The Buick’s slamming door is the only sound in The Float’s parking lot. The echo skips across pavement and crashes into the woods. Dakota sits behind the wheel. She rolls down the window.

“How long until I need to worry?” she asks.

“Five minutes,” he says. “This will only take five minutes.”

He unzips his orange duffel bag and upends the contents into the trunk. Folders, packets, applications. He shuts the trunk and carries the empty bag across the parking lot. The sign on The Float’s front door has been changed.

cld. private party.

Lance’s hand wraps around the cool brass knob.

Unlocked. He opens the door.

A wash of cool air chills the sweat on his back. The wooden pirate is solemn, and The Float is empty. Vacant booths stare back at him, stools like polished stumps. A few center rounds have been draped with table coverings that resemble medical-examination paper. There’s a frosted rectangular cake on gold-laminated cardboard with a string of pink letters: we will miss you. Letters spaced with blue and green hearts.

Lance moves as quickly as he can, but the room stretches out. He’s walking through a bog, mud to his knees. He just needs to get to the register, but it’s hours before he reaches the bar. There’s shuffling in the kitchen. Someone is coming. Lance finds the gap where the bar-top door opens. His fingers curl beneath wood.

“Blower?”

Mason stands in the kitchen entrance.

“How did you get in?”

“Door’s unlocked.”

“Yeah? Well, we’re closed for Stone’s party. You’re not invited.”

He stares back at Mason.

“I’m here for my thousand dollars.”

“What?”

Mason walks toward Lance.

“Want to repeat that?” Mason says. He flops his arms on the bar.

“I’m here for my thousand dollars,” he says.

“You want a thousand dollars? Take off your shoes and spin the wheel.”

“No.”

“You know your problem, Blower?” His breath hits Lance’s face. Mason’s been drinking. “You don’t know when to leave.” Mason turns away from him. He’s holding something in his right hand. A pair of black boots, laces knotted.

“Mason.”

“The door, Blower. It’s right there. Bye.”

Mason’s got one boot by its meaty, rubber sole. He’s using it to spin the other in wobbly circles. Clockwise, then counterclockwise. He searches the rafters, pacing the length of the bar. Lance has seen those boots before.

“Those are Stone’s boots,” Lance says.

“Ding, ding, ding! You’re a genius.”

Mason stops behind the cash register. Lowers his arm once, twice. Lance makes a choked sound. All he can say is:

“Don’t!”

Mason lets them go. Heavier than they look, the boots barely make it to the rafters. For a moment, it seems like they might tumble back to the floor, then the laces catch between a jumble of sneakers. One boot chases the other, toe after heel. A slow-motion dance. They spin until they’ve webbed themselves to the beam, turned outward with the tension.

“I wonder what I’ll win?” Mason says.

He walks past Lance and stops at the prize wheel.

“Those aren’t your boots. You don’t get to spin.”

“You’re hilarious, Blower.”

Mason cranks on the wheel. The sound fills the bar: clickclickclickclickclickclick. The pointer stops on free beer. Mason grabs a pint glass from a stack. It makes a sharp ring, like the unsheathing of a blade. He fills the glass with dark beer and puts it on the bar.

“That’s not your beer,” Lance says.

Mason takes a long, loud slurp. He belches and blows the air in Lance’s direction.

“Everything here is mine,” Mason says. “Don’t you get that? Go home.”

“Pay me and I’ll go.”

“Oh yeah? Anything else?”

“Yeah. You’re not going to finish that drink.”

Mason takes a giant gulp and gets foam on his lips. He wipes it off, and flicks the liquid at Lance’s face. Beer on his own lips, in his eyes. He blinks, wiping it off.

Mason laughs. “You look great, Blower. Just perfect.”

Lance turns and walks toward the front door.

“That’s right, big man. Go back to Bend. Tell Dakota hi for me, okay? I’ll take good care of her. Don’t worry. Hey. What the hell are you doing? Blower. Hey! Hey—Wildman! Don’t touch the pirate! That shit’s antique. Step the fuck away! What’s wrong with you!”

It takes a few twists to loosen the glue, then the sword’s handle comes free. A soft pull and it’s his. A real sword, heavy as a fistful of baseball bats, snapping into his hands like it was meant to be there.

He walks toward the bar.

“You owe me a thousand dollars,” Lance says.

“You owe me a thousand dollars for wrecking my statue! Put that shit back.”

Mason reaches for his beer.

“Don’t,” Lance says, raising the sword.

Mason’s shoulder moves and Lance swings. The beer explodes. A wet confetti of glass sprays across the room. There was a pint of beer, and now there isn’t. Lance cocks the sword to the ready position. Using his elbow, he flips open the bar-top door and steps forward, feet squishing onto a rubber mat.

Mason throws back his shoulders. Makes himself big.

“Think you’re tough, Blower? I think you’re a piece of shit.”

Lance steps forward. Mason stands his ground, glances over his shoulder. Lance takes another step. Mason steps back.

“Get in the walk-in,” Lance says.

“You don’t have the balls. You won’t cut me.”

“I think I will,” Lance says. “Only one of us can be right.” He takes a step. A piece of glass slips from the side of the bar, lands with a plink.

“You’re going to jail,” Mason says.

“You’re going to the walk-in.”

He keeps the sword steady, cocked over his shoulder. One step, then another, and Mason is walking backward. A dance down the length of the bar, through the swinging door of the kitchen. Mason twists his feet for a second, like he might run. He doesn’t. He stops in front of the cooler.

Lance steps forward. Mason’s back touches the door.

“Stop walking at me!”

“Open the door,” Lance says. “All the way in.”

Mason opens the door. Condensation curls into the kitchen. The smell of old cabbage.

“I will hunt you down.” Mason steps inside, seething. “I will kill you.”

“I think you’ll stay right here. In this bar.”

Lance steps forward and slams the freezer shut. He grabs a broom and slips it in like a dead bolt. Mason’s full weight comes smashing against the door. The handle shivers, but holds tight. He expects Mason to pound and shout and break jars, but he is quiet. Fifteen seconds later, it’s like he’s not even there.

Lance backs out of the kitchen and is alone in The Float. He could be out the door in ten seconds. Instead, he lays the sword beside the cash register and climbs on top of the bar. It’s higher than it looks. He slips on the puddle of beer and his right foot shoots out, kicking the cash register with a DING. The till pops out. It’s empty. Lance plants his feet, and stares up at the distant shoes. He lifts the sword and gets a swimmy touch of vertigo.

Stone’s black laces are twisted over a bundle of blue and white threads, not yet part of the rafter’s DNA. He nudges the sword’s steel tip into the nest of laces, gives a twist. Not enough. He stretches, standing on the tips of his toes. His legs tremble. Another twist splits the laces, and Stone’s boots drop with a rubbery clap.

There are noises in the kitchen. Mason, tinkering with the door.

Lance leaps down and grabs his duffel bag. He races over to the American flag and jerks the cord. His breath catches. He hears “The Star-Spangled Banner.” “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” There’s so much here.

He finds his own bill first, right where he remembers it.

lance

That one is easy.

When he blasts out through The Float’s front door, he has the duffel in his left hand, Stone’s boots swinging from his right. He’s ready but Dakota is giving him the wrong kind of look and somehow the car is not running.

Why is the car not running?

“Dakota! C’mon! Start the car!”

“It won’t start, Lance. The car won’t start!”

She twists the key. Twists again. The engine is clicking. Clicking hard.

“Stop! Don’t turn the key again,” he says. “Pop the hood.”

He glances at The Float. That door will burst open. Mason will come running out. He lifts Stone’s boot and smacks the starter with the thick rubber sole.

“What are you doing?”

“Try it now!”

Click. Click.

He whacks the starter so hard he feels it in his shoulder.

“Again!”

The engine fires. Purring. Ready. He drops the hood with a clap. Dakota slides into the passenger seat. Lance jumps in.

“I thought this car was fixed,” Dakota says.

“Cheap starter,” he says. “Made in China.”

He shifts to drive. They make it all the way to the edge of the parking lot, then Dakota turns on the radio. A deafening F-sharp, blaring from the speakers. Lance pounds the player with his fist. And the tape ejects. He gasps, pulls the cassette from the stereo, and throws it in the back. Dakota turns. She is staring at the orange duffel bag.

“I take it you’re not giving your speech tomorrow,” she says.

“Not the speech you read,” he says, lifting his foot from the brake. “I’m learning how to improvise.”

And before anyone can stop them, they’re gone.