from the tray by the register. Then they drove out east of town, did a long circle through the monument, and were driving near the schools by mid-morning to make sure there wasn’t any trouble. Then he would see them out around the refinery when he took his lunch break and sat out in the parking lot, keeping to himself, eating a sandwich and taking an occasional nip from a flask he kept in his glove box. They’d sit at one of their four or five favorite radar traps in the afternoon and try to catch people speeding home from the refinery or coming in on the south road from the freeway. Then, in the evening, they’d stay around Main Street and walk through the bars and the cocktail lounge at the Golden Dragon Mandarin Palace, keeping the peace, which was harder to do lately, with the layoffs and all.
But Ron Grimaldi could give two shits about Mickey O’Reilly and his deputies. The only thing good about knowing where they were was knowing you could stay the hell away from them—not that he needed to—not these days. Since moving to Nickelback, he had become a model citizen. Not that that was his nature, he was just holding up his end of the bargain, but it was the truth, nonetheless. The local cops had no idea who he was. To them, he was just a lucky guy who’d managed to land one of the last jobs at the refinery and hang onto it, even in the downturn. Ron Grimaldi was a lucky guy, and he aimed to keep it that way.
“Follow through!” he called out, with his hands cupped around his mouth. Showing the kids something was like talking to a rock. They didn’t listen to anything. “Scottie! Look!” Ron demonstrated the follow through again, but the kid just nodded and proceeded to jerk the bat at the ball in convulsive fits.
“Hey Ronnie!” It was Rick Smitts—a strange and childless Vietnam vet who came to every practice—calling from behind the backstop, his fingers poking through the chain link. “Ronnie!”
“What, Smitts?” Ron turned toward him, irritated. He’d long since stopped correcting him by reminding him his name was not “Ronnie.”
“The kids are really shaping up.” The fat bastard smiled and gave him the old thumbs up. Smitts was an idiot. Only an idiot would feel the need to call something like that out in the middle of practice.
Ron just nodded and sneered. “They sure are.” Smitts had annoyed him from the moment Ron first met him. He hadn’t been on the job for twenty minutes and Smitts came wandering up to him and started talking like they were old drinking buddies. Smitts was that kind of guy. He had no ability to see that he annoyed the people around him. Sometimes Ron would look into Smitts’s eyes when he was talking and wonder if there was anything behind them at all. There was a certain emptiness there, like the brain was on autopilot, the last few neurons flickering in the vast darkness inside his skull.
When practice was over, and the kids had raided the coolers for sodas and slices of orange, Ron made his way to the parking lot with the heavy canvas sack of bats, balls, and bases. He tossed them over the side into the bed of the truck and took off his hat. Nine at night and still hotter than hell. April to October, it never seemed to cool down enough to keep him from sweating. Ron leaned against the truck and closed his eyes, remembering the Jersey shore, the cool breeze of a June night coming in off the water. Now that was living. This, the high desert, Southern California, this was something else entirely.
Although four years at the refinery had gone quick enough, Ron knew he had his limits. He knew when he came out here that he’d reach his breaking point eventually. Frankly, he was surprised it took four years. What was almost worse was that, despite the layoffs, the arrangement was such that they wouldn’t let him go because of the tax break the refinery got for hiring what they believed was a disabled veteran. With that, he’d be the last guy they fired because it cost them damned near nothing to keep him around. Hell, they’d probably have him put the lock on the gate the day they finally shut it all down and have him hand himself his own pink slip.