Tell to him it’s times to come now,’ Lelia Ehrhart ordered Blackstone.
Blackstone motioned at the tree to hurry along.
Neither Brazil nor West liked crowds, but Chief Hammer refused to bask in the limelight alone, especially since she hated parades and other public celebrations more than West and Brazil did.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ West complained from the back seat of the dark blue Sebring. ‘You got this psycho kid out there waiting to make himself a legend by doing something really, really bad, and what do you decide?’ She slid into the driver’s seat and began adjusting mirrors. ‘You decide to ride in an open convertible.’
‘I don’t like it, either,’ said Brazil as he climbed in back, next to Hammer. ‘You sure you don’t want me to drive?’ he asked West.
‘Forget it,’ she replied.
Brazil got out paperwork.
‘We need to find the Mustang Club,’ he said, ‘because we’re in front of them. And’ — he traced his finger down a list — ‘right behind Miss Richmond.’ ‘Yuck,’ West said.
Pigeon and a fat man were within two feet of each other at Westover Hills and Bassett, across from Brentwood South.
The fat man seemed ready for action as he clandestinely searched the crowd through a pair of Leica binoculars. Pigeon was rooting for half a hot dog with mustard and relish that a little kid had just tossed into a trash can, as if hot dogs grew on trees.
Pigeon never missed the Azalea Parade. People were so wasteful. Not one kid this day and age knew the value of a dollar, not even those folks on food stamps. He fished out an almost entire bag of potato chips that some little brat couldn’t toss without violently squeezing, crushing and pulverizing first.
‘What we need is another good war,’ he said to the fat man, although they were not acquainted.
‘I’ve been saying that for years.’ The fat man couldn’t have agreed more. ‘No one understands what it’s like.’
‘How could they?’ Pigeon said, peering inside the bag, unable to find a chip bigger than a dime.
‘My name’s Bubba,’ Bubba said as he continued his sweep with the binoculars.
‘I’m Pigeon.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
Pigeon homed in on another kid who dropped his bubble gum on the sidewalk after three chews, when there was still plenty of flavor left. A woman in jogging clothes stepped on it.
‘Thanks a lot!’ she called out to the kid as he popped open a can of Orange Crush and walked off.
She lifted her foot and stared at strings of pink gum leading to a blob fixed to the tread of her right Saucony running shoe.
‘I hate you!’ she screamed at the kid as people walked around her, looking for a spot with a decent view. ‘I hate all children! I hate people!’
‘That would piss me off, too,’ Pigeon said. ‘Nobody cares anymore.’
Bubba focused on Smudge and his wife opening lawn chairs in a yard no more than fifty feet to Bubba’s right.
‘He probably doesn’t even know those people,’ Bubba mumbled with fresh fury. ‘Just helps himself like he does with everything in life.’
‘All the world’s like that now,’ Pigeon said.
‘He knows I’m here, too,’ Bubba said. ‘The son of a bitch knows he owes me a thousand dollars. Says he has amnesia, doesn’t remember the bet, so it doesn’t count.’
‘I don’t know what happened to honesty,’ Pigeon said.
Bubba watched Smudge open a checkered tablecloth and spread it out in the grass. He set down a blue ice chest, opened the lid and rummaged.
Pigeon searched in vain for a cigarette butt. He could tell the price had shot way up. People were smoking closer to the filter, leaving nothing for him.
He was shocked yesterday morning when he was picking his way along Main Street, downtown, and observed on the Dow Jones electronic message board outside Scott and Stringfellow brokers that the price per pack had increased another two dollars and eleven cents. If only Pigeon had bought more when he had the money from the pawn shop. He could have done some quick trading. He’d probably be rich.