Ehrhart could not be persuaded, and she directed that the white leather front passenger’s side and most of the back were to be lush and dense with pink and white azalea bushes. This reduced the number of waving and smiling commissioners from three to one.

“I guess I’ll have to ride alone by myself,” Ehrhart said.

“Well, I’m going to tell you something, Lelia,” said Blackstone as he leaned against his walker, straining to see through the huge glasses he’d been wearing since his last cataract surgery. “You’re going to have bees. That many blossoms, and bees will show up, mark my words. And don’t say I didn’t warn you about making those streamers so long. Twenty feet.” Blackstone was severe on this point. “Anybody gets close to your rear with all those streamers of blue ribbons endlessly flying, something’s going to get tangled up.”

“Where’s Jed?” Ehrhart frowned.

“Over there.” Blackstone pointed at a tree.

Ehrhart searched the masses and spotted Jed hanging around an antique fire truck, talking to Muskrat, who had fixed her car a time or two. She didn’t like to be reminded that Governor Feuer had declined to participate in the parade, even after Ehrhart had offered to ride with him. At least he had volunteered Jed to drive the commission’s car, which was on loan from one of Bull Ehrhart’s patients.

“Tell to him it’s times to come now,” Lelia Ehrhart ordered Blackstone.

Blackstone motioned at the tree to hurry along.

Neither Brazil nor West liked crowds, but Chief Hammer refused to bask in the limelight alone, especially since she hated parades and other public celebrations more than West and Brazil did.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” West complained from the backseat of the dark blue Sebring. “You got this psycho kid out there waiting to make himself a legend by doing something really, really bad, and what do you decide?” She slid into the driver’s seat and began adjusting mirrors. “You decide to ride in an open convertible.”

“I don’t like it, either,” said Brazil as he climbed in back, next to Hammer. “You sure you don’t want me to drive?” he asked West.

“Forget it,” she replied.

Brazil got out paperwork.

“We need to find the Mustang Club,” he said, “because we’re in front of them. And”—he traced his finger down a list—“right behind Miss Richmond.”

“Yuck,” West said.

Pigeon and a fat man were within two feet of each other at Westover Hills and Bassett, across from Brentwood South.

The fat man seemed ready for action as he clandestinely searched the crowd through a pair of Leica binoculars. Pigeon was rooting for half a hot dog with mustard and relish that a little kid had just tossed into a trash can, as if hot dogs grew on trees.

Pigeon never missed the Azalea Parade. People were so wasteful. Not one kid this day and age knew the value of a dollar, not even those folks on food stamps. He fished out an almost entire bag of potato chips that some little brat couldn’t toss without violently squeezing, crushing and pulverizing first.