Page 93 of Never Flinch

Holly is in Rockford, Illinois, Kate’s truck about sixty miles ahead, when she gets a call from Izzy. She pulls into a Circle K and returns thecall. Izzy is brief and bitter: “The son of a bitch got another one. Elderly farmer upstate in Rosscomb. Name of George Carville. A neighbor saw him sitting slumped over the wheel of his tractor and got concerned. The notes were in his fuckinghat. Brad Lowry, plus Finkel and Wentworth.”

“Did anybody see—”

“We’re still checking, but so far nothing.”

“Is it your—”

“Our case? No, it still belongs to the State Police and the Cowslip County Sheriff, but Tom and I are going up there and I have what you like to call Holly hope. It’s rural. People take note of strangers. It was either carelessness or pure arrogance.”

“Maybe both. Keep me informed when you can. And again, I’m sorry about—”

“I will, andstop apologizing.” With that, Izzy is gone.

Before pulling back onto the highway, she gets a call from Corrie. They have arrived in Madison. “Kate wants you to join us for lunch, if that’s okay.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

6

When the women see Holly come through the door of the hotel restaurant, they exchange a look, then burst into gales of laughter. For a moment all of Holly’s insecurities, never far from the surface, come rushing back. She thinks about high school. Laughter directed her wayalwaysmakes her think of high school. Her left hand flies to the zipper of her slacks to make sure it’s pulled up all the way. Then Corrie is waving to her. “You have to see this! It’s too crazy!”

Holly comes to the table. Her breakfast Danish was hours ago and she was planning on a hearty brunch, but now she’s not sure if she’s still hungry.

“Corrie is a hero,” Kate says solemnly. “She saved the day.” Then she starts laughing again and holds up this morning’sQuad-City Times. Holly takes it, not sure what Kate is talking about but at least sure (prettysure) that she’s not the butt of the joke.

The headline of the story below the fold reads WOMAN POWER ADVOCATE ATTACKED AT RIVERCENTER. Holly can’t remember any news people among the eBayers (funny how that word sticks), but the accompanying photo looks a little too pro to have been taken with a phone. The Incredible Hulk, identified as Victor DeLong, 46, of Moline, Illinois, is sprawled facedown on the pavement. The baseball bat is in the gutter. The folding chair lies close by, legs up. In the foreground, turned toward the camera, looking extremely startled and extremely pretty, is Corrie Anderson. According to the news, it was Corrie who kicked the chair and tripped the would-be assailant.

“I’ll call and have them print a correction,” Corrie says.

Holly gets on that one posthaste. “Don’t you dare. I like it just the way it is.” Her mother’s firm dictum about women in print is never far from her mind:A lady’s name should be in the newspaper only three times—birth, marriage, death.

Of course for Holly, that ship has sailed.

“Corrie getting in the paper for her heroic efforts is only half of our happiness,” Kate says. “We’re at the Mingo on Friday night, and life is good.”

“The last holdup was an insurance issue,” Corrie says. “Sista’s band will have a lot of equipment onstage. Insurance company was moderately crappy about that.”

“Of course it was,” Holly says. She’s thinking of the donkey with the big teeth. It doesn’t haunt her dreams, at least not yet, but give it time.

“Instruments and monitors, lots of power cords, plus Sista Bessie’s cyclorama, which I’m told is famous soul singers from the old days. Kate had to sign a waiver.”

“Of course she did,” Holly says. “Insurance companies aresopoopy.”

The women laugh at that, although Holly doesn’t consider insurance companies like Global funny. She says it’s great news… although she was hoping to see Sista Bessie sing the National Anthem at Dingley Park. Plus Izzy pitching for the police team, of course.

Holly likes to think she can root with the best of them.

7

Barbara is in her small (but cozy) study over her parents’ garage that Sunday morning, trying to write a poem. It’s not going very well, because thoughts of her “Lowtown Jazz” poem—now a song—keep intruding. Time and time again she finds herself staring off into space, trying to think of words that rhyme withjazzwithout resorting to her rhyming dictionary. So far all she’s come up with isspazz(not exactly politically correct) andAlcatraz. It’s a relief when her phone rings, and a pleasure when she sees who’s calling.

“No rehearsals today,” Betty says. “You busy?”

Barbara looks at her scratchings and crossouts. “Not very.”

“Come on to the hotel and get me. Show me something in this town that’sfun. You up for that?”

“Sure, but what kind of things do you like?”

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