Bricks Enough to Build a House With

George Melcamp poured himself another finger or three of whisky, as his fireplace crackled with a warm orange glow, safe from the cold night outside, safe from another coastal rain, safe from the impossible demands of the world.

Beside his recliner stood a small table, and upon it lay his memories – favourite issues of the Port Calvin Tribune. Each bearing a heartwarming headline: ‘George Helps Little Sandra Harrison Down From Tree’, ‘Constable Delivers Food And Fuel To Stranded Boaters,’ ‘Melcamp Thwarts Raccoons In Case Of Missing Seniors Centre Socks’. And in each, a smiling photo of a younger man who George just didn’t recognize anymore.

Had he really ever smiled like that? Did he once have a full head of hair? He ran his hand over his scalp. Could this last photo really have been taken just a year ago?

George sipped more whisky, wondering where the time had gone, where he had gone wrong, whose tears fell on the front page.

A hammering on his door startled him.

“Constable!” an old man shouted over the rain. “Constable!”

George lunged from his recliner, veins coursing with sudden life. Outside his door he found Donald Northwright, rain-soaked.

“Donnie? What is it?” A flutter in his heart. “An emergency?”

“Get your coat, Constable – we need you! There’s crime afoot, and this time, it’s a doozy.”

Twenty years fell off George’s bones. He grabbed his jacket and cap, belted on his kit, and soon the two were in his car and hurtling down Main.

“To the library!” Donald directed, before a coughing fit overtook him.

The library? George felt unease. He hoped Charlotte was okay, because if anything had happened to his sister, he wasn’t sure he could bear it. Defying the whisky and rain, he stepped on the gas, his car singing the siren song of the law.

They slid into the library’s parking lot with a squeal of the brakes, nearly clipping one of the surprisingly many cars parked there.

Inside, George found no fewer than two dozen townsfolk, all cramped into the library’s Big Room, all gathered around tables stacked with books, and white bricks, and Charlotte on a chair, bound up with rope, and – oh no. And the Hereford twins.

The goddamned Hereford twins. Will and Laura, two perpetually smarmy, cheery, overachievery thirteen-year-old amateur sleuths. Them, and that flea-brained sack of crap, their stupid dog, a stupid golden stupid retriever. And all three wore deerstalkers, which – as George knew well, because he read all the damn stories – Sherlock never actually put on.

“Constable!” the twins exclaimed, in that skin-crawlingly way where they spoke in perfect harmony, as though it was all a well-rehearsed catch-phrase, which it probably was. “We’ve made a citizen’s arrest!”

George took off his cap, covered his eyes with a trembling hand, muttered a silent swear. And then right on cue, the damn dog barked, twice, like he was stressing the point with two exclamation marks, and you just knew the dots on the exclamation marks were joined into a ‘u’, so the whole damn thing looked like a smiley face.

“Detective Goodboy McMuffins is on the case!” the twins said.

George’s tirade of swearing was drowned out by the townsfolk cheering. He sneezed when Goodboy McMuffins, tail wagging, sniffed his hand.

“Get that beast away from me!”

The twins recalled their rodent and George sneezed more before wrangling his allergies. Then it dawned on him: Charlotte was bound with ropes. The horrid little brats had citizen-arrested his own bloody sister. Too far, this time.

And then it dawned on him: white bricks. White bricks, stacked on the tables, white powder wrapped in plastic, bricks enough to build a house with.

He crumpled his cap in his fist, his eyes bulging. “Jesus! Is that – is all that –”

“Cocaine!” sang the twins. “Fifty kilos!”

They drove silently to the station. Only once Charlotte was behind bars, in the one tiny municipal cell, the one last used by Peter Reimer two months ago, and only because his roof had sprung a leak and he wanted a dry bed, did George address her.

“Charlotte, good lord, what have you done?”

“What I had to.”

“Had to? Charlotte! Nobody has to run an international cocaine smuggling operation in Port bloody Calvin!”

She frowned and held a cigarette through the bars, and George lit it with the engraved Zippo she had gotten him for his birthday.

“Nothing doing,” he said. “This is too big. My hands are tied. The feds have to be involved.”

“I know.” She took a drag. “But I had to.”

“Why!?”

“Do you have any idea how much a librarian makes? In a Podunk like this? We were hit hard when the cannery closed. Jack hasn’t been able to find any work, anywhere.” She took another puff. “We were going to lose the house.”

“You should have come to me, Char.”

“Georgie,” she said tenderly, patting his cheek. “Now how would that work? The only reason you’re not bankrupt is because we’ve been shoring you up.”

George lit his own cigarette. No use arguing with the truth. “Still. Did it have to be this? You’re my sister, damn it! You’ve made a total arse of me. What kind of a cop doesn’t notice this happening right under his nose?” His previous bust, three weeks ago, was Clancy Dean trying to pull a fast one with an expired fishing licence – a somewhat different scale.

“The kind of cop with a big heart, who cares about his community. Besides, it’s that dog that’s made an arse of you. Of us both.”

George exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

“Look, seems like this is goodbye,” she said. “For a while. Look in on Jack for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Look in on Kurt too.”

“Kurt Edwards?”

“Yeah. He took the closing of his cannery worse than anyone else. Hasn’t been able to sell it off. I’m worried he’s thinking about doing something stupid.”

“I’ll see him,” George said.

After the feds came by in the morning, confiscating all the drugs, confiscating his sister, George drove down to Kurt’s. No point reading the paper – it would just be the twins again.

“I’m not doing good, actually,” Kurt said over coffee. “I’m drowning. That damn cannery’s a noose.”

“Can’t sell it?”

“Hell no. Had to close it because it didn’t make money. Nobody wants to buy a cannery that don’t make money.” Another sip of piping coffee. “Say, while I got you here, I got a legal question.”

“Shoot.”

“Let’s say I want to torch it for insurance purposes–”

“–Not actually legal–”

“–Yeah, yeah, fine. But let’s say I did. What are the common pitfalls to avoid, so the adjuster doesn’t cotton on?”

George sat back in his chair, considered his friend, saw the ragged look in his eyes, the harried twitch of his mouth, a threadbare man. But, a man who trusted him, who counted on him, because Charlotte was right – George did have a big heart, and he did care about this community.

“Don’t worry about it, buddy.” George set his coffee down. “I’ll take care of it.”

Later, at night, George prepped the cannery, sloshing fuel on the floors, the walls, the supports, and on any old thing he found. He had no idea how to dupe an adjuster, but he told Kurt to head down to the Goatshead Pub and make a real night of it. It would make a great, very public alibi, and nobody would trace the arson back to him.

When the fumes got to him he stepped outside for some brisk air and a refreshing smoke. Then an otherwise pleasant evening turned to crap when he heard them. Excited gibbering, agreeable barking – the twins and their stupid mutt walked up the road. Goodboy wagged his tail, and Will and Laura gesticulated wildly with the notebooks they carried everywhere.

Never in his life had George suspected he could hate children, but then, life was a funny old thing.

“Hi, Constable!” they sang. George’s shoulders tried to crawl into each other.

“Say, what are you doing out here tonight?” Will asked. “Is it an investigation?” added Laura.

So excruciatingly irritating.

“I’m, ah,” George scratched his chin. Irritating or not, the little sneaks were attentive. “Heard reports of vandals around here. Kurt – that is, Mr. Edwards – said he had a potential buyer coming in. Asked me to make sure, you know, nobody graffitis the cannery.”

Will and Laura gave each other a meaningful look, and that smarmy dog perked its ears up, its deerstalker at a slight angle, like it knew things. The twins furiously scribbled in their notebooks.

“What are you writing?”

“Sorry!” said Laura. “Can’t discuss an open investigation!” added Will. And then they both beamed that horrid little grin of theirs, like life was just rainbows and dreams and front pages, like life wouldn’t hesitate to kick you when you weren’t looking and stomp all over your back and take your wallet, and he imagined just reaching out and slapping that smile right off –

George groaned, a sudden pain in his chest. This much hate was not healthy. He knew that. It was irrational – he knew that too. But lord help him, these kids were just too much. Had they always been like this? He recalled a time they were just background noise, like anyone else in town. The damn dog pulled them out of their shells.

Charlotte was right.

Goodboy McMuffins investigated George’s distress, leading to a round of sneezing. Sinuses bloomed, eyes watered.

“Get back!”

Goodboy did.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just allergies.” He snorted. “Look, you kids better go home. It’s late. And I better not catch you with spray paint.”

“Bye, Constable!” they sang. Goodboy barked, and they went on their way.

George ashed his cigarette and sighed. With those idiots out and about, he’d have to delay his plans. It’d be just like them to put the fire out and get hailed as heroes, again. He reckoned ten minutes to their home, add half an hour because they’re easily distracted gits, another half for bedtime, and say, once more for a buffer. So, a nearly two hours delay.

With a heave of his shoulders, he took out his pack of smokes, only to realize it was empty.

“That’s just great.”

Rita’s Convenience Store was just down the street, as good a place to loiter as any. He paid for a new pack and then noticed a giant pyramid of dog treats on display. Bonny Bones they were called, and of course, their mascot was a disgusting golden retriever.

“What do you have that for, Rita?”

“They sell like hot cakes, on account of how much good press that dear Goodboy’s been bringing them.”

“Is he now?”

“Yeah! They’re his favourite brand. Those adorable twins are always talking about their beloved dog in the interviews. Very humble kids.”

George swallowed the nausea.

“They’re on sale now, given the latest bust. Did you hear about it? Our librarian, a coke queen!”

George’s arms fell. “Yes, Rita, I know. I was there! I’m the police in this town!”

“Oh, right you are, of course.”

George glared at the display, at the miserable, if photogenic, mutt, shilling the dog slop. Charlotte was right. Righter than right.

And then George had an idea.

“I’ll take this too.” He put a 5 kilo bag of Bonny Bones on the counter.

“Oh? But you don’t have a dog.”

“No,” said George, putting on his most ingratiating grin. “It’s for our town’s little hero. Just wanted to show him my appreciation.”

He set up a pile of treats right in the basement of the cannery, and then breadcrumbed them out the door. Then, checking to see the streets were empty – they were, with most people probably at the Goatshead – he expanded the trail, wending through town, all the way to the Herefords’ house. Each step of the way felt lighter than the one before.

The Herefords’ house was dark, but – yes. When George looked over the fence he saw that Goodboy was still outside.

“Who’s a good boy?”

George tossed him a treat and opened the gate. “Come on, filthy mongrel.” Goodboy went from one treat to the next. “That’s right, eat them up. Let’s go kill two birds.”

The plan went perfectly. Goodboy, being a dumb mutt, was overcome by base hunger, and George got him effortlessly to the cannery. The dog plodded down the basement steps, homing in on the snack motherlode.

George took out his Zippo. Flicked it on, then off again. On, then off. All his troubles would soon be over, and as an added bonus, Kurt would be saved. A dog couldn’t clear outstanding debts to the bank, could it? George chuckled coldly. With the dog gone, things would go back to normal and he’d be the hero again. The only hero the town needed. Now, how to help Charlotte–

George sneezed.

Goodboy whined up at him, wagging his tail.

“What are you doing, dummy?” The allergies came at him with a vengeance. “The treats are downstairs! Go down the stairs!”

Goodboy groaned, and licked George’s free hand.

“Aw, gross! I–” George sneezed again, and then again, and then a third time so hard that the world was blotted out for a moment.

Hard enough he’d let go of his Zippo.

There was a fwoosh, and suddenly the dark cannery was filled with roaring orange heat. George swore, and sneezed, and his eyes watered. The dog barked, incessantly. With the unexpected blast of flame, and the eye-blearing sneezing, George got turned around. He panicked. He ran in an uncertain direction, and mid-sneeze ran into a wall, face-first. And then he collapsed to the ground.

His head spun, his face ached, and to make things worse, the psychotic dog attacked him. He curled up in a ball as the beast kept mauling, growling and barking, as though it knew. As though it saw his plan.

“I’m sorry!” George wailed, as the beast grabbed him by the back of the jacket and pulled, trying to strangle him with his very own coat. “I didn’t mean it!”

With the choking, the sneezing, and all the smoke, he couldn’t breathe. Never in his life had George suspected he would die like this, but then, life was a funny old thing. He couldn’t breathe–

–and then suddenly, he could.

Cool night air washed over him as Goodboy McMuffins pulled him free of the burning building.

“He’s over here!” shouted a voice. Men ran towards George, and behind them was a firetruck. The hose sprayed the cannery as first responders bundled him up and gave him air.

“Good lord!” George sputtered when he caught his breath, sitting in the back of an ambulance. “That dog saved my life!”

Goodboy barked and wagged his tail. And behind him stood the twins, their arms crossed, shaking their heads.

“Of course he did,” said Will. “Goodboy’s a good boy,” added Laura. And then they pointed at him, and together said: “Constable Melcamp, we’re placing you under citizen’s arrest!”

“What!? I just nearly died!”

“For arson!”

“How did you–I mean, no I didn’t! I mean, I’m not an arsonist. I mean–aw hell. How did you know?”

“We were at the Goatshead with our parents,” said Will.

“Mr. Edwards bought everyone a round,” Laura added. “Said it was an advance from his insurance payout – because he said you were going to torch his cannery.”

George buried his face in his hands and swore. “Oh for the love of… Kurt! You moron!” He felt a slap on his wrists and found his hands zip-tied. “That’s just great.”

“Detective Goodboy McMuffins is on the case!” the twins said in unison, and the firefighters and onlookers cheered.

“And I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.” George shook his head, marvelling at how close he’d come. To succeeding. To the end of everything. Maybe a break from work wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe it’d be like a vacation.

“Crime doesn’t pay!” they continued, in their irritating sing-song.

“Well it would have,” George said. “Quite a damn lot, actually. Probably enough to keep this miserable town afloat for a while longer.” Yeah, a vacation was sounding better and better. “So I hope you two are happy. Get to watch your neighbours driven out of their homes and into the streets. Yeah, congratulations. Oh!” He dug into his coat pocket – not an easy feat with his hands bound – and produced his ticket book, which he flung at them. “Since I’m going away for a bit, and you two’re so keen on policing, there! That’s for you. You go around ticketing drunken tourists for mis-parking their Vespa. See how you like them pissing on your shoes.”

The twins looked at each other with wide eyes, and Goodboy wagged his tail.

Yes, a vacation was just what the doctor ordered.