بخش 02 - فصل 14

14 Brady rolls along, obeying the speed limit (twenty miles per here on Vinson Lane), hardly hearing the jingle and clang of “Buffalo Gals” from the speakers above him. He’s wearing a sweater beneath his white Mr. Tastey jacket, because the load behind him is cold.

Like my mind, he thinks. Only ice cream is just cold. My mind is also analytical. It’s a machine. A Mac loaded with gigs to the googolplex. He turns it to what he has just seen, the fat ex-cop walking up Harper Road Hill with Jerome Robinson and the Irish setter with the nigger name. Jerome gave him a wave and Brady gave it right back,

because that’s the way you blend in. Like listening to Freddi Linklatter’s endless rants about how tough it was to be a gay woman in a straight world. Kermit William “I wish I was young” Hodges and Jerome “I wish I was white” Robinson. What was the Odd Couple talking about? That’s something Brady Hartsfield

would like to know. Maybe he’ll find out if the cop takes the bait and strikes up a conversation on Debbie’s Blue Umbrella. It certainly worked with the rich bitch; once she started talking, nothing could stop her. The Det-Ret and his darkie houseboy. Also Odell. Don’t forget Odell. Jerome and his little

sister love that dog. It would really break them up if something happened to it. Probably nothing will, but maybe he’ll research some more poisons on the Net when he gets home tonight. Such thoughts are always flitting through Brady’s mind; they are the bats in his belfry. This morning at DE, as he was inventorying another load of

cheap-ass DVDs (why more are coming in at the same time they’re trying to dump stock is a mystery that will never be solved), it occurred to him that he could use his suicide vest to assassinate the president, Mr. Barack “I wish I was white” Obama. Go out in a blaze of glory. Barack comes to this state often, because it’s important to his re-election

strategy. And when he comes to the state, he comes to this city. Has a rally. Talks about hope. Talks about change. Rah-rah-rah, blah-blah-blah. Brady was figuring out how to avoid metal detectors and random checks when Tones Frobisher buzzed him and told him he had a service call. By the time he was on the road in one of the green Cyber Patrol

VWs, he was thinking about something else. Brad Pitt, to be exact. Fucking matinee idol. Sometimes, though, his ideas stick. A chubby little boy comes running down the sidewalk, waving money. Brady pulls over. “I want chawww-klit!” the little boy brays. “And I want it with springles!”

You got it, you fatass little creep, Brady thinks, and smiles his widest, most charming smile. Fuck up your cholesterol all you want, I give you until forty, and who knows, maybe you’ll survive the first heart attack. That won’t stop you, though, nope. Not when the world is full of beer and Whoppers and chocolate ice cream.

“You got it, little buddy. One chocolate with sprinkles coming right up. How was school? Get any As?”