Holland had nothing to say for a long time. He just stared across the space between them. Then he finally said, “Jesus Christ, that could work, J.J. You say it’d cost six hundred dollars? I mean, I got six hundred dollars. I’d have to look some stuff up on the internet. And that thing about buying out Henry . . . I think he’d take twenty grand for the place. I got the GI Bill and my mother would probably loan me enough for the rest—at nine percent, the miserable bitch—but . . . Jesus Christ . . .”

“I’d want a piece of the action,” Skinner said.

“Well, of course. You came up with the idea, I’ll come up with the money. We go fifty-fifty,” Holland said.

“That’s good. I’d hate to get everything in place and then have to blackmail you for my share,” Skinner said.

Holland’s eyes narrowed: “We gotta talk to some guys . . .”

Skinner said, “We can’t talk to any guys. This is you and me . . . If we . . .” He realized that Holland’s eyes were tracking past him and he turned and saw the fly headed back to the kitchen. “Goddamnit, Holland, look at me. We’re talking here about saving the town. Making big money, too.”

Holland said, “We’ll have to tell at least one more person. We need a woman.”

Skinner scratched his nose. “Yeah, I thought of that. There’s Jennie. She can keep her mouth shut.”

“You still nailin’ her?”

“From time to time, yeah, when Larry isn’t around.”

“You know, you’re gonna knock her up sooner or later,” Holland said. “She’s ripe as a plum, and I’d guess her baby clock is about to go off. What is she anyway, thirty-three? When that red-haired bun pops outta the oven, you best be on a Greyhound to Hawaii.”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe, but she’d do this, and she’d be perfect. Who else would we get anyway?”

“I dunno, I . . .”

The fly tracked around the room again, and Holland said, “Shhhh . . . he’s gonna land.” He lifted the rifle and pointed it over Skinner’s shoulder toward the sink. Skinner lurched forward onto the floor to get down and out of the way as Holland pulled the trigger.

The fly disappeared in a puff of guts and broken wings.

Holland looked down at Skinner and whispered, “Got him. It’s like . . . It’s like some kinda sign.”

2

Five months later, Mayor Wardell Holland told Virgil Flowers that there weren’t any available motel rooms in Wheatfield, and not even over in Blue Earth, down I-90. He’d checked. “Your best bet is Mankato. It’s an hour away.”

“I live in Mankato,” Virgil said. “That’s my best shot?”