Fireworks in the Rain Read Free Page A

came back thirty-five dollars poorer, but with a bottle of Ron Diplomático Reserva Exclusiva. I opened it and poured some into a hip flask. By that time, it was already getting dark, which meant the Pirates game was over. I heated up the rest of the Mongolian beef and watched the game, fast-forwarding through the commercials. It was exactly my kind of game—a nail-biter, finally won by McCutchen’s walk-off home run. Gotta love a good ball game. Somewhere, deep, deep inside of me, I’m sure a guy named Chuck Purcell was pleased.
    Okay, enough fucking around, Phil. You have meddlework to do tomorrow; let’s get ready.
    I opened up my oversized hall cupboard and checked through it. I keep a lot of things there: various oils, scents, and the raw materials for more. I had fresh-cut grass, but I didn’t have any fresh-cut hay. I made a mental note to acquire some; that’s a pretty common switch. I dug around some more. Finding things in the Garden is easier. Eventually, I came up with some sweet william, and spent a couple of hours making perfume (not that hard, it just takes distilled water, a scent, and a lot of care), then diluting it. Usually, with switches, less is more. On a hunch, I also put together the smell of an old diesel engine: a combination of diesel and burning motor oil.
    I cut a couple of 1-inch squares out of a sponge, and poured tiny amounts of scent into each. A casual hand into a pocket, a squeeze, and they’d be on my hand.
    So much for the smells.
    Not much I could do with visuals out in a park.
    I reviewed the sound options, sighed, and downloaded what I needed onto my iPhone.
    I called it done. I stretched, loosening up my back, hips and shoulders. I made sure everything was in a nice pile on top of my cap so I wouldn’t forget anything. Then I checked the TV listings and grumbled. Last year over the Fourth of July weekend there’d been a “Shadow Unit” marathon, but I’d had no time to watch it. This year I had time, but I could only choose among “NCIS” or “Dallas” or a sci-fi show that I’d already seen a dozen times. I’d have liked to curl up next to Ren and watch something mindless, but it wasn’t any fun by myself. I went to bed.
    The Fourth of July in Las Vegas was only in the mid-80s when I got up, and my swamp cooler was handling it like a champ. Shower, shave, coffee, check the boards, set up to record the game. I had time to head to The Palms and play some poker, but decided not to—I wanted my mind sharp for the meddlework. I had fried rice for breakfast and went over the approach I’d take, the switches, the delivery. I put on my pants with the big, loose pockets, so I could drive and walk without accidentally squeezing the sponges. It made me look a bit like a dork, but only a bit.
    By mid-afternoon, it had clouded over, and it looked like we might get rain. I hoped that didn’t mean Pete was going to cancel. I went into the bathroom and put on a bit of make-up so I could pass for ten years younger, then went to the entryway where there is a small table opposite my painting of “Dog Painting Coolidges Playing Poker.” From the table I put the flask in one back pocket, the iPhone in another, the sponge with the sweet william in my left-hand pocket, the other perfume in my right. There I was, ready to meddle. The air around me smelled cleaner, the outlines of objects a bit sharper. It’s funny how having all of my switches ready to use on the Focus is, itself, a switch for me. I was no longer nervous; I was ready.
    I put on my cap, picked up my keys, and headed out the door.
    I got onto the 15, taking it north to 95, which took me most of the way to Providence—a “gated community” that had generously opened itself up so us poor and disadvantaged types could enjoy fireworks at their park. I wondered if they’d spray it down once we left. The drive took about forty minutes, which still got me there early. I studied the clouds. Rain would dampen things. Even if