Laurence Cullen had icy blue eyes, thick black hair, and a wild temper that was encouraged by his Russian mother’s doting and his Irish father’s genes.

“I rebuilt it, you didn’t pay for it, it’s mine and you can’t have it back until you pay me for it, but I think I’ll throw it in that truck over there, and once it’s in, I’m not takin’ it back out for you,” the mechanic said.

“Bullshit,” Laurence said as he walked into the shop, picked up the big-block 454 and set it in the back of his El Camino. The mechanic’s eyes widened.

Laurence had just graduated from high school and he ran around with my dad and Judge Geldrich’s son. They smoked weed, drank Ole, went to the races, chased girls at keggers, and such. Now, young Geldrich ran drugs for his dad, and Laurence and my dad worked for them. It was only a matter of time before Laurence went through police academy and became another of Lake County’s finest, but my dad never woke up before noon. 

My dad had just gotten back from Viet Nam, and he stayed stoned as much as he could. There was a spot on the Flathead River near the old wooden Buffalo Bridge, a delta of sorts, where some very fine weed was growing. The three guys drove the El Camino out and parked it by the bridge. My dad climbed up on the bridge’s A-frame supports and jumped into the swirling green water, the others followed. They swam to the rocky bank and panted and dripped.

Jumping from big rock to rock, leaving a dark wet trail on the dry rocks, the guys wandered upstream until they came to the delta, and swam out.

“I can’t even wash my face sometimes, I never swim anymore. I used to swim like a fish, but since Laurence drowned . . .” said my dad, sitting in his chair, old, sad, burned out.