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Ordinary people sometimes do bad things. A wrong-headed business decision, a romantic encounter in a late-night bar, a rivalry with a neighbor over the placement of a fence, any of these seemingly insignificant moments can initiate a series of events that, like a rusty nail in the sole of the foot, can systemically poison a normal, law-abiding person's life and propel him into a world he thought existed only in the perverse imaginings of pulp novelists.
At sunrise on Saturday morning the sky was pink and blue, the trees in my yard dripping from a thunder shower during the night, and I took a cup of coffee and hot milk and a bowl of Grape-Nuts out on the gallery and read the morning paper while I ate. When I was halfway into the editorial page Dr. Parks pulled his battered, beige pickup to the curb and got out. His jaws were heavy with beard stubble, one eye clotted with blood; he wore no socks and jeans that were grass-stained at the knees.
"I need help," he said.
"In what way?"
He sat down on a step, a few inches from me. His long, tapered hands rested between his legs and his body gave off an odor like sour milk. His mouth began to form words, but nothing came out.
"Take it easy, Doctor. This stuff will pass with time. A guy just needs to put one foot in front of the other for a while," I said.
"There's no justice. Not for anything," he said.
"Pardon?"
"My daughter's death. The electrical fire at my house. I bought a home warranty policy from Sunbelt Construction. The policy is underwritten by a bunch of criminals in Aurora, Colorado. I tried to talk to the Louisiana insurance commissioner about it and was told he's on his way to the federal pen."
Like most people whose lives have been left in disarray by events so large he couldn't
even describe them to himself, his rage against the universe had now reduced itself to the level of a petty financial quarrel with a fraudulent home warranty company.
"There might be a state senator or two we can call on Monday. How about a cup of coffee?" I said. I rested my hand on his shoulder and tried to smile, then I saw the green cast in the skin under his eyes and the detached stare that made me think of soldiers I had known many years ago.
"I was on a medevac at Khe Sanh. I was in two crashes and one shoot-down. I put my best friends in body bags. It was all for nothing. This goddamn country is going down the sewer," he said.
"I was over there, too, Doc. We can always be proud of what we did and let the devil take the rest of it. Sometimes you've got to throw the bad times over the gunnels and do the short version of the Serenity Prayer. Sometimes you just say full throttle and fuck it."
But my words were of no value. He got to his feet like a man walking in his sleep, then turned and extended his hand. "I insulted you at my home and in your office. I didn't mean what I said. My wife and I are better people than we seem," he said.
He pressed the fingers of one hand against the side of his head, like a man experiencing a pressure band or a level of cerebral pain that gave him no relief. He pulled open the door of his pickup and got inside, holding the steering wheel to steady himself. I walked to the passenger window.
"Where you headed?" I asked.
"To confront the people who cheated me, the ones who put defective wiring in my house, the ones who shouldn't be on the goddamn planet."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Doc."
"Stand away from the truck," he replied. He ground the transmission into gear and swung the truck into traffic, almost hitting an automobile packed with Catholic nuns.
I went back inside and called the dispatcher. Wally happened to be on duty. "You want us to pick up this guy, Dave?" he asked.
I thought about it. Roust Dr. Parks now, in his present state of mind, and we would probably only add to his grief and anger. With luck he would eventually go home or at worst get drunk somewhere, I told myself. "Let it go," I said.
Helen Soileau called me just after lunch. "How busy are you?" she said.
"What's up?"
"It's Dr. Parks. Wally said you called in on him earlier."
"What about him?"
"Evidently he went looking for Castille Lejeune. He didn't find him, so he went after this guy Will Guillot."
"What do you mean 'he went after him'?"
"With a cut-down double-barrel twelve-gauge."
"He shot Guillot?" I said.
