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By Root 345 0

Willy had spent a few days on his own, soaking up all he could of the man’s lore and legend. The resulting portrait had been familiar. In most communities, there was some equivalent of E. T. Griffis—a man who, through hard work, reputation, money, or a combination of all three, had established himself as an icon of some sort. Usually, this archetype was a man with working-class roots, an easy way with his peers, and enough money that when the occasional deserving local hit a rough patch, he or she might be eased through it by a loan or gift that never went advertised but was somehow made known. Willy, born and bred in New York City, where he’d also briefly been a beat cop, had first met these pseudo paternal types as neighborhood gang leaders or mob subcaptains, feeding as much off the social glow as off the fear that had struck its match. There had also been a few that might have been termed non-“connected,” truly benevolent dons, but they had been harder to find, mostly because of the circles in which Willy had traveled.

Here, in Vermont, this latter, benign phenomenon prevailed, although Willy was still, all these years later, trying to suppress a natural suspicion that the likes of E. T. Griffis were treated as they were because of some hold they had over their cohorts and admirers.

Willy had acquired his cynicism the hard way.

The bartender, a thin, tall man with glasses and a blank expression, placed an unordered glass of what looked like scotch before E. T. and, then, paused in front of Willy.

“What’ll it be?”

“Ginger ale.”

The barkeep turned away without comment, but Willy caught the glances from those within earshot, including E. T. A stranger didn’t come into a bar and order a soft drink unless he was a teetotaler, which wouldn’t make much sense, or a cop.

The bartender returned thirty seconds later with a glass, which he placed on a coaster. “Two bucks.”

Willy took a few crumpled bills out of his stained barn coat pocket, separated the money from some old receipts, two rubber bands, and an assortment of small bolts and washers, and paid the man.

Willy waited until the barkeep had turned his back, and then reached into another, inner pocket, extracted a small bottle of amber fluid—actually tea—and poured a generous dollop into the drink. The flask bottle vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but not before the same onlookers had seen the quick and practiced gesture. Comforted by both the supposed alcohol’s surreptitious appearance and its owner’s seeming need to watch his expenses, the others at the bar allowed their suspicions to be lulled.

He left his subtle communication at that, pretending to focus on his drink and the numbing comfort it promised, while in fact eavesdropping on the conversation around E. T.

This wasn’t terribly difficult. Both its volume and its content made for easy listening. In essence, it was the same “guy talk” that Willy had listened to and participated in his entire drinking life, dealing with, in no particular order, engines, guns, dogs, women, a touch of politics, and how to use the word “fuck” as many times, and in as many ways, as possible. It was all as soothing, complex, and subtle as it was outwardly moronic, simple-minded, and gross—a distinctly male medley that was routinely dismissed by most women and academics.

And which made Willy, in a moment’s distraction, think of Sammie Martens. As his companion of several years by now, she would not have fit into those judgmental categories—a character trait he valued greatly, not that he’d ever admit it. She was as highly tempered, competitive, and driven as he, and as good at holding her ground. This secondhand conversation would have been a natural for her to consider, had she been here, and one she could have joined at any point.

Not that she was hard or vulgar. In fact, it was her contradictory femininity that most attracted him. It remained his particular secret—as was his inability to tell her—that he found her attractive, endearing, funny, smart, and a terrific cop to boot.

None of which had anything to do with