Jersey Heat

CHAPTER 1

EVERY SATURDAY, PETE had an opportunity to pull down a little extra cash without really working. His boss, Mulcek, would call him at home and say, Hey, you wanna work the shift? Pete told the guy, Sure, why not? It was a cakewalk; Pete sat at the front desk in the air-conditioned lobby of the water company from eight thirty to two, reading the papers or watching the Saturday morning cartoons on the small Panasonic tube. He’d sign in an occasional visitor until it was time for lunch. Another hour and he was home. You couldn’t beat a deal like that.

Normally, Pete pulled the weekend shift alone. But today was special. The company was holding a board meeting. That meant Pete would have Ray for company.

Ray liked rules. Ray had the idea they were guarding a prison or something. He wore his hat while on duty and took the fifteen-minute breaks morning and afternoon as required by New Jersey state law. And he talked about retiring to Florida, or maybe Arizona. It was a big topic with him, and Pete couldn’t blame the guy, old as he was, but come on. Pete wasn’t supposed to know, but the reason Ray worked the weekend shift was that Mulcek paid him cash. Pete knew this because Ray had told him. Ray couldn’t even keep his own secrets.

Today Ray was reading the new Modern Maturity so things were off to a nice, quiet start. Until he started picking his teeth. Pete glanced at the clock they had under the guard desk. It wasn’t yet noon. Each day, Pete figured, Ray got to thinking about lunch and since he couldn’t eat lunch until twelve, he started thinking about lunch-related topics. Like food and chewing and teeth. And soon he was sliding his finger up along his gums, grossing Pete out.

You want a Twinkie, Ray?

It’s not lunchtime.

I know it’s not lunchtime, Ray, but I just figured you were in the mood for an appetizer.

The old guy stared at him. Pete was watching He-Man kick the hell out of Skeletor on the TV, and he could feel Ray’s eyes on him, disapproving.

That what you do at home, eat snacks before lunch?

I’m not home, Ray. I’m working. I just thought maybe you were hungry and I have a Twinkie you can have, all right?

I got an egg salad sandwich and some nice grapes and those soft chocolate chip cookies, what do I want with a Twinkie?

Obviously you don’t want a Twinkie, Ray. I got that. You got a seriously balanced lunch waiting for you and I don’t want to interfere with that. Just stop making that noise.

"What noise? I’m only—Good afternoon, sir, can I help you?"

Another classic Ray move: Never wait for people to walk up to the desk. Jump them the second they walk in the lobby. Pete spun his chair around to see who it was. Since eight thirty, Pete and Ray had signed in a dozen or so of the board members, among them their boss, Luke Mulcek; the woman who owned the water company; and a couple of rich guys trying to look Saturday-casual in pressed jeans, T-shirts, and tasseled loafers.

Pete knew all these people by sight. The man who had just walked in was not a member of the board.

It was an old guy holding a kid by the hand. The kid was about four or five, plaid shirt and Osh-Kosh overalls, brown hair and eyes. A real cute kid. Pete looked at the man’s face and nearly said hello.

Buldo.

Something wrong, mister? Ray was saying. You gotta use the bathroom?

Why would I need a bathroom? Buldo said.

It was a funny question. Considering. The man called Buldo was soaking wet from the middle of his plaid shirt down to the bottom of his Wranglers. His work boots sloshed water all the way through the lobby. He would rather stand there, dripping water, than use a bathroom to maybe try drying himself off. Clearly, Pete thought, Buldo had fallen into the reservoir, and now Pete and Ray, uniformed representatives of the Lenape Water Company, were going to hear some bitching.

You got a phone? Buldo asked.

Pete hadn’t seen Buldo since he retired as the town’s police chief a few years ago. He was still a big guy: two hundred pounds, short but broad. He had a square-shaped, tanned face with a nose that was long and hard and curled at the tip. Two sharp black eyes glared at them from over the beak.

We don’t allow use of our phones, Ray said. There’s a payphone over there near the bathroom.

"I don’t need the bathroom, Buldo said through his teeth. He looked down behind the counter and Pete knew he was looking at the boy. Would you stop that? I have to talk to these men. You want to go sit down? Here, go sit down."

The kid didn’t move.

Pete stood and nodded at the kid. You want a Twinkie?

Buldo looked at Pete, their eyes meeting for a flash, then he was asking the boy, Hey, yeah, you want a Twinkie? Here, take the man’s Twinkie, what do you say? Pete heard a small voice say thanks and watched the kid wander over to one of the fake leather chairs under the mural of Shadow Lakes, which depicted Dutch patroons powwowing with friendly Indians. The Indians smiled and held their arms in a welcoming gesture, as if to say, Take our land—please.

Look, Buldo said when the kid sat. I don’t have change and I gotta use that phone.

I understand that, Ray said, avoiding eye contact like a true servant of the people. But like I say, we’re not supposed to allow use of our facilities.

Ray, would you cool it? Pete said.

You got a floater out there, Buldo whispered.

Shit, Pete said. Where’s this?

Outside.

Wait, what is this? Ray said. What do we got?

The guy, Buldo, was trying to keep his voice low. He kept looking at the small boy. "A floater. A body. You better call into town and ask for Chief Omar Benzel. Tell him you want to report a murder. Tell him you advise that he send two patrol vehicles⁠—"

He paused and looked at Ray. I don’t see you moving.

Well, uh, I’m not sure...

Ray was flustered with the wet man’s talk of floating dead people and murder. Ray didn’t look at Pete once. His elbows rested nervously on the counter as if he were erecting boundaries, showing Pete that he didn’t need help handling the situation. This was routine stuff here, pal. I’m a modern, mature kind of guy and I deal with this kind of shinola every day of the week.

Can I see some identification, mister?

Ray, Pete said. Make the call, willya? To Buldo: Where is this?

Not far. Down the gravel road on the other side of the fence. He’s out in a couple of feet of water but I didn’t want to move him. I had the kid.

He had the kid. He stuck that in there so you knew. Hey, I would have moved the guy, even dragged him to land, but I had the kid to consider. Ray had his hand on the phone, just resting on the receiver. His fingers quivering. What were you doing out by the reservoir, mister, fishing?

Yeah, why?

Can I see your permits?

I need ID to report a body? What are you, an asshole?

Look mister, we have some rules around here. Before I can alert the police, I have to check it with upstairs.

Check later. Make the call.

Don’t think I won’t report that your language was abusive and uncalled for.

Ray finished this speech and sat back in his seat without relaxing. He picked up his black horn-rims and put them back on his face. He started reading the magazine again.

Buldo squinted at Ray’s uniform. Checking out the name tag hanging over his pocket. "Ray, is it? Listen to me, Ray. I’d like you to pick up that phone and call the cops, Ray. If you don’t, Ray, I’m liable to do it myself and I might get more abusive and break six or seven of your fingers. Got it?"

Ray’s hand went for the phone.

Buldo nodded his chin at Pete. "You. Come with me."

CHAPTER 2

THE WAY PETE saw it, the water company job was just something to tide him over until he could get back to his landscaping business. Mowing lawns and decorating people’s front yards with shrubbery suited him well; he liked outdoor jobs. He’d built up his customers in the years after high school, doing all right on his own in the summer, plowing people’s driveways in the winter. Occasionally he’d help out his father with the masonry business.

But then his father died. Things got scattered after that, and Pete decided to take a break from the business. He wanted to try something different, like an indoor job.

For a while he worked in the menswear section of a mall department store. This was right off a major highway in the northeastern part of the state. The job had everything. Nice clothes. Nice girls. Air-conditioning. He figured then it wouldn’t be a bad job. Maybe the best job he ever had.

The store sold some nice stuff and employees had a twenty percent discount. Not bad. A cute girl named Linda came down from lingerie to teach Pete how to work the cash register. He poured on the Pete Riper charm. She helped Pete pick out a couple of good suits when it came time to take advantage of his discount. Marty Lasker, one of the elderly sales guys, came around with the tape measure, going, "Can I just see this suit? Turn around, willya? Let’s see...Very smart. This is a very smart suit."

Pete figured he could get used to this. You weren’t outdoors sweating like a pig, smelling of grass and gasoline and motor oil. Winters, you weren’t out snow-blowing your customers’ walks or plowing their driveways; you were taking your lunch break with Linda and talking about business and retailing courses she was taking at the community college. Gave you a different perspective on things. People were out there getting educated. People were making something of themselves.

It was different.

Then one day Pete was ringing up a bunch of socks for some guy. When he looked up to nod politely, his line of vision peered directly into the men’s dressing room. The room was maybe twenty feet from the checkout counter, so it was no biggie to see a man pulling sweatpants over an off-the-rack Christian Dior. Just slipping it on like he was going to walk out with it.

Pete stopped ringing up the socks and simply watched.

The bastard did the same thing with the suit jacket—pulled his own lousy sweat jacket over the new one. Pete excused himself to the sock buyer and came around the counter and waited for Mr. Dior to come out. When he did, he was an idiot in his forties with a red mustache and a racquetball build. Bloodshot eyes. He sauntered away toward the exit. With all that extra padding on them, his legs moved with the odd jerkiness of a pogo stick.

Pete went over and said three words, softly, Excuse me, sir.

The creep hauled ass, cutting through sportswear and men’s jewelry and fragrances, knocking into people and sweeping cologne bottles off the counters. Pete wondered if the guy had forgotten the way out, but then figured, sure, he’s trying to lose me.

The guy bolted for the DOWN escalator. By now the salesgirls were ringing security and customers were standing around like garden statues with shopping bags, going, Larry, Larry, lookit this. Mr. Dior pounded down the escalator, pushing people left and right. Pete was pissed that he had to push past some ladies to get at the guy. At the bottom of the stairs, the guy slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting some women with bags standing in front of the directory, looking for the housewares department.

Momentum carried Pete down the stairs and into the guy’s back, flooring him. But the schmuck didn’t give up. He took a swing at Pete’s face.

And missed.

For a moment or two, the guy regarded Pete. Took in the guy blocking his path. Pete was tall, thick-necked, built. A smattering of lingering freckles on his face made him look younger than he was.

Their eyes locked and it was all over. Pete grabbed the front of the man’s sweat jacket and smashed the man’s nose into his face. Pete flung the guy against a glass display full of Swatch watches.

The guy collapsed, his flattened nose spurting blood.

Customers started applauding.

Pete bowed. Thank you, he said. Thank you very much. And for my next trick...

For about a week, Pete was the golden boy. He made Employee of the Month, and took home a two-hundred-fifty-dollar bonus in cash. He and Linda happily rutted like dogs in the now-empty home of his father, five nights in a row.

Then Linda announced she was transferring her credits to Bucknell and leaving for Pennsylvania in August. She was sorry, she said, but she’d thought it over a long time and had decided that they just wouldn’t work out. She hoped he could, like, understand.

Pete said sure, that would be fine since as a kid he’d sworn he’d never cross state borders to screw college women when he could do that just as easily in Jersey. She did not bother to say good-bye.

Then Jerry the general manager got back from his vacation and called Pete up to his office on the third floor. Jerry thanked him for apprehending the shoplifter but said if he weren’t more discreet next time, he’d find himself out of a job.

We’re not supposed to stop shoplifters?

"No, no, don’t misunderstand me. Sure, we prosecute, but if we convey to customers that our store is an unsafe place to shop, we lose both ways. You got it? It’s called image, Pete. I don’t expect you to understand."

Cold, Pete thought, but I can handle it. He turned to go, but then it all crashed down around him.

He turned. Jerry?

Jerry had already shifted gears, was reaching for the phone to deal with another task. What?

Seems to me, Pete continued, if someone breaks the law, he deserves what’s coming to him. There’s no polite way to arrest a crook. Customers get that. I mean, why the hell did they give me a standing ovation out there?

You know something, mister? You have the wrong attitude.

Pete stared, his ears growing red. Finally Pete said, Gee, Jerry. You’re right. It’s called right and wrong. I don’t expect a prick like you to understand.

Jerry stood slowly, his eyes bugging. What did you⁠—

Pete never heard him finish. He was already heading downstairs. On the way out, he heard Jerry shouting to his secretary. That big jerk? he screeched. "Can him. He’s history!"

Downstairs, Pete shook Marty’s hand good-bye. A security guard showed up to escort him off the premises.

As he drove away, Pete realized rules meant nothing. Oh sure, people had rules to help you do what was right, but sometimes your own rules made more goddamn sense. But when you followed your gut, you could end up screwed anyway. Maybe it was better not to do anything at all.

A few months later he got the job with the water company. So far, things were perfect. He could feel himself regressing, burrowing into the cushiness of the gig. You did what people told you to do, nothing more, and you collected your paycheck. It was a hassle-free job.

But that all changed the day Buldo, the city’s former police chief, walked in the door.

Either I shut up and do my job, Pete thought, or I start telling people off.

I’d sure hate to have to start telling people off.

CHAPTER 3

PETE ASKED THE old guy, So how you been, Chief?

Do I know you? Matt Buldo said.

You don’t remember?

It’ll come to me.

They were walking down the paved road within sight of the reservoir, one thousand acres of land, water, and trees growing hazy in the heat.

A thousand acres.

In Alaska, New Mexico, Texas, almost anywhere out west, that kind of acreage was a piddling spit on the map. But tell someone you owned a thousand untouched acres of forested land only forty miles from the Empire State Building, tell them you had it in New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the nation...well, then some jaws would start to slacken and ears would prick up. Oh yeah? What’s...what’s land like that worth?

Pete worked there every day and still didn’t know.

But on a day like this, he could care less. The landscape was his enemy. Sweat was starting to break out under his dark blue shirt. That was the problem with these polyester uniforms. The guy on the tube said it would hit ninety-seven by noon in New York.

Hazy, hot, and humid.

The TV news never told you what it was going to be in Jersey, only New York. In summer, you just knew, though. It’s gonna be hot, pal. Sticky hot.

When he wanted to be a wiseass, Pete would tell people, technically, you know, it did rain this summer. Don’t you remember? Rained about three minutes on June 23, almost two months back.

People weren’t laughing.

If you went over Conraad’s Mountain into Chestnut Bend, where they still had some farms, you could see the desiccated stalks of Jersey corn turning to dust in the fields. All over the state farmers were looking at the hazy sky and shaking their heads. It didn’t matter which of the state crops you grew—tomatoes or blueberries or apples—this year, you could just about drop the word profit from your vocabulary.

On the water company’s land, things were different, too. Some mornings you noticed tree stumps on the shoreline that weren’t there a few days ago. Animals were doing weird things. Every spring a handful of trout would swim up one of the tributaries to the company fountain, a concrete moat that ran around the office building. Sometimes, the secretaries and office dweebs would come down to eat lunch in the patio lounge, and Pete would watch them throw perfectly good food down to the fish. A bit of ham-and-cheese sandwich, bread balls, even tuna.

Made Pete sick to see fish like that, beautiful fish, living off handouts.

When the water level dropped below the riverwall, a few lunkers got stranded in the moat. They had checked in for the long haul. Don’t like bologna and mustard, pal? Tough. One by one the water company techies fished the dead ones out.

All except Rudolph.

He was a twenty-five-inch trout who’d worn his nose raw rubbing it against the concrete. Pete took one look at him, and figured the guy wouldn’t last with a running sore like that. But that was July, and this was August. By now he’d eat out of your hand. Survival made you do funny things.

The heat made you do funny things, too. Take Buldo, Pete thought. Why would a guy take a kid out fishing on a day like this, in a summer like this? Go figure.

The water company parking lot fed into a thin ribbon of asphalt that took you along the water. Nice view for an approach road, if you didn’t mind the six-foot chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire. The fence ran all along the property—a thousand acres of this-is-mine.

He watched Matt Buldo walk on ahead, tugging the kid after him like a dog on a leash. For a tubby guy, the older man was light on his feet. The paved road split finally and Buldo went down the gravel side of the fork.

Pete said, My dad was Dukie Riper?

Buldo hit his forehead with a palm. Dukie Riper’s kid. Oh sure, I got it now. Sorry about your father.

Pete’s nose crinkled. Sympathy was useless. It killed you. Was a few years back.

Right, I remember. How you been?

Pete said he was fine.

Buldo nodded grandly. He followed the gravel road that encircled the reservoir, the same road that the maintenance trucks used when they needed to get around the rezzy. He crossed a small bridge that ran over a cement drainage pipe.

Your old man did my patio out back one time. Brick and slate.

Winter ice lifting it yet?

Buldo seemed to consider it. Naw, it’s holding.

Figures, Pete said. Cement he was good with. Customers, not so much.

Buldo had parked his car up against the fence just beyond the bridge. The car was one of those classic numbers, a black Ford from out of the early sixties, its chrome polished to a high sheen. Buldo popped the trunk and reached inside for a black case.

Grampa, I’m finished.

The kid held up the plastic wrapper from his Twinkie. His face was smeared with white cream. Buldo dug out a handkerchief, which was still wet from his morning stroll in the reservoir. After mopping the kid’s face, he tossed the handkerchief in the car trunk with the Twinkie wrapper.

It’s over here, Buldo said, heading back over the bridge.

The kid followed at a distance and Pete followed the kid. The area over the drainpipe was the only open, fenceless spot for miles. Buldo hung the black case over his neck and in one fluid motion hopped over the guard rail of the bridge and landed in the mud and rocks four feet below. Pete handed the boy over, then stepped over himself. Mud spattered his black shoes.

The water in the tributary was low. They splashed through three inches of soupy muck before emerging on firmer ground. If it weren’t for the heat, Pete thought it wouldn’t be a bad spot to come and sit with a few beers and maybe watch the trees and the hills and the mountain on the other side of the lake. In the distance, an osprey wheeled over the water and swooped down. Its legs brushed the water and when the bird rose, a fish flapped anxiously in its talons. The birds of prey were having a field day this summer, picking off the trout one by one without human interference. Pete watched the trout struggle. Poor bastard, Pete thought, today’s your day to be somebody’s lunch.

Buldo had set up a campsite on the pine needles near the water. Two folding chairs, a box of tackle, a bucket, and two fishing rods set up on slingshot branches. Pete saw a Mickey