Page 67 of The Evening Wolves

“Good luck proving it.” Jem sat back, arms folded across his chest. “What are you going to do? Ask him, ‘Hey, Chief, did you let Eric Brey get murdered? Ok, thanks.’”

“Do you find it helpful to be facetious?” Emery asked.

Jem grinned. “I mean, it doesn’t hurt.”

“But let’s say someone did get that call-out,” Tean said, “and went out and checked the house, and they didn’t see anything, and then Brey was murdered. If Cassidy didn’t have something to do with his death, do you think he’s in danger too? If our theory is right, I mean, and someone is—how did you put it? Cleaning house?”

“Someone might kill Jonas Cassidy,” Emery said. “What a shame.”

“Do you find it helpful to be facetious?” Jem asked.

“Not at all. But it is, occasionally, tremendously satisfying.”

“Why don’t you ask?” Shaw said.

“For some reason, I doubt Jonas is eager to tell us if he was an accomplice to murder.”

“Not Cassidy. I mean, not that Cassidy. Because North’s middle name—”

“Then what the fuck did you mean?” North asked.

“The dispatcher.”

No one said anything.

“I mean, someone had to answer that call,” John-Henry said slowly. “But they’ve probably got a few people who do that job, and we don’t know who they are or which one was on tonight.”

“Give me a minute,” Jem said, pushing back from the table. He took out a phone and tapped furiously at the screen as he walked away.

“What’s he doing?” Theo asked.

“Being a squeaky-assed sneak,” North said. A hint of color came into his cheeks, and he mumbled toward Tean, “No offense.”

Tean smiled, eyes bright behind his glasses. “Actually, I think he’d love that.”

“What does that even mean?” Shaw asked. “The squeaky-assed part?”

Fortunately, the waitress came back, preventing North from explaining. She began the process of handing out the check holders and collecting dishes. John-Henry was surprised to realize that, at some point in the conversation, he’d finished his meal. He was warm. He was full of greasy carbs. And he was exhausted.

“These are Chevy Bel Airs,” North said, reaching up to tap one of the wall sconces. “Jesus Christ, they even got the color right. Somebody has a serious boner for the 1950s.”

“I think that’s fairly common,” Tean said. “Lots of people are nostalgic for the post-war years. It’s ironic because very few of them are the ones who actually lived through that period.” He ducked his head. “Sorry. That sounded pretentious.”

“It’s also ironic,” Theo said, “because the 1950s weren’t all that ideal. There were so many problems. So much displacement and social upheaval. It’s just that people have this memory of that time—only it’s not even a memory because they didn’t live through it, like you said. It’s a mélange of cultural icons that have shaped how people think about that time. TV shows, in particular, make it seem idyllic.”

“Now that sounded pretentious,” North said. “Lil’ Bits, can’t you give him something else to do with his mouth?”

Shaw said something about how little the bits were, and Auggie, laughing, tried to defend himself, but John-Henry barely heard it. He looked at the Chevy Bel Air wall sconces, the fan of yellow light above them, the checkerboard tablecloths, the salt and pepper shakers. Elvis was still crooning in the background, but now it was about a dream—much less disturbing than the kissin’ cousins song. He thought about that day in the locker room, the ridge of Emery’s shoulder under his hand, the sensation that his skin was like paper and his hand was a match. The stadium lights against his face so strong that he thought he could feel their weight. On and on like that. We all do it, he thought through the haze of fatigue. We all find a place and a time, and we tell ourselves that, at least in some ways, things were better.

“John?” Emery asked in a low voice.

“Because how’s he going to measure it, numbnuts,” North was shouting at Shaw, “with a fucking electron microscope?”

Rising out of his seat, voice triumphant, Shaw shouted back, “That doesn’t make any sense because you don’t measure anything with an electron microscope! You look at it!”

“Braxton Campbell,” Jem said as he dropped into his seat.

The argument cut off.

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