“Yeah, I know him,” Davenport said. “There’s a goddamn accident waiting to happen.”
“Actually, it’s happened several times already. Anyway, Johnson needs some help on, mmm . . . a non-priority mission,” Flowers said. “I’m not doing anything heavy, and nobody’s called me for the Black Hole group, so I’d like to run over to Trippton. It’s down south of La Crescent.”
“You’re not telling me what it’s about,” Davenport said.
“No, but if Johnson is telling the truth, and I make a couple of busts, it’ll bring great credit upon the BCA.”
Johnson nodded sagely, from the passenger seat.
“We don’t need credit,” Davenport said. “The legislature’s already adjourned. But, go ahead, on your best judgment. From the way you’re talking, I don’t want to know what it is. If it blows up in your face, it’s your problem.”
“Got it. I just wanted you to know where I was,” Virgil said.
“You taking your boat?” Lucas asked.
Long pause, while Virgil sorted out the possibilities. He decided to go with the semi-truth. “Maybe.”
“Let me know if you get in trouble,” Davenport said. “But otherwise . . .”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That’s right.”
—
“YOU’RE GOOD,” Johnson said, when Virgil had rung off. “Got the backing of the big guy himself. Let’s get out on the river.”
“I’m not going catfishing,” Virgil said.
“Nah. Get your fly rod out. I know where there’s a whole bunch of smallmouth, and they do like their Wooly Buggers.”
So they did that.
On his first night in Buchanan County, Virgil went to sleep in Johnson’s cabin with the feeling he hadn’t gotten much done.
But he’d gotten some heavy vibes—and the vibes were bad.
3
ABOUT THE TIME that night that Virgil hooked into a two-pound smally, the Buchanan County Consolidated School Board finished the public portion of the monthly meeting. The last speaker had demanded to know what the board was going to do about buying better helmets for the football team.
“I been reading about how blows to the head turn the boys into a bunch of dummies when they grow up. Murph Roetting’s kid’s still not right after he got took out last season. . . . I don’t want to think we’re paying a million and a half dollars for a sports complex so we can raise a bunch of brain-damaged dummies.”
The board talked about that in an orderly fashion, each in his or her turn: the five board members, the superintendent, the financial officer. Because school was not in session, they were all dressed in Minnesota informal: button-up short-sleeved shirts and blouses, Dockers slacks for both men and women, loafers and low heels. All their haircuts, ranging from maple-blond to butternut-brown, were gender-appropriately short. They were neat, ironed, and certainly not assertive.
When everybody had his or her turn on the football issue, the board voted to ask community doctors to look into it and prepare a report.
That done, the board ran everybody off, except one fat man, with the excuse that they had to deal with personnel matters, which was almost true.
When the last of the public had gone, they sent Randolph Kerns, the school security officer, to flush out the hallways, including the bathrooms, to make sure everybody had really gone away. He found the school janitor polishing brass, and told him to knock it off and go home. The janitor went.