Everyone Dies Famous

EVERYONE DIES FAMOUS

PROLOGUE

7:00 PM—July 18, 2003

Zeke Mesirow left his apartment in Crestview Manor as soon as Big John Thomas on KUKU-FM announced—using his serious radio voice instead of his fake hillbilly twang—that they were bringing the bodies to the high school gymnasium.

The tornado had arrived from the north, surprising the socalled experts. It cut an equal opportunity path of destruction through Maple Springs, flattening the black Baptist church on the west side where Zeke’s very white ex-wife used to sing in the choir, and blowing away the sanctimonious Presbyterians on the east side. It pinballed down Main Street, chewing up the Tastee-Freeze, Hank Dabney’s Esso Station, Dr. Manickavel’s emergency care clinic, and the Main Street Diner, but sparing the useless bank, Crutchfield’s boarded up general store, and the VFW Lodge.

As it roared out of town, it destroyed the Chevy dealership where Zeke’s son had once worked and the fancy townhouse development project Ted Landis was building across the road from Crestview Manor.

Zeke wanted to call his son, but Wayne didn’t own a cellphone. The road into town was impassable. Uprooted trees, overturned vehicles, chunks of concrete, twisted rebar, and pickup-stick configurations of aluminum sliding, roof tiles, and wallboard were strewn across the highway. It didn’t matter—he couldn’t drive anyway. His truck had disappeared.

A soft mist hung in the air like a wet fog, and it was eerily quiet as he started walking down the highway to the high school.

At the outskirts of town he saw a man, his dark business suit turned gray with grit, standing in his front lawn clutching an open briefcase and staring down the road like he was waiting for the bus. A few blocks farther on an old woman wrapped up in a ratty bathrobe swept brick fragments from her front stoop. The stoop was all that was left of her home. As Zeke turned on to Hill Street, a teenager on an ancient Huffy with a twisted front tire pedaled slowly by, weaving around the debris, his head swiveling like he was trying to figure out which pile of rubble was his home.

The high school at the end of Summit Avenue looked untouched. A highway patrol car and Sheriff Patrick Quinlan’s cruiser flanked the driveway leading to the front of the school, and there were an ambulance and a fire truck in front of the entrance to the gymnasium. Two men were lifting someone off a stretcher into the ambulance.

Sheriff Quinlan leaned against the open door of his car like he needed it for support. Water dripped from the brim of his hat and his uniform was plastered to his skin. A mud-splattered Silverado rolled past Zeke and stopped at the driveway entrance. There were two body bags in the truck bed. Body bags just like they’d had in Nam. Quinlan waved the truck through.

As Zeke approached the sheriff, Quinlan held up his hand. “You have to go to City Hall, Zeke. The mayor’s handling the missing persons reports.”

Zeke Mesirow frowned. They had been friends once.

CHAPTER 1

14 hours earlier

DANCER

It isn’t really darkest before the dawn, at least not in the hills of southern Missouri. And the morning air is not cool and refreshing, not in July. As the sun approached the ridge of the Caledonia River Gorge, the sky was storm-gray, but that was just an illusion. The storms had passed to the north, flooding Kansas City and St. Louis but offering the southern counties no respite from the month-long drought. Soon the sun would rise above the tree line and the hot-towel Missouri heat would wrap everyone in its sticky embrace.

Dancer Stonemason walked to the end of his son’s driveway, sweat already trickling down his back as he stared at the LANDIS REALTY—SOLD sign planted in the front yard of Clayton’s A-frame. He stuck his thumb and index finger in his mouth and whistled sharply for Russell, Clayton’s Golden Retriever, and for probably the millionth time, he tried to ignore his three finger stumps. Last month, fifty years after losing those fingers, they had started to ache again, as they had in those first weeks after the accident. His doctor back then had called them phantom pains. “Your brain is confused. It will pass.” And it had. So now maybe his brain was confused again?

Dancer bent over to retie his hiking shoes. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly, like Dr. Manickavel had instructed him. “Controlled breathing will help you manage your grief,” she said. Dr. Manickavel should have known better.

He had no more ability to manage his grief than he had of growing back his fingers. Clayton’s death had ripped a hole in his gut that was never going to be filled. The ache of losing his son would be with him for the rest of his life, and no bullshit breathing exercises, meditation, or counseling were going to change that.

Russell, who had been sleeping on the deck, came shuffling around the corner of the house and stood in front of Dancer, tail wagging, slobbery tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Russell had been a frisky pup when Dancer moved in with Clayton. Now he was an old dog—his joints creaky, his golden coat patchy and dull, and his muzzle flecked with gray.

“Why don’t you go piss on that sign for me, Russell?” Dancer said.

Russell tilted his head. He padded a few yards toward the path that led down to the river, then stopped and looked back.

“I’m right behind you,” Dancer said.

For the last ten years, Dancer had worked for Clayton and, to the surprise of everyone, lived peaceably in his home. Every morning before the workday began, Dancer hiked down to the river with Russell. When Clayton hadn’t been too busy, he would join them. Dancer tried to keep up the tradition even with Clayton gone.

Dancer had been a baseball legend in Maple Springs but had left in disgrace. For thirty years he had bounced around the minor leagues—a journeyman pitching coach for teams like the Tucson Tigers and the Albuquerque Dukes, making barely enough money to get by. He and Clayton barely spoke and Dancer thought he had lost his chance to have a relationship with his firstborn son. He’d been out of work for three months when he got a letter from Clayton asking for help with his new jukebox restoration business. With the letter was a photo of Clayton

looking down at the river from the deck of his new home. Sandy haired, lean and tall, with an athlete’s body, he reminded Dancer of himself at that age. Cocky, the world at his feet, with a wry half smile as though something amused him but he wasn’t planning to share it. The truth was, Clayton was struggling with his new business and Dancer was desperate for work. They needed each other. Dancer returned to the town where he had achieved his greatest success and then thrown it all away.

At the first bend in the trail, Russell marked a bush and waited for Dancer to catch up. It used to take Dancer less than five minutes to make it to the river’s edge. Now it was closer to fifteen. He was still fit—he could do twenty-five pushups without breaking a sweat and his legs were strong, his cardio off the charts according to Dr. Manickavel. But his eyesight was failing him. Even with his bifocals, it was difficult to make out the treacherous footing in the pre-dawn light. He moved cautiously, making his way down the path more by feel than by sight. This was his final trek to the river, and the last thing he needed was to slip and fall.

As he and Russell maneuvered the rocky path, Dancer could hear the roar of the water pounding the riverbank. Yesterday the river flowed languidly, the clear water burbling quietly along. But the weeklong rains up north had transformed this stretch of the lazy Caledonia into a swollen black snake, swallowing the trees and shrubs that lined its bank. Dancer stood at the edge of the water beside an uprooted tree and wiped his bifocals with the bottom of his T-shirt, which was already soaked with sweat. He slapped at the river gnats swarming around his knees and ankles.

Russell sniffed the water suspiciously and jumped back in surprise when a tangle of branches surfed past him, splashing his head. Down river, around the bend, a dog barked and Russell’s ears perked. He abandoned his river exploration and scampered onto the high ground next to the partially submerged trail that bordered the river.

“Wrong way, Russell. We’re heading upstream.”

The barking dog was Ozzie, a pit bull mix who belonged to the two women who lived in the ramshackle cottage downstream beyond the bend in the river. The women wove willow baskets and sold them all over the country. Clayton said the basket ladies were famous. At least as famous as one could be in the world of willow basket-making.

The women, Phoebe and Lucy, had an early morning yoga ritual. Clayton had joined them occasionally. According to him, sometimes when it got hot like it was today, Lucy practiced topless.

Russell pranced farther down the trail, away from Dancer.

“Let the ladies be,” Dancer yelled.

Russell ignored him. He would always be Clayton’s dog. Dancer was like an indulgent grandparent who didn’t require strict obedience. Most days, Russell and Ozzie would spend hours chasing each other up and down the riverbank.

As Dancer rounded the bend, he spotted Lucy in her black leotard on the grassy patch just above the riverbank. Russell’s eyes were half closed as Lucy rubbed under his ears and throat. Lucy was in her late twenties, with cotton-candy-pink hair and freckled, fair skin that always appeared slightly sunburned. She had a healthy fleshiness—what Dancer’s late wife, Dede, would have called chubby. Lucy patted Russell on the flank and he rejoined Ozzie, who had been waiting impatiently to continue their running game.

Lucy smiled as Dancer approached. “River’s crazy today.”

“It’ll be worse tomorrow,” he said. “Where’s Phoebe?”

Lucy grinned. “She’s angry at me.” She grabbed her shirt from the yoga mat where she’d been exercising and slipped it over her head. It was an Allman Brothers Band T-shirt with a silkscreen image of a flatbed truck carrying a giant peach on the front.

“Clayton liked the Allman Brothers,” Dancer said.

Lucy glanced down. “Oh my God. I just grabbed it from my pile. It was Clayton’s. He left it here, uh, last summer.”

Last summer. His son’s last summer. In their ten years working together, Dancer, to his great surprise, discovered he not only loved his son, but liked him, too. Against all odds they had become best friends. Dancer did everything he could to help Clayton make American Jukebox successful. They were a great team, and when Clayton started selling the refurbished jukeboxes on eBay the business took off. They were finally making money. And then Clayton was gone. Killed when he lost control of his truck on the interstate.

Dancer shook his head and tried to flush the memory of that August day. “T-shirt looks good on you, Lucy,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Is Jim still trying to sell Clayton’s house?” she asked.

In a family marked by failure and scandal, Dancer’s second son, Jim Stonemason, was the exception. He had bought his first car lot before he turned thirty, and now he owned dealerships in Maple Springs, West Plains, and Mountain View. He was the largest GM dealer in southern Missouri.

Dancer stared down at his feet. “Jim sold it to Ted Landis.” He scuffed the ground. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had returned. He glanced up when Lucy didn’t respond to see her face had crumpled. It looked like she might cry.

After a minute, she took a deep breath. “Clayton would have never sold to that asshole. When do you have to move?”

Dancer pretended to be watching the dogs chase each other down the river trail. He didn’t want to meet Lucy’s gaze. “Need to start moving the jukeboxes and spare parts today.”

Lucy smacked him in the chest with the flat of her hand, making him look at her. “What the fuck, Dancer. Were you just planning to run off without saying good-bye?”

“Sorry. I should have told you. Guess I was hoping it wouldn’t happen.”

Lucy wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. “It’s been such a shitty year.” Hugging was Lucy’s solution to most problems. “You got anyone to help you with the move?”

“Jim offered to send someone from the dealership, but I turned him down. Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

Lucy released him and hooked her arm in his, like he was an usher at a wedding. “You have to come to the house and tell

Phoebe. I don’t want to do it. She’s already pissed at me.”

Dancer grinned. “What did you do this time?”

“I brought a boy home from the bar. A soldier. He was too drunk to drive himself home.”

“Good Samaritan, huh?”

“Exactly. And patriotic. Helping out a serviceman. I drove his truck and saved myself cab fare. A win-win.” She paused to adjust her grip on Dancer’s arm. “Phoebe doesn’t like strangers sleeping over. He’s still on our couch.” She pointed toward the large screened-in porch hanging from the back of the cottage. “Hey. He could help you move. He needs work and he has a big pickup.”

Dancer knew he didn’t really have a choice once Lucy made up her mind, and he allowed Lucy to tow him toward the house.

“I need to get over to Jim’s house before he goes to work,” he said. “I’ll stop in for a minute so you don’t have to give Phoebe the news. Sounds like you’ve already got enough problems.” Lucy pulled open the porch screen door for Dancer. Five tables were staged inside, each topped with willow baskets in various stages of construction. In the far corner, a large overstuffed sofa held a lumpy form curled under a pink bedsheet.

“That’s Wayne on the couch. He’s just back from Iraq.” She stopped at the first table and picked up the basket. It was a swirl of black- and copper-colored willow branches. “What do you think?”

“It looks like a cyclone. I like those colors.”

Lucy smiled. “Me too. It has great contrast.” She set it on the table and walked back to the sofa. “Hey G.I. Joe. Get up. I found work for you.”

Dancer sighed. The last thing he needed was some drunk from Jake’s Bar trying to help him. He’d been a drunk from Jake’s. He knew that was a bad proposition.

The boy rousted himself from the sofa, tugging up government-issued boxers. He had the lean, dirt-tanned look of a homeless guy and a military buzz cut gone fuzzy. He rubbed his hands over his face and head as though he were trying to wipe off his hangover. “You got any coffee?” he asked. Even from three feet away Dancer could smell the puke and stale sweat wafting off him. Dancer had smelled like that more times than he wanted to remember.

Lucy picked up a dingy white T-shirt from the floor. “Put your shirt on before Phoebe sees you,” she said. “God. You stink.” She stepped backward, almost knocking over Phoebe, who had come out from the kitchen.

“Watch out, Lucy!” Phoebe said.

Phoebe reminded Dancer of the woman from that American Gothic painting, only skinnier and less cheerful. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the figure on the couch. She nodded at Dancer and her frown slipped into neutral.

“Hello, Dancer,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

Dancer hadn’t seen Phoebe since Clayton’s funeral. That was almost a year ago. He cleared his throat. “Wanted to let you know I’m moving today. Got an apartment over Jim’s garage.”

“Jim sold Clayton’s house to that creep Landis,” Lucy said.

Phoebe didn’t act surprised at the news. “At least Jim’s getting paid for Clayton’s place,” she said. “Landis wants to steal ours.” She glared at Dancer like he was Landis. “He’s trying to get the county commissioners to condemn our property. Hand it to him on a silver platter.” She picked up a flyer from one of the tables. “And then he has the balls to invite us to that fucking riverboat extravaganza tonight.” She stared malevolently at Lucy.

“It’ll be a cool party,” Lucy said. “A free concert on the riverbank for those who can’t get onto the boat. A mystery group is playing. I heard it might be Kenny Chesney.”

The soldier was paying close attention to the party conversation. “No way,” he said. “Chesney don’t do private parties anymore, unless you’re an Arab sheik.”

Lucy shrugged. “Well, it’s somebody like him. And it’s free!”

Phoebe slapped the flyer back on the table. “I can’t believe you’re thinking of going.”

Lucy grinned mischievously. “Not thinking about it at all,” she said. “Free concert, dollar drafts, loose slots, plenty of boys. Party time!”

“Party time?” Phoebe said, spitting the words. She turned toward Dancer. “What are we supposed to do if Landis takes our place? Move into one of his shitty apartments?”

Dancer stood silent. He agreed with her but hoped if he didn’t say anything, he could avoid her ten-minute rant about the evils of capitalism.

“You said you got work for me?” the soldier said.

“Yeah.” Lucy answered before Dancer could. “He has a bunch of jukeboxes and he needs help moving them into town.”

The boy stared, confused. “Jukeboxes?”

Dancer was trying to figure out a way to extricate himself from this three-ring circus. He held out his hand. “Dancer Stonemason,” he said. “I’m moving my jukebox restoration

business. But I think I can handle it on my own.”

“Are you the Dancer Stonemason?”

Dancer nodded. He knew what was coming.

The boy clasped Dancer’s hand firmly. “Wayne Mesirow.” He turned to Lucy. “This man’s a legend.”

While Dancer had been a local baseball legend, the boy was referring to the reputation Dancer had acquired after the cheering had stopped. The bad times.

“This man kicked ass in every roadhouse in the county!” Wayne said, still holding tight to Dancer’s hand. Dancer tugged his hand free.

“Really?” Lucy asked. She stepped closer and studied Dancer’s grooved face. “Such a handsome man. Not a mark on him.”

Phoebe sighed audibly. She didn’t have time for idle chitchat. “Dancer. When you see Jim will you ask him if he can help us with this condemnation suit? He made his deal, he doesn’t have to help Landis take over the whole damn river for his fucking golf course.”

Dancer saw his opportunity. “I need to drive over to his place this morning. I’ll fetch Russell and go now.” He could hear Russell and Ozzie barking at something at the river’s edge, but he couldn’t see them. He leaned out the porch door and whistled sharply, even though he knew Russell would ignore him. “I got to round up that damn dog.”

“Wait,” Lucy said. “What about Wayne helping you? He’s got a cool truck. It’s purple and it has huge tires.”

“It’s a ’99 Dodge Ram Sport,” Wayne said. He walked over to where Dancer was standing. “Five-point-nine liter engine, three hundred fifty horse.”

“You in the army?”

The boy frowned. “National Guard. I was working at your son’s Chevy dealership when I got called up. Lost my job.”

“Must be more to that story,” Dancer said, giving Wayne his bar brawling stare.

Wayne flushed and looked down at his shoes. “I got in a fight with one of the customer service reps. He started it.”

Dancer shrugged. “Go see Jim. He’s a fair man. He might give you a second chance.”

Wayne nodded in a way that looked like he didn’t really want to work there. “Need to make some money right now. I’m a good worker.”

Dancer looked at the boy, remembering what it was like to be down and out. What the hell. He needed the help. “Okay. One day’s work. A hundred bucks. My place is the A-frame above the gorge—43 Ridge Road. I’ve got some errands to run so I’ll meet you back there at nine. Go take a shower.”

Wayne scowled and it looked like he wanted to say something, but he just held out his hand. “You won’t regret this, Mr. Stonemason.”