Grandpa said he felt too full to have a slice of the peach pie right then, but maybe he would enjoy it later, when he got home from his gig at the hotel restaurant. Because of the bad weather, he left early, making sure that Mrs. Lorenzo locked both deadbolts on the front door.
Malcolm’s mood had improved somewhat through dinner. He scooped the vanilla ice cream while Mrs. Lorenzo plated three pieces of pie.
When he put my dessert on the table in front of me, he said, “You okay?”
“Huh? Sure. I’m great.”
“You have indigestion or something?”
“Indigestion?”
“The way you keep touching your chest.”
The pendant. I was repeatedly feeling for the Lucite heart, as if some sneak thief might have slipped it from the chain and made off with it.
97
The three arrived in the city as the daylight steadily washed out of the turbulent sky. The storm had no more lightning in its quiver, but rain still fell in torrents, flooding some intersections.
Judging by the few cars in the parking lot, the motel had many vacancies. A two-star enterprise in a one-star part of town.
Lucas Drackman took a parking slot close to Room 14. There was no one in sight when he rapped on the door. After Fiona ushered them inside, she looked left and right along the covered promenade that served the rooms, saw no one.
She’d gotten sandwiches and bags of potato chips from a deli. They plucked bottles of beer from the bathroom sink, which was filled with ice.
Two of them had chairs, and the other two sat on the bed. In recognition of the thin walls between units, they spoke softly, but for the most part, they ate in silence.
Drackman could tell that Fiona was wired, strung tight. She’d drunk a Mountain Dew instead of beer, but it wasn’t the caffeine-laden soft drink that had drawn her so taut. Whatever she had taken, if anything, her condition probably had less to do with drugs than with anticipation of the pending operation. She was excited, ready. Fiona loved action. And she had a particular appetite for action against the Bledsoe family.
To remind them that they were part of something cool, he said, “Man, all these riots, huh? New York, Toledo, Grand Rapids. I mean, how radical is that—riots in Grand Rapids?”
“Detroit’s half burned down,” Tilton said.
“Carl Sandburg’s dying,” Fiona said.
Smaller frowned. “Who the hell is he?”
“A poet.”
“Ah, that’s all phony shit, all them rhymes and stuff.”
“Sandburg’s poems don’t rhyme,” she said.
“That ain’t right. So how’s he a poet?”
“Because he says he is.”
“Then I’m a damn poet,” Smaller declared.
“We’re all poets,” Drackman said.
“We’re all something,” said Tilton.
Fiona drilled him with her purple gaze. “You up for this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You better be up for this,” she said.