Christine

Another thought came as the cops got out and came toward him, one holding a search warrant in his hand. It also seemed to come from nowhere, but it reverberated in Roland D. LeBay’s raspy, old man’s tones:

And she’ll take care of you, boy. All you got to do is go on believing in her and she’ll take care of you.

Arnie opened the car door and got out a moment before one of the cops could open it.

“Arnold Richard Cunningham? one of the cops asked. “Yes, indeed,” Arnie said calmly. “Was I speeding?”

“No, son,” one of the others said. “But you are in a world of hurt, all the same.”

The first cop stepped forward as formally as a career Army officer. “I have a duly executed document here permitting the search of this 1966 Chrysler Imperial in the name of the People of New York State and of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and of the United States of America. Further

“Well, that just about covers the motherfucking waterfront, doesn’t it?” Arnie said. His back flared dully, and he jammed his hands against it.

The cop’s eyes widened slightly at the old voice coming out of this kid, but then he went on.

“Further, to seize any contraband found in the course of this search in the name of the People of New York State and of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and of the United States of America.”

“Fine,” Arnie said. None of it seemed real. Blue lights flashed a confusion. People passing in their cars turned to look, but he found he had no desire to turn from them, to hide his face, and that was something of a relief.

“Give me the keys, kid,” one of the cops said.

“Why don’t you just get them yourself, you shitter?” Arnie said.

“You’re not helping yourself, kiddo,” the cop said, but he looked startled and a little fearful all the same; for a moment the kid’s voice had deepened and roughened and he had sounded forty years older and a pretty tough customer—nothing like the skinny runt he saw before him at all.

He leaned in, got the keys, and three of the cops immediately headed for the boot. They know, Arnie thought, resigned. At least this had nothing to do with Junkins’s obsession with Buddy Repperton and Moochie Welch and the others (at least not directly, he amended cautiously); this smelled like a well-planned and well-coordinated operation against Will’s smuggling operations from Libertyville into New York and New England.

“Kid,” one of the cops said, “would you like to answer some questions or make a statement? If you think you would, I’ll read you the Miranda right now.”

“No,” Arnie said calmly. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“Things could go a lot easier with you.”

“That’s coercion,” Arnie said, smiling a little. “Watch out or you’ll put a big fat hole in your own case.”

The cop flushed. “If you want to be an asshole, that’s your lookout.”

The Chrysler boot was open. They bad pulled out the spare tyre, the jack, and several boxes of small parts springs, nuts, bolts, and the like. One of the cops was almost entirely in the boot; only his blue-grey-clad legs stuck out. For a moment Arnie hoped vaguely that they wouldn’t find the under-compartment; then he dismissed the thought—it was just the childish part of him, the part he now wished burned away, because all that part of him did lately was hurt. They would find it. The quicker they found it, the quicker this nasty roadside scene would end.

As if some god had heard his wish and decided to grant it posthaste, the cop in the boot called triumphantly, “Cigarettes!”

“All right,” the cop who had read the warrant said. “Close it up.” He turned to Arnie and read him the Miranda warning. “Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”

“Yes,” Arnie said.

“Do you want to make a statement?”

“No.”

“Get in the car, son. You’re under arrest.”

I’m under arrest, Arnie thought, and almost brayed laughter, the thought was so foolish. This was all a dream and he would wake up soon. Under arrest. Being hustled to a State Police cruiser. People looking at him—

Desperate, childish tears, hot salt, welled up in his throat and closed it.

His chest hitched—once, twice.

The cop who had read him his rights touched his shoulder and Arnie shrugged it off with a kind of desperation. He felt that if he could get deep down inside himself quickly enough, he would be okay—but sympathy might drive him mad,

“Don’t touch me!”

“You do it the way you want to do it, son,” the cop said, removing his hand. He opened the cruiser’s rear door for Arnie and handed him in.

Do you cry in dreams? Of course you could—hadn’t he read about people waking up from sad dreams with tears on their cheeks? But, dream or no dream, he wasn’t going to cry.

Instead he would think of Christine. Not of his mother or father, not of Leigh or Will Darnell, not of Slawson—all the miserable shitters who had betrayed him.

He would think of Christine.