My brother lost his county landscaping contract 8 years ago. He'd testified against a zoning variance Pierce wanted passed. Pierce made a call. The contract was gone inside a month. She looked at Boon and I stayed.
Why Boon said, "Because somebody had to simply no performance in it and because I've been keeping records. " Boon looked at her. What kind? 11 years of incident reports, documentation of what was reported to me, what I passed up the chain, and what happened or didn't happen in response. Dated, signed by me, stored off site. Boon sat with that a moment.
He thought without knowing exactly why, that there might be more people in this town quietly keeping their own accounts than anyone realized, that a man like Pierce, careful and methodical over 12 years, might have left behind him a trail of equally careful and methodical people. Each one holding a piece and waiting for the right moment. My daughter's notebook has three entries. He said, "Tell her to keep going. " Foster said she knows. He stood to leave.
At the door, he stopped. "Coach," he said. "My daughter's good. " "Yes," Foster said. "She is. She's going to keep coming to practice.
I expect her to. " Wednesday morning, Boon heard the bike before he saw it, which almost never happened with his own hearing after 37 years around loud engines. He'd know that particular idol anywhere. An old sportster with a ragged, slightly uneven rhythm its owner had been refusing to fix for three decades because he claimed it gave the bike character. Virgil Sullivan, who had gone by Sully since before Boon had known him, had not changed his position on this in 30 years. Some things about a man were simply immovable.
Boon was in the middle of a timing belt when the bike pulled into the lot. He came out of the bay wiping his hands. Sully was 63, still tall, though the years had pulled him down slightly the way they did, the shoulders not quite as squared as they'd been, the movements more considered and deliberate. His hair had gone completely white, worn long enough to tie back under the half helmet he hung on the mirror when he climbed off. Long weathered face, pale gray eyes, a scar along the jaw that Boon had seen so many times over 37 years, it had become simply part of what Sully's face looked like.
The same way the grease under Boon's nails was simply part of what his hands looked like. They stood 6 feet apart in the parking lot. 37 years of knowing each other. 22 years of near silence between them. You look old, Sully said.
You look older, Boon said. Sully looked past him at the garage at the sign at the Harley parked to one side. Nice setup, he said. Working on it. The particular pause of two men who have things to say and are taking a moment to decide the order.
Come inside, Boon said. Coffeey's on. They sat in the small back office. Boon poured two cups from the machine he kept there. Nothing special, just functional.
They sat across from each other at the work desk. The way men sit when they've been through enough together that formality would be insulting. Sully looked at his coffee, then at Boon. You want to do the other thing first or after? Sully said.
Boon knew what he meant. The other thing was 22 years of something neither of them had said out loud to the other in all that time. Tell me about Pierce first, Boon said. Sully nodded. He pulled out his phone.
An old model kept because it worked and there was no reason to replace a thing that worked. He turned the screen to show Boon a photograph. 2016. Sully said, "Ray Dutton's funeral. " Boon looked at it. A gathering outside a small church, 50 or 60 people.
And in the background, clearly not present in any official capacity. A man in a dark suit standing with the posture of someone who had come to confirm something rather than to mourn. Pierce, Boon said. Pierce. Sully set the phone down.
Dutton died of a legitimate heart attack as far as anyone can establish. But Pierce drove 90 minutes to show up personally at a mid-level fixer's funeral. He looked at Boon. Why does a county commissioner drive 90 minutes to pay his respects to a man like Dutton? Because Dutton knew something, Boon said.
Because Dutton knew something, Sully confirmed. PICE wanted to see for himself that it went into the ground with him. He drank his coffee. When I heard PICE was making inquiries about you, the 199 thing clicked into place. What did he actually buy from us that fall?
Boon, do you remember the name? Boon looked at the wall pulled the memory up from somewhere he'd left it deliberately undisturbed. Dale Whitfield, he said, ran for county commissioner that year. Pierce needed something irregular in his finances. Couldn't find it through legitimate means, so he came to us through Dutton, Sully said.
Club got the records through a contact at a regional bank. PICE used them to imply Whitfield had been misappropriating funds. Whitfield couldn't disprove a negative fast enough lost the race. Sully paused and from there Pierce's career went upward. Every election after that, every council vote, every development deal built on what he bought from us in 1919.
Boon was quiet. This was the part he'd been sitting with since the phone call. The part that made this more than just a powerful man feeling threatened by someone from his past. We gave him his start. Boon said the club did.
Sully said through Dutton without knowing what it would become. Doesn't matter who knew what Boon said. We handed him the first step. Sully looked at him. That's why you're not leaving.