‘Next it will be alcohol,’ Roop said with righteous indignation.
‘Not if I have a say about it.’
‘There’ll be smokes instead of stills, governor,’ Roop pitched the line that he believed would win him a Pulitzer Prize.
‘I like that,’ Feuer said.
‘So do I,’ said the first lady.
‘Smokes.’ Governor Feuer smiled wryly. ‘As if ATF doesn’t have enough to do. By the way,’ he said to Roop, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’
The small house around the corner from Henrico Doctors’ Hospital was brick with freshly painted blue shutters, and a well-cared-for yard. The driveway was gravel. There was no car. Brazil pulled in, small white rocks pinging under the BMW. He deliberated over what to do.
‘When does your mom come home?’ he asked Weed.
‘She’s home.’ Weed was a little more alert.
‘She doesn’t own a car?’
‘Yes she does.’
‘It’s not here,’ Brazil said. ‘It doesn’t look to me like she’s home.’
‘Oh.’ Weed sat up straighter and stared out the windshield, his fingers on the door handle. ‘I want to go to bed. I’m tired. Just let me out now, okay?’
‘Weed, where does your mother work?’ Brazil persisted.
He was eager to go home and call it a day, too, but he felt very uneasy about leaving this evasive little kid alone.
‘She works at the hospital,’ Weed said, opening the door. ‘She does stuff in the operating room.’
‘She a nurse?’
‘I don’t think so. But she could be here about midnight.’
‘Could?’
‘Sometimes she’s gone longer. She works real hard ’cause what she makes is all we got, and my daddy gambles a lot and got us bad in debt. I wanna go to bed. Thanks for the ride. I never been in a car this nice.’
Officer Brazil drove off the minute Weed locked the front door. He looked around the empty living room, wishing his mother was home and glad she wasn’t. There was leftover meat loaf and cold cuts, and Weed wasn’t sure if eating would make things better or worse. He gave it a try, grilling a ham and cheese sandwich, which helped calm down his stomach.
He went down the hall, pausing to open the door to Twister’s bedroom. Weed stared at all the basketball trophies and posters, the bed unmade, throw rug rumpled, University of Richmond tee shirt on the floor, the computer on the desk with its Bad Dog screen saver. Everything was exactly the way Twister had left it the last time he had been in his room, August 23, a Sunday, the last time Weed had ever seen him alive.
Weed wandered inside and imagined he could smell Twister’s Obsession cologne and hear his laughter and teasing talk. He envisioned Twister sitting in the middle of the floor, long muscular legs folded up as he put on his shoes and called Weed his ‘little minute.’
‘See, it takes sixty of those to make an hour,’ he would say. ‘Now I know you can’t add worth shit, but trust me on this one. Soon you’ll be an hour, then a day, then a week, then a month. And you’ll be big like me.’
‘No I won’t,’ said Weed. ‘You was twice as big as me when you was my age.’
Then Twister would unfold himself and start dribbling an invisible basketball. He would take on Weed, faking left and right, keeping the ball tight against him, elbows going this way and that.
‘Time’s running out on the clock and I got just one little minute!’ Twister would laugh as he snatched up Weed and dunked him on the bed, bouncing him up and down until Weed was dizzy with delight.
Weed walked over to the desk and sat down. He turned on the computer, the only thing he ever touched inside his brother’s room, because Twister had taught Weed how to use the computer and Weed knew Twister would want him to keep using it. Weed logged onto AOL. He sent e-mail to Twister’s mailbox and checked to see if anybody else had.
Other than the notes Twister got daily from Weed, there was nothing else.
Hi Twister
You reading my letters? They ain’t been opened, but