Page 127 of Never Flinch

He clicks H.

When the next field appears, the one for the time the signboards will change, he thinks carefully. The National Anthem at the charity game is key. If Sista Bessie sings it, all may go as planned.

He has no real belief that everything will work as he would like it to work—too many moving parts, too much unpredictability—but murder has made him a fatalist. He must move ahead and take what he gets.

He googlesHow long on the average is the National Anthem at baseball games?The answer is one minute and thirty seconds. He can’t ask google if the softball game will start on time, but unless it gets going very late, it shouldn’t matter. For all he knows (too many moving parts, too much unpredictability), Sista Bessie will slip in the shower, get a migraine, come down with Covid, get bopped on the head by an enthusiastic fan,anything, and be unable to sing at all.

With a sense of crossing his own bloody Rubicon, he types MAY 30 7:17 PM for the time his final signboard will replace the current one. The computer asks him to confirm, which he does.

If all goes as he hopes, tomorrow evening at 7:17 there will be a crowd milling in and around the Mingo, wondering where their idol is. Then someone will see the electronic signs change, and they will understand.

7

It isn’t too hard for John Ackerly to locate “the woo-woo meeting where they turn off the lights and spark up candles.” It’s called the Twilight Hour, and convenes in the basement of a church in Upsala. He takes a drive out there, expecting nothing but hoping for any scrap of info he can pass along to Holly. If nothing else, he can get a shot of sobriety—“claim his chair,” as they say in the various recovery programs.

It’s a good meeting. John listens, but mostly he looks around, picking out half a dozen oldtimers. He speaks to several after the meeting, asking if they remember someone who identified as Trig. Two of them do, both vaguely; one of the old chestnuts passed around at meetings is that alkies and drug fiends have “a built-in forgetter,” and it’s true.

“Sure, I remember him,” says Robbie M. “Bearded fella, but then I think he shaved. Mighta moved away.” Robbie is on a pair of canes. He makes his way—slowly, painfully—into the church kitchen, where he pours himself a final paper cup of coffee. John shudders to think how strong the stuff must be at the bottom of the four-gallon urn.

“Anything about him stand out?”

“Nope. White, middle-aged—more or less—your size. Why you interested?”

“Just trying to track him down for a friend.”

“Well, I can’t help you. Big Book Mike might be able to, but he’s dead.”

I know, John doesn’t say.I found him.

John is sure Holly would have more questions to ask, but he can’t think of a single one. He thanks Robbie and heads for the door.

“Usually called himself Trig, but sometimes Trigger. Like the horse.”

John turns back. “What horse?”

“Roy Rogers’s horse. You wouldn’t remember, too young. Couple of times, this was years ago, he ID’d himself by his real name.”

“What real name?”

“Told you, it was years ago. Does it even matter?”

“It might. It might matter a lot.”

“Could have been John. Like you.” Robbie sips from his paper cup, frowning. “Although it might have been Ron.” He scratches his wattled neck. Then, as a question: “Could have been Vaughn?”

John takes a napkin from beside the coffee urn and writes his number on it. “If you think of anything else about the guy, give me a call. Would you do that?”

Robbie drops him a wink. “He owe your friend money? Is that it?”

“Something like that. You take care, Robbie.” He watches the old guy tuck the napkin into the back pocket of his timeworn Dickies workpants, where it will undoubtedly be forgotten.

8

Jerome is watching a late basketball game on TV when he gets a text from his sister.

Barbara:Can you get Betty at the Mingo tomorrow? She wants to check show clothes/costumes with her dresser.

Jerome:Sure, already on the schedule.

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