Giant Men and Violent Women

Where Is He?

ASHLEY

The president of the United States sent his National Guard into Concord. That was against New Hampshire's laws. He's just put out a statement about The Prison Work Program, calling it inhumane, the reason Chap is dead, the reason New England is burning. He wants the Supreme Court to end it. The president is not on New Hampshire's side. He's trying to tell us how to live. How to discipline those who commit crimes against our people on our land. He wants to rule us. He wants to be our lord. He wants to be our king. He can't do that. We won't let him do it. New Hampshire isn't waiting for the Supreme Court to overrule The Prison Work Program. New Hampshire is out of the Union.

And I'm in Vicki Rae's.

It's January 9.

The place is run over with wide eyes and hand-holding. Each person is afraid of Mercer, who's quietly sitting at the bar and having a cup of coffee—or so it appears. The bartender of the place, who also fills in as the owner while his brother is serving time for robbery while on Sweet Water, is standing behind the bar. He's a big man, the size of a linebacker. Mercer's tall and lean, the build of a point guard. Yet Mercer commands his respect. Mercer doesn't ask for it; his energy does. Something about Mercer is warning everyone in this dive that, though they outnumber him, they do not want to fuck with him. Yet all Mercer is doing is enjoying a cup of coffee.

When some of the patrons noticed me walk through the door, they began to back away from their tables. This isn't looking good for them—or so they think. Mercer alone is one thing; Mercer with me is another.

Mercer and I get a bad rap because of urban legends. Legend has it, I'm the personal counsel to some political heavy hitters. I am. Legend has it, Mercer uses dives to make money under the table, and his parents don't know about it. He does. Legend has it, Mercer and I killed The Widow's husband when he was governor. We did, but in our defense, Governor Wheat was pushing Sweet Water through New Hampshire, which is why he didn't support The Prison Work Program that would end the drug trade. Legend has it, we had Date shot. Actually, my brother shot him, and obviously, he's a horrible shot.

Mercer and I couldn't care less that this dive isn't paying taxes. We don't care that they're probably harboring prisoners somewhere. No, I don't want convicted rapists out on the streets—I don't think anyone does—but that's not my concern right now. Right now, my concern is Date. That's it. The prisoners this bar is hiding will be rounded up by the boys Mercer and I brought with us—men who live in Darling woods and work in Darling breweries. Mountain men. Men who fish with their hands and hunt with their knives. They're in the hallway, waiting for the signal to scour the place for all of the escaped rapists and Sweet Water addicts. But, first, Date.

"Ashley," Mercer says without turning around.

"Yeah," I say to him.

"Only thing we got is this." He holds up an Army-green book bag.

"Date's?"

"He ain't here," the linebacker bartender says.

"Rich," I say to the bartender with a smile, "I told you we wanted Date." I walk over to the bar and stand next to Mercer. "You promised.

You said, if you saw him, you'd send word to us." "I don't want no trouble," Rich says.

"Date was here, Rich," Mercer says, looking around the dive at the silent and petrified patrons.

"He was. But I didn't know he was here."

"No? Not sure I believe that, Rich."

"They were hiding him in the back, and I don't usually go back there. Don't have no reason to. I found out he was here when I smelled all these chemicals. I went back there and saw that they had him, and he got himself shot. They were savin' him." "They?" I ask.