In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 2

I had to hand it to her, I thought, even as we entered Carmichael’s and Cecilia rushed to turn down the radio; she (Mollie) knew how to sound objective even when reporting on things I knew pissed her off: “... America’s allies are calling to congratulate President-elect Jon Brady even as President Tucker refuses to concede the election; among them President Emmanuel Macron of France and Prime Minister Boris Johnson of the United Kingdom. Tucker meanwhile has not publicly conceded and continues to make claims of election rigging and voter fraud ...”

“Cecilia; I don’t know how you even hear them bells with such an infernal racket going on.” I motioned for her to remain seated even as we made our way toward the coffee urns. “Nah, nah. You just sit right down there and give little Archie a chance to breathe, you hear?”

She blushed and dropped a hand to her bump, which was more of a basketball. “Little Archie—” And she tittered. “Not X Æ A-Xii—like Steve Dannon and Sharona?”

“The rich can afford to be weird,” said Bennet. He took a Styrofoam cup and began to fill it. “Like that Hugo Eagleton—the guy who wrote The Sleeping City, or whatever. Named his kid ‘Rocket.’ I mean, can you imagine? A kid named ‘Rocket?’” He snickered through his nose. “Going to have to teach that kid how to fight; that’s all I have to say.”

I filled my own cup and went to the counter, took out my debit card. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. It’s got—how do you say it? Gravitas.” I looked at Cecilia. “I’ve got these, darling. Can’t have Bennet paying for his own coffee, not today; he’s the man of the moment!”

Bennet just shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. Little PR for the Department.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “People see things like the race riots in Seattle and, well, they get scared—that’s all. Just need to know there’s a firm hand at the wheel.”

Cecilia nodded slowly, tentatively. “So are you ... going to be on television? Or on the radio?”

“Oh, radio; radio. KEXM, right next door. You’ll—you’ll be able to hear the whole thing.” He hitched up his Khakis briskly. “Yeah, just something a lawman has to do ... I mean, now and again. Touch base with his public. Let ‘em know he’s on the beat.” He laughed a little. “After all, we work for you, right? I mean, it sure isn’t the reverse. I can tell you that.”

“Speaking of which,” I indicated the clock on the wall. “Isn’t it about that time?”

“Is it?” Bennet looked at the big IBM. “Well—so it is.” And to Cecilia: “Well. Reckon that’s why I don’t currently have a lady friend. Married to duty, as they say.”

“Aww. Well, break a leg,” she said.

“Yep ...” He exhaled loudly. “My lady is Sandy Chain.”

“Bennet.”

And we went—as Cecilia refused to run my card (as usual) and the radio blared (with Mollie talking about a bold new era in human achievement and the imminent return of Steve Dannon’s Daedalus Seven spacecraft) and the door chimed and the wind—which had picked up markedly, alarmingly, inexplicably—met our faces.

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