had chosen not to go east for his father's. The old man had said all he wanted to say to Park at his wife's graveside, though it wasn't until he got the call from his sister, telling him in stoic Pennsylvania tones that their father had done it with his favorite Weatherby 20-gauge, that he understood what had been meant by the words, No need for you to come home again. Standing over his mother's coffin, he'd assumed those words were the final dismissal that their entire relationship had been slowly building to. Hanging up after his sister's call, he knew they'd actually been T Stegland Haas's last attempt at sheltering his son from the world's pain.
No need to come back. No need to stand at another parent's graveside. Go about your business. This is over. You are excused.
He rubbed the face of his watch with his thumb.
"I don't know where I fit in there, sir."
Barlolome nodded.
"Let's take a look. Trust-fund family. Deerfield Academy. Whatever the hell that is. Columbia BA. Stanford Ph.D. Doesn't sound like someone in need of solid job prospects."
He folded back another sheet of paper.
"And, well, you're not shy about use of force, but you've got no complaints of merit in here. Good collection of busts, but nothing that smells like you enjoy snapping the bracelets on. Doesn't read like a guy gets stiff from pushing people around."
He rolled the paper into a tube and pointed it at Park.
"What this is, this is the account of an educated young white man with a genuine desire to do the right thing and serve his community."
Park was twisting his wrist back and forth, letting the movement propel the self-winding mechanism inside the watch.
It had been his father's, a 1970 Omega Seamaster, a gift from his wife, given in turn to Park the same day he was excused from future funerals. His father taking it from his own wrist, handing it to him with these words, It's a good watch. When they start dropping the bombs in a couple years, it wont be knocked out by an electromagnetic pulse. Even in the apocalypse, someone should know the correct time, Parker.
He twisted his wrist a little more quickly.
"Is that an accusation, sir?"
Bartolome let the papers unroll in his hand, showed them to Park.
"No. It's just what I need. An educated young white who can talk to other educated young whites. The kind of people who not only have enough money to buy drugs but enough to be able to afford to be discriminating about who they buy them from. People who don't want to circle MacArthur park in their Mercedes. People who want to call a discreet phone number, place an order, and have it delivered. Like sushi. People like that, Officer Haas."
He leaned close.
"Those are the only kind of people who can afford to buy Dreamer."
Park stopped twisting his wrist.
"Sir."
Bartolome put the roll of papers on his desk.
"Have you seen anyone with it yet? Close up. Someone you know?"
Park touched the watch without looking at it.
"My mother. But I didn't see her. She died fast."
"Good."
Bartolome nodded twice.
"That's good. One of my brothers got it early. Before the test. When they still thought it was a virus. Quarantine. Nonstop tissue samples. Experimental treatment. On top of the fucking thing itself. His last week, that was when they allowed the first human Dreamer trials. His number got drawn, but he was in the placebo group. I saw a woman who got the real thing. She slept. She dreamed. Woke up, she smiled, talked to her family. She'd been screaming nonstop for five days before that. Covered in lesions. Those went away, too."
He looked at another picture on the wall: dress blues, the day he got his bars, between his two cop brothers, arms draped over one another's shoulders.
He looked away.
"Afronzo-New Day Pharm has finally agreed to a federally brokered deal to lease the patent on Dreamer internationally. A-ND will have to settle for profiting just a little less obscenely on this deal than they would have. Man, they can nationalize
No need to come back. No need to stand at another parent's graveside. Go about your business. This is over. You are excused.
He rubbed the face of his watch with his thumb.
"I don't know where I fit in there, sir."
Barlolome nodded.
"Let's take a look. Trust-fund family. Deerfield Academy. Whatever the hell that is. Columbia BA. Stanford Ph.D. Doesn't sound like someone in need of solid job prospects."
He folded back another sheet of paper.
"And, well, you're not shy about use of force, but you've got no complaints of merit in here. Good collection of busts, but nothing that smells like you enjoy snapping the bracelets on. Doesn't read like a guy gets stiff from pushing people around."
He rolled the paper into a tube and pointed it at Park.
"What this is, this is the account of an educated young white man with a genuine desire to do the right thing and serve his community."
Park was twisting his wrist back and forth, letting the movement propel the self-winding mechanism inside the watch.
It had been his father's, a 1970 Omega Seamaster, a gift from his wife, given in turn to Park the same day he was excused from future funerals. His father taking it from his own wrist, handing it to him with these words, It's a good watch. When they start dropping the bombs in a couple years, it wont be knocked out by an electromagnetic pulse. Even in the apocalypse, someone should know the correct time, Parker.
He twisted his wrist a little more quickly.
"Is that an accusation, sir?"
Bartolome let the papers unroll in his hand, showed them to Park.
"No. It's just what I need. An educated young white who can talk to other educated young whites. The kind of people who not only have enough money to buy drugs but enough to be able to afford to be discriminating about who they buy them from. People who don't want to circle MacArthur park in their Mercedes. People who want to call a discreet phone number, place an order, and have it delivered. Like sushi. People like that, Officer Haas."
He leaned close.
"Those are the only kind of people who can afford to buy Dreamer."
Park stopped twisting his wrist.
"Sir."
Bartolome put the roll of papers on his desk.
"Have you seen anyone with it yet? Close up. Someone you know?"
Park touched the watch without looking at it.
"My mother. But I didn't see her. She died fast."
"Good."
Bartolome nodded twice.
"That's good. One of my brothers got it early. Before the test. When they still thought it was a virus. Quarantine. Nonstop tissue samples. Experimental treatment. On top of the fucking thing itself. His last week, that was when they allowed the first human Dreamer trials. His number got drawn, but he was in the placebo group. I saw a woman who got the real thing. She slept. She dreamed. Woke up, she smiled, talked to her family. She'd been screaming nonstop for five days before that. Covered in lesions. Those went away, too."
He looked at another picture on the wall: dress blues, the day he got his bars, between his two cop brothers, arms draped over one another's shoulders.
He looked away.
"Afronzo-New Day Pharm has finally agreed to a federally brokered deal to lease the patent on Dreamer internationally. A-ND will have to settle for profiting just a little less obscenely on this deal than they would have. Man, they can nationalize
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