all, of course. It’s actually a black man, speaking to a crowd from a balcony. A huge crowd. Happy people shouting back, excited and crying, and in the back, police with dogs, and other—different—people shouting and the dogs lunging for them. Then the black man on the balcony falters, throws his hands to his throat as he staggers down.
“
Tom
-my…” the voice croons, but Tommy will not look.
Our. Still. Flag. Is. There.
Tommy looks again, finds he’s on the screen now. Up there on screen, at the bow of a torpedo boat that bobs in a gentle swell, just off a beach where palm trees wave. Palm trees, just before dawn, blue skies, and a landing craft dumping men in camouflage fatigues, a dozen or so, onto the white sand. The men have scarcely started toward the cover of the trees when the first explosions come. Bright orange flowers that bloom black and toss men skyward, and then the planes that roar as if from nowhere, out over the canopy of trees to strafe men, crying out, flailing helpless in the surf. The sea churns with shrapnel and blood.
Tommy waits for the planes to dive upon his boat, but they do not, of course. One jet skims the waves nearby, dipping its wings as if in salute, then banks away toward the beach, guns blazing again, and Tommy feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns from the slaughter on shore to the big, dark-skinned man who smiles and embraces him. For a job well done, Tommy knows, but he cannot feel proud. This is bad. This is the worst. Thing. And he is to blame.
Who is this man, whom he does not trust? What has Tommy done?
***
“Jesus Christ,” comes the big, bad voice then, a voice from another world.
Tommy still sitting in his chair, of course, right here in this pretty place they call Florida, making it all up. Popcorn in his lap, but he isn’t hungry anymore. There’s someone banging on his door. He can’t move. He’s crying. Can’t. He just can’t help it.
“Jesus Christ,” says the voice that’s banging. “Please. Turn. That. Fucking. Thing. Down.”
And this is how it goes.
***
“Hell, he’s got to have
that
much sense,” Driscoll was saying. The ex-cop stood on Deal’s patio waving a cigarette around in the turgid morning air. He wore a too-small T-shirt bearing the likeness of a drooling sow along with the legend PIG—AND PROUD OF IT . The rest of his wardrobe included a pair of plaid bermudas with boxer shorts sagging below the hems, black socks, tire-tread sandals.
Deal rubbed his face, wondering if the coffee was finished perking yet. Maybe it had been a mistake suggesting that Driscoll rent one of his units after he retired. He needed more tenants like Mrs. Suarez. Ones you’d hardly know were there.
They were talking about Tommy, or at least Driscoll was. From the moment he’d opened the front door, Deal hadn’t been able to get much more than a grunt out. “You telling me you
never
hear that TV?” Driscoll asked again.
Deal shrugged. “I’m a deep sleeper, I guess.”
“Well, it might as well be going off in my bedroom, every goddamn night,” Driscoll said. “Maybe it’s the way this place is built.”
Deal gave him a look. Driscoll must have sensed he’d crossed some kind of line. He harrumphed, took a drag on his cigarette, looked out toward the side yard where Tommy was patiently weeding one of the flower beds. There was a big spot of sweat between Tommy’s shoulders, turning the institutional gray of his long-sleeved shirt nearly black.
Deal guessed it was about eight o’clock on this Sunday morning. A few fleecy clouds hung motionless in the east, way out over the Atlantic. Over eighty, heading for ninety-two, the humidity already off the top of the scale. First a hurricane. In December, a freak cold snap. Now the hottest March on record. Normal Florida weather.
“Look, Driscoll, what do you want me to do, throw him out?”
Driscoll glanced back at him, his eyes hurt. But Deal could see the idea taking hold in Driscoll’s
“
Tom
-my…” the voice croons, but Tommy will not look.
Our. Still. Flag. Is. There.
Tommy looks again, finds he’s on the screen now. Up there on screen, at the bow of a torpedo boat that bobs in a gentle swell, just off a beach where palm trees wave. Palm trees, just before dawn, blue skies, and a landing craft dumping men in camouflage fatigues, a dozen or so, onto the white sand. The men have scarcely started toward the cover of the trees when the first explosions come. Bright orange flowers that bloom black and toss men skyward, and then the planes that roar as if from nowhere, out over the canopy of trees to strafe men, crying out, flailing helpless in the surf. The sea churns with shrapnel and blood.
Tommy waits for the planes to dive upon his boat, but they do not, of course. One jet skims the waves nearby, dipping its wings as if in salute, then banks away toward the beach, guns blazing again, and Tommy feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns from the slaughter on shore to the big, dark-skinned man who smiles and embraces him. For a job well done, Tommy knows, but he cannot feel proud. This is bad. This is the worst. Thing. And he is to blame.
Who is this man, whom he does not trust? What has Tommy done?
***
“Jesus Christ,” comes the big, bad voice then, a voice from another world.
Tommy still sitting in his chair, of course, right here in this pretty place they call Florida, making it all up. Popcorn in his lap, but he isn’t hungry anymore. There’s someone banging on his door. He can’t move. He’s crying. Can’t. He just can’t help it.
“Jesus Christ,” says the voice that’s banging. “Please. Turn. That. Fucking. Thing. Down.”
And this is how it goes.
***
“Hell, he’s got to have
that
much sense,” Driscoll was saying. The ex-cop stood on Deal’s patio waving a cigarette around in the turgid morning air. He wore a too-small T-shirt bearing the likeness of a drooling sow along with the legend PIG—AND PROUD OF IT . The rest of his wardrobe included a pair of plaid bermudas with boxer shorts sagging below the hems, black socks, tire-tread sandals.
Deal rubbed his face, wondering if the coffee was finished perking yet. Maybe it had been a mistake suggesting that Driscoll rent one of his units after he retired. He needed more tenants like Mrs. Suarez. Ones you’d hardly know were there.
They were talking about Tommy, or at least Driscoll was. From the moment he’d opened the front door, Deal hadn’t been able to get much more than a grunt out. “You telling me you
never
hear that TV?” Driscoll asked again.
Deal shrugged. “I’m a deep sleeper, I guess.”
“Well, it might as well be going off in my bedroom, every goddamn night,” Driscoll said. “Maybe it’s the way this place is built.”
Deal gave him a look. Driscoll must have sensed he’d crossed some kind of line. He harrumphed, took a drag on his cigarette, looked out toward the side yard where Tommy was patiently weeding one of the flower beds. There was a big spot of sweat between Tommy’s shoulders, turning the institutional gray of his long-sleeved shirt nearly black.
Deal guessed it was about eight o’clock on this Sunday morning. A few fleecy clouds hung motionless in the east, way out over the Atlantic. Over eighty, heading for ninety-two, the humidity already off the top of the scale. First a hurricane. In December, a freak cold snap. Now the hottest March on record. Normal Florida weather.
“Look, Driscoll, what do you want me to do, throw him out?”
Driscoll glanced back at him, his eyes hurt. But Deal could see the idea taking hold in Driscoll’s
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