Topton is a small town (pop. 2,000) with a small state teachers college (3,000), some sort of candy factory and that's about it; Topton was a quick two mile drive from the Lincoln. He headed over to the Toad Creek Inn, a place that where he and Maureen had been drinking since they were both 16, the summer after Mark had arrived in Kurtzville.
The town was built on a couple hills (Toptown ?); a fact Davidson re- noticed as his car lurched forward before the parking brake took hold. He walked down toward the Toad Creek Inn.
The Toad Creek was the same as it was in 84: a fine interior for a bar-- a lot of wood, varnished logs as support beams and walls.
Country rock blared.
"What's happening?" Davidson asked the guy sitting across the bar from him, figuring he was probably a college student: the guy was one of those serious looking Sidney Poitier kind of guys. He was thin, about six-foot and wore the glasses that serious black guys were wearing in the sixties and seventies.
Dennis
Not much... you a cop?"
"Good question, I used to be... not no more. I'm an ex-cop here who moved out to the country to open up a bar."
Davidson found the waitress and motioned for her to come over. "Another one of these please and-- you want something else? A little step up maybe?"
"Schmidts is fine," the serious looking guy replied
"Get him a Schmidts."
"Cheers," Mark offered, "you a local?"
"Hey buddy thanks for the beer, I appreciate it, I really do but if you got some questions for me Mr. Ex-cop, I would appreciate if you would just ask them. I'll probably answer most of them.
"A little paranoid?"
"Only the paranoid survive, so if you got questions for me I got some questions for you. How do you like those apples?"
"I'll back off-, that's fine I'm opening an old bar, over in Kurtzville, out on 737. Relax. There's no trouble here.
(PAUSE)
Those folks over the hill are your blood relatives, eh? Well, I got news for you-- they're a bunch of fucking racists, they've been giving me ten times my fair share of fucking grief the past couple days."
I had my problems with them in the past, take my word on that, I don't like any of that church bullshit myself. I lived up here after my mom blew her head off-- my uncle, the Reverend Kurtz took me in after the suicide. I stayed here a few years then I left and went to college on one of those cop orphan scholarships. I became a cop after that because it was the easy thing to do; I got my girlfriend killed in a car accident last year. I drink like a fish. Here I am. Pretty much my life story.
"I'm here because I thought my brother was here. My wife kicked me out because I'm a drunk and I figured I'd come stay with my brother for a couple weeks. Last I knew he was here making a documentary on the Mennonites and their use of 19th century farming methods. You know, I get here and start asking those idiots over in Kurtzville whether they had recently seen a black guy who looked a little like me with a camera making a little movie. 'Nope, ' "sure haven't", 'can't say I have,' that kind of backwoods ass country bullshit."
"Your brother sounds like an interesting guy."
Problem is that I really don't know what the fuck I'm going to do after tonight, I can't find my brother, I'm sleeping on some cat's farm-- back behind the treeline so the fucker won't see me but it don't take long in these small towns for them to figure out what you're up to... they always do.
"Well, what's your name?"
"Dennis Macpherson."
"I'm Mark Davidson and that bar I'm opening needs some work; have you ever done any contracting or construction kinda stuff?"
"Yeah, full time for more than a decade."
"Well, you seem agreeable and competent enough-- you're hired if you want a job. You can live out at the site if you want."
"I'm not a real big fan of the locale; I wish I could turn you down but I can't. You got the money to pay me?"
"My uncle's estate left a pretty big trust. The stipulation is that the trust is to lend me reasonable sums of money for the purpose of reconstruction. Apparently, it's broadly worded to allow me to get the thing up and going with as little financial difficulty as is possible. It's supposed to be a big trust though the terms of the trust require that its size be kept a secret. "
"Hmm ... sounds like the cup is running over my man. Cheers. Maybe momma was right, there's a Jesus after all."
You can stay in my motel room if you want tonight; it's supposed to rain. Tonight we get drunk; tomorrow we begin rebuilding the Improper.
Dennis sort of smirks.
*******