I’m okay. My place isn’t real far.
— If you say so.
A pause.
— I’ll see you, said Lee.
— Hold up, said Maurice. Word was you had some trouble on the weekend.
— Whose word is that?
— Doesn’t matter. Just thought you’d like to know there isn’t nobody going to be talking about it. Like so it would get back to the cops or your parole officer.
— I don’t have trouble with anyone.
— No, that’s true. You don’t. And if you did have trouble with anybody, say, a couple shithead town boys, then maybe you’d like to know these same shithead town boys have had certain things told to them.
— Okay, said Lee, not knowing what else to say.
— Shitty how them things happen to a guy from time to time, said Maurice. You sure you don’t want a ride?
— I’m okay.
— See you around, Lee.
EZ Acres was five miles down the highway south of town. The sign at the gate showed a cartoon fat-man snoozing in a hammock. The park had thirty-five campers sited on the shore of a circular catch-basin called Lake Albert. The office was one of three permanent buildings on the property. The park was seasonal and Stan didn’t know if anybody would still be around or not, but as he walked towards the office, a husky rose from the ground and barked twice.
A short woman with cropped grey hair came around from behind the office and told the dog to shut up. She had a splitting maul over her shoulder. She said: Can I help you?
— I guess you folks are closed up, said Stan.
— We open again on Victoria Day.
The husky trotted over and hung close to the woman’s leg.
— I thought you’d maybe be able to point me in the right direction, said Stan.
— What direction would that be?
— A friend of mine, he’s been in the hospital for awhile. He’s not in good shape. His doctor wanted to have a word with my friend’s niece who’s been keeping an eye on his property. It’s been hard to get a hold of her, the niece, but I heard she had a friend who worked here.
— Well, there’s nobody here now. Just me. We had two or three guys on seasonal but I let them go when we shut down after Thanksgiving. What was his name?
— I believe it’s Colin Gilmore, said Stan.
— Right, Ballin’ Colin. Last time I seen him was a week ago when I had a couple hours’ work in the hydro-cut. I don’t know if he’s still around or not, but up the highway there’s a truck stop where they got this roadhouse. The North Star. You know it? Colin was drinking there when he was around.
Stan thanked her and started to head back to his truck. He got on the highway and drove to the North Star. He knew of it but he’d never had reason to visit it before. He parked at the back of the lot and got out. A cool breeze was carrying small sharp granules of dirt across the asphalt. Stan went up to the front door of the roadhouse and went in. Past the entry, the interior was garishly lit by overhead lights. On the riser at the back, a man was plugging an electric guitar into an amplifier. The drone of the amplifier filled the whole room. Closer to the front door a man with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows was unstacking chairs at a table. The bar was shuttered. The man looked at Stan.
— Bar opens at seven. The band goes on at eight.
— Okay, said Stan.
— Which is to say we’ll see you then.
Stan went back into town and had supper at the Owl Cafe. He took his time reading the newspaper. The minutes were a long time passing. After seven o’clock he got up from the booth and went over to the counter to pay. The big-haired waitress was distracted, involved in some conversation with an angular man, wearing jeans and a Carhartt jacket, down at the end of the counter. The man she was talking to, there was something familiar about him. Stan had seen him before, but he couldn’t think where or when. The man noticed Stan looking at him and he said something to the waitress. She nodded and came over to collect Stan’s bill.
There was a pay phone at the back of the diner. Stan dialed Dick’s house and Fran answered. She said she was happy to hear from him, said how they would have him over for supper anytime.
— Dick’s not home, is he?
— I’m sorry, Stan. Dick’s down at the drill hall with Richard Junior. Brian’s getting sworn in to the Air Cadets tonight. Dick’s wearing his Europe medals for it. Do you want me to tell him you called?
— No, that’s fine, Fran. So long.
It was close to eight by the time Stan was back at the truck stop. There were some rigs pulled into the lot for the night and a dozen or so cars and pickups parked in front of the North Star. Inside, it was cigarette smoke and music from the jukebox. Thirty or thirty-five patrons. The band was clustered in discussion at the back of the riser. They were talking to the man with the rolled-back cuffs Stan had seen when he’d come in earlier.
For the first time it occurred to Stan that he had no idea what he’d say if he actually made Gilmore’s acquaintance. Maybe it was just a matter of knowing the face attached to the name. Stan took a stool at the bar. The sheer weirdness of this situation overcame his thoughts. A drunk barfly two stools down gave him a big friendly nod and offered a hand to shake.
— These boys put on a good show, said the barfly. Just you wait.
The bartender came down to Stan. She was young and had a streetwise comeliness to her. Stan could see how she lifted her eyebrows a little when she took him in.
— What will you have?
He ordered Coors in a bottle. Draft didn’t agree with him any more. She came back with a bottle and set it on a coaster in front of him. The barfly two stools down pushed a bowl of pretzels in Stan’s direction.
— Say, said Stan to the bartender. Does a fellow named Colin Gilmore hang around here?
She didn’t have to say anything. Her face gave it away.
— Maybe, said the bartender.
— I’m over from EZ Acres, just wanted to pass a message on to him from the manager.