Clean Slate

Chapter 37

Earl snorted. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No sir." Silence. "My guess is, and I'm just talking out loud here, McGladrey has a bad case of the ambition bug," Earl suggested. "Trying to make his bones by trashing others."

"I sincerely doubt that," the Judge said. "Known him for years. Know his daddy, too. Good solid hard-working folks. Mac's a Navy vet. Always plays it down, tells people he pushed pencils and played fiddly-wah, but I have a feeling there was a lot more to it. One thing about Mac, he doesn't ever talk himself up. Just the opposite."

"Really," Earl said, seething inwardly.

"He used to be section head at DPP," the Judge went on. "Then his son got killed – awful affair – and Mac took a year off. Came back to find his position filled and he had to go back to gopher. Which he has done, without complaint. No ambition there, Earl. Solid team player."

"What does he say I did?"

"And his take on his job is quite intriguing," the Judge went on. "He could go it by the numbers and punch out and go home. But it's like. . .it's like he has a higher calling than that. I can remember feeling that way. Got over it by my second year in law school. Mac's still there, and shit, he'll be forty before too long. Did you know he's helped get two convictions reversed?"

"Heard something about that. Hell of a thing," Earl could not resist saying, "for a PPO to go undo the hard work of a lot of sheriffs and prosecutors and judges."

"But the defendants were innocent after all."

"Says McGladrey."

"And says the Court of Appeals," the Judge said, tone unaccountably patient. "That's the system, Earl. Don't tell me you've forgotten that."

"No, your Honor," Earl said, with all the smoothness he could muster. "What I need to know, Judge, is what kind of allegations McGladrey is making."

"Why, he declined to share those with me."

"That so."

"I thought you might be willing to give me a little preview of the coming attractions. If any."

"There aren't any."

"You're sure."

"Yes sir."

"Because if we tackle it now, then --"

"There's nothing, Judge. All smoke."

The Judge sighed. "All right, Earl. Of course I accept that. You and I go back a long ways. Long enough for you to know how poorly I react to surprises. And how efficient you are at preventing them."

"Won't be any surprises, Judge. Rest assured."

"I know I can count on you, Earl."

"Yes sir," Earl Bucaro said, getting the message, thinking already about ways and means.

---

Mac was just wheeling his Suburban into the short gravel driveway of his farm house when his cell phone rang. LEWIS E, said the read-out.

"E"? Oh. Elspeth.

It was only after he mashed send that Mac realized he could have let his voice mail catch it. But that would have been the coward's way out. He accepted the call with all good intentions. If he could not be immediately honest with Suzanne, he could be so with Libby. "Hi there."

"Where are you?"

Probably the most-repeated cell phone dialogue these days – second only to I'm losing you! I'm losing you! "I'm just getting home," Mac answered. "You?"

"Standing in the aisle, waiting to de-plane." In the background Mac could hear voices. "What are you doing there?" she asked. "I thought you'd stay in town again."

"Picking up clothes," Mac heard himself say.

"Oh. Sure!" Her laugh was one of anticipation and promise as well as amusement. "When can you get there?"

No no no. "Maybe meet you somewhere for dinner?" he asked, feeling as though he was flailing about.

"Let's just order something in."

"I'm just thinking," Mac said, getting out of his vehicle, "we've kind of gone about this backward, haven't we?"

"‘Backward' was probably the one option we did not attempt," she said, and laughed.

"What I mean is, we haven't even been out on a date. We just went straight to --"

"You don't have to tell me," she cut in, and laughed again. "I'm still feeling the effects. Listen, when can you get there? We're deplaning now."

Mac slammed through the front door, cut left into his bedroom. "Hour or so."

"Yum," she said, and clicked off.

On full auto pilot, Mac threw together some clothes and what they call in the Navy a "ditty bag" with shaving gear and other toiletries, and carried them back out to his Suburban. He felt impatient and upset with himself as he got in and fired up the engine. He'd wanted a quiet evening at home. The 36 full hours in St. Marys, with the hustle and clamor and endless miles of steel and brick and concrete were more than enough for him. In the two and a half weeks since his return from overseas, Mac had come to realize how ill-suited he was for the big city.

But was that really the point here? Hell no. It's not right, he told himself, backing the Suburban out of the driveway, this purely sex thing with a woman I hardly know. It's nuts, he thought, powering the car up Old Kennesaw Road, to deny myself the peace and quiet I need, all for another episode of unauthorized ass. It's insane, he silently admitted, to complicate an already chaotic emotional landscape with this – this fling with a chick who, though to all appearances genuinely kind, and reasonably sensitive, and undeniably smart (plus, to get to the fucking point already, sexy beyond belief) would lead him down a trail that could not end anywhere good.

But all this was upstairs, in his head. The rest of him, the physical part, was full speed ahead, without a lick of hesitation. As Mac flew onto the blacktop past the ruins of Lock Two, he remembered his last trip with Nicholas, when they went to Orlando, and Mac introduced his son to a water slide park. You sat up at the top, in your swim suit, hands on the rungs, peering down a large black steel tube coursing with water. Then, once you let go, off you went, a bullet-like hurtle: switching and turning, leaping and diving, all in utter darkness, can't see where you're headed, can't tell where you've been, to end only God knew where – yet fully committed with no way to turn back.

This was like that.

---

North Liberty, which was actually east of St. Marys, had once been a village in its own right. In fact its founding predated that of St. Marys by more than a decade. But the latter gobbled up the former in the 1950s, and a few years later North Liberty completely vanished as a separate political unit when it came under the benevolent wing of the St. Marys County government. Even so, it kept much of its character as an independent town, featuring large homes on lots bordered by rock fences, a roster of summer festivals with patriotic themes, a cobblestone district of shops ranging from quaint to cutesy-poo, a pleasant park with a concrete walk along Defiance Creek, and a genuine grassy town square.

Facing this, next to what had been the village hall and municipal center, was the Department of Sheriff substation. Inside the brick building on this Tuesday evening, in a break room reserved for the brass, sitting at a stainless steel table and holding a mug of the inevitable muddy coffee, was Earl Bucaro. Though in his usual civvies – dark soft trousers, deep green short-sleeve banlon shirt – Earl had more of the affect of a cop than the uniformed officer seated across from him.

Undersheriff April, the substation commander, was tall and beefy, impeccable in his black uniform with squeaky leather and silver accouterments precisely in place. His hair was a silver mop – has to be non-regulation, Earl thought – and April wore heavy black framed glasses on his large florid face. Far from emanating anything like menace, April actually exuded a sort of jollity – not the cynical kind of the career cop, but, Earl suspected, the good cheer that came from observing your eagle-shitting retirement date on the nearer horizon.

"McGladrey, sure, oh yeah," April said, large knuckly hands holding his coffee mug as if for warmth. "I know the family, anyway. Why?"

"Security matter," Bucaro said quietly. "Strictly unofficial."

April squinted behind his glasses. "What's the bailiff bureau got to do with it?"

"Our assistance was requested."

Earl's use of passive voice was deliberate, meant to send a message. April, perhaps unwisely, ignored it. "You need to understand – Superintendent – I've been out here a long time. And there's a big difference between how things are done downtown and out here. Now, I'm happy to help out, but it would help me to have some sort of – basis."

"Basis?"

"That's what I said, basis."

"Very well." Earl leaned forward, said two names, leaned back again.

Though he did not need to think about it, April pretended to. Hanging onto his dignity as the man of the house, Earl thought, grimly amused. The dumb old fuck, he thinks he's still king, but he doesn't realize that a new day is dawning, with serious people taking over at last.

"Okay, sure," April said. "What would you like to know?"

---

This time the preliminaries were smoother. But this was only because they'd become introduced to each other's moves the night before, not because there was any less urgency. In fact, at this very early point in their affair, Mac and Libby's urgency was even stronger, since they had had all day to think about their first time. Mac, whose score card admittedly would never reach triple digits, could not recall ever being with a woman as aggressive, creative, responsive. Certainly Suzanne had been polar opposite on all three counts. She always went off, as if disappearing down some forest path, into a kind of sexual fugue state, diminishing Mac to the status of a human dildo, returning to consciousness when it was over with an air of surprise, as if startled to discover that the man pulling out of her was Mac. Libby, on the other hand, was intensely alive and immediate in his arms, red-hot to the touch, absolutely open, appreciative, and articulate about her enjoyment. Knowing she was at a level 5 before they ever hit the sheets, Mac was not surprised to find themselves almost at once fully coupled, Libby atop, full breasts swinging, chopped red hair swaying, murmuring the occasional low-throat exclamation as they took turns deliciously exchanging thrusts. With the first of these the urge to explode seemed more than Mac could bear, but somehow he got past that, and gradually went to work on her, probing her zones with fingers and tongue, dialing her up, ramping her back, ending with the two of them side by side in a deeply enjoyable leg-threaded scissor position that let him work on her breasts and her clit as they made love. And now – now – forty minutes in – she went up that incline yet one more time and he let her go over, enjoying her sharp painful cries and a clench of nails and interior shudderings that continued, intermittent and diminishing, even after her thrashing had stopped. Still fully engorged in her, Mac pulled her as close as could be and held her tight and kissed her neck. Then, finally, with two deep thrusts, and with the sharp blazing intensity of a Roman candle that threatened to stop his heart, he came inside her.

Silent at length, pulses drawing back to something approximating normal, they stayed wrapped tight and locked deep until they both realized she was starting to leak. Parting from her, Mac continued to hold her, and they kissed, looking deeply into each other's eyes. She was smiling. "In a word," she said hoarsely, "Kew-el."

"I'll say." He meant it. Maybe the portents for this affair were doubtful, but no question about it the sex was, um, satisfactory. "But we still haven't had our date."

She lightly bit his nose. "This is the best kind of date I can imagine, you old fart."

"Old? I'm not that much older than you."

"How old do you think I am?"

"Twenty-seven," he said, guessing low.

"I'm thirty-one!" she retorted. "And you're, what? Forty?"

"Thirty-eight. Seven years. That's not so bad." Sliding back from her a bit, he noticed a roseate blush spread across her lightly freckled chest. "Your come is showing," he said, grinning.

She glanced down. "Oh wow. That's only the second time that's ever happened."

"When was the first? Last night?"

"No, silly. Last night was great. . .but the first time. . .you really want to know?"

"Sure."

"It was with my husband."