Chapter Text
Sonny can't help but give the Lieu and Chief Dodds a skeptical look when the Lieu pulls him into her office and explains that he's getting rented out to ATF for an undercover gig.
"What? All their guys shoot their toes off or something?"
"They created a character, meant to only be used for online interactions," Dodds says, gesturing to a thick file on the Lieu's desk. "But things changed."
Sonny crosses his arms, his skepticism replaced by suspicion. "Why are you here, Sir?"
"I'm the Chief of detectives, Detective. Once Lieutenant Benson signs off, I need to add my own name, and we need to make this happen as quickly as possible."
"Why me?" Sonny asks. "There's got to be somebody at ATF or another federal agency who could step into whatever role they set up."
"The character's from Staten Island, fourth generation," the Lieu says, giving Sonny an amused look when he snorts. "He's got light hair and blue eyes, which are pretty important factors."
Sonny pulls a face. "Fuck me. This is white supremicists isn't it? Aryan Brotherhood or the Klan?"
Chief Dodds chuckles. "Good guesses, but neither. It's a newer group who feel that the Klan has gotten too soft and the Aryan Brotherhood is too casually violent."
"Now there's a couple distinctions no one should care about," Sonny mutters. He glances at the file on Liv's desk. "I assume they hate Catholics."
"It's a gray area, but I'd leave the rosary at home," Chief Dodds says.
Sonny considers the information he has. "I still don't see why I'm getting called up for this," he says, and the way Chief Dodds and the Lieu look at each other makes him sigh. "Something's gone wrong."
"Not yet," Chief Dodds says. "But there's concern. ATF has another person undercover. He's gotten enough information together that the government can put together a case for illegal guns and human trafficking, but there's no easy way for him to get it out. The entire operation's run from one tiny town upstate, and he's been there for months. He can't just suddenly leave. He needs to get caught with everyone else."
"Okay," Sonny says slowly. "So, my cover's got an excuse to just be up there for a short amount of time, then?"
"Yes," the Lieu says. "You've been going through a divorce, and it was just finalized a couple weeks' ago, and they've offered you a guest house to clear your head."
"Wow, I must be a charmer on their message boards."
"ATF's been working this character for over a year, gaining trust an inch at a time," Chief Dodds says. "It's the one good chance they have of getting someone in who isn't known by their face."
"So, what, the undercover guy is gonna find me and know I'm trustworthy because I've shown up at the right time?"
"You know him," Chief Dodds says. "He'll have a beard, and he goes by Mickey, but you'll know him when you see him."
"ATF says he used to be a detective in the NYPD," the Lieu adds. "They asked if he knew anyone who could fit the character's profile, and he named you."
"Who is it?" Sonny asks.
"Can't tell you that," the Chief replies. "You'll need some time to prep before you go, and the ATF doesn't want to hand over more information than necessary to get you started."
"And we're sure this guy knows me?" Sonny asks.
"Positive," Chief Dodds says.
Sonny narrows his eyes. "You know who it is."
"I have an inkling," Chief Dodds replies, his face guileless.
Sonny looks at the Lieu. She gives him a shrug. "It's your call, Carisi."
"I'm gonna do it," Sonny says. He'd known that the moment it was offered. "If I can help get these guys scrubbed out of polite society and keep one of ours from getting harmed, of course I'm in."
"It's appreciated," Chief Dodds says. He picks up the file. "You'll need to get started immediately. Come with me, and I'll make the necessary introductions with the ATF."
"That quick huh?" Sonny asks, looking at the Lieu.
"Don't worry," Lieu says with a smile, "I got the Chief to get me two detectives for while you're gone. They should be able to mostly keep up with you."
Sonny laughs. "Good job, boss. I'll see you when I see you."
"Be careful, Carisi. Come back in one piece, okay?"
It's been eight months since Mike died, but the grief is still in the Lieu's eyes. Sonny's certain it's in his own. "Yeah," he says around the lump in his throat. "If that's an order, I'm on it."
"It's definitely an order."
Sonny gives her one last smile then follows the Chief into the bullpen. "Can I tell Rollins and Fin what's up?" Sonny asks when they pause at his desk to collect his things.
"Benson will take care of it once you're out of the squadroom," Chief Dodds says. "But they'll know you're gone."
"Appreciate it," Sonny replies as he pulls on his suit jacket. He follows the Chief to the elevator, and they take it downstairs in silence. Sonny expects the ride to One PP to be as quiet or filled with inane conversation. He's surprised when the Chief clears his throat a few times before saying anything.
"I know you're very good at undercover," the Chief says, hands clenching on the steering wheel, "but use some extra caution for this one."
Sonny gives him a hard side-eye. "I know how to do this," he says. "I'm gonna listen and learn and do as I'm told by the feds."
"I know you are. You're a good cop, Sonny. A great one, honestly."
"What the fuck?" Sonny says, unable to stop himself. "Since when do you offer praise to anyone?"
The Chief breathes in and out slowly. "It's been a long eight months," he says.
Sonny can't breathe for a moment. He stares out of the windshield and blinks away tears. "We're not talking about this," he says.
"I--"
"We are not talking about this," Sonny hisses. "Mike told you we were dating a couple of weeks before he died, and you told him he was slumming it. You've rejected every chance I've given you to talk about Mike, and I gave you plenty. You don't get to suddenly open up because the ATF is putting me to work. Run from your emotions on your own fucking time, Chief."
The silence for the rest of the trip to One PP is worse than Sonny could have ever imagined, but he doesn't regret what he's said.
I love you, Mike had said to Sonny with a smile on his face like nothing could go wrong in the world. They'd been at Sonny's apartment, planning to watch a hockey game, and he's said it, just like that, as he'd set down a bottle of wine he'd bought on his way over. And I know we've only been dating a few months, so maybe I'm jumping the gun, but I don't care. You're fucking amazing, and I want to scream it from the rooftops.
I love you, too,, Sonny had replied, feeling like he was going to float away. Wow. Just. Holy shit. Yeah. This is good.
They'd laughed at each other's stunned faces, and Sonny had pulled Mike in close, stood on his toes so they could kiss, and nuzzled into Mike's neck as Mike whispered it in his ear and talked about how he couldn't wait to tell everyone.
He'd died two weeks later, and Sonny hadn't even been allowed to see his body before the funeral. Chief Dodds had insisted on a closed casket, saying it was too hard to see Mike's face in death.
*
Chief Dodds makes the introductions between Sonny and the ATF agents like Sonny hadn't just torn him a new one in the car. A consummate politician, Sonny thinks bitterly but keeps his own face neutral as he shakes hands.
"Can you grow a beard in two weeks?" Agent Branowicz asks, eying Sonny's smooth face. "That whole group has a thing about beards."
"Virility and masculinity and secret white guy powers or something," Agent Franklin says. "It's in the file."
"I can grow a beard," Sonny answers, liking the agents already. "How are we doing this?"
"You're going to read up, and we're gonna quiz you until you can answer questions in your sleep," Agent Franklin says.
"You can pick your own name," Agent Branowicz adds. "They only use handles on the messageboards. It's rule number two to post there. They assume the feds are constantly watching and waiting to bust them. Which, I mean, we are, but they're convinced their screen names can mask them almost entirely because they recommend everyone use a VPN."
"I'm guessing not everyone does," Sonny says.
"You guess right. And once we put a couple names with a couple faces, it was easy to add to the list."
"We sent the other guy in with just some basic info," Agent Franklin says. "He worked his way into their good graces face-to-face. There's a couple places online where a few members of this group talk about turning that town they're in into a white Utopia. Which is to say, it's already a hundred percent white, and they're working to get enough of their own people moved there to vote in rules to make it official. The guy who runs the whole show, his name is Morris Cathers, and he's lived there his whole life."
"Are there a lot of like-minded locals?" Sonny asks.
"There's only about 400 people there total, and those who aren't part of the group don't disagree with them, let's say."
"They're not racist, but…"
Franklin and Branowicz laugh. "Yup," Branowicz says. She gestures to the file that the Chief is still holding. "Look, we'll get out of here so you can get home and start cramming. We usually prefer a little more time to prep, but given the information our first UC has, speed is necessary. When we approached Chief Dodds with your name, he said you worked through law school while at SVU, and he figured if you could do that, you could learn all this quickly enough."
"He passed the bar on his first try as well," the Chief says.
"Most people do," Sonny replies, giving the Chief a cold look. "Don't oversell me."
The agents say their goodbyes. Sonny takes the file from Dodds and leaves without looking back.
*
Sonny spends two weeks growing his beard and getting used to his hair without product. The file includes every message the ATF created under his character's screen name (WhtNRite) along with bios and photos of a number of insiders. The group is called The Untouched Purity. They've been quietly active for about thirty years but have started to try and carve out their own place amongst the white power groups through subtle recruitment, gun running, and bringing in funds from small businesses all over the Northeast.
The human trafficking, Sonny discovers, isn't sexual. Instead, kids are removed from their parents and sent to unofficial group homes that are tied to the various businesses. The kids work for free, and the parents aren't allowed to contact them. If parents try to see their kids or send a note, the kid gets moved to a new location, and the parents are told nothing. Kids can also be shipped to new places if the person in charge at the group home considers them disobedient. Sonny's not surprised there's no clear list of what not to do. The goal isn't to teach these kids to follow the rules; it's to make them stop thinking and asking questions.
A couple of teenagers who have managed to run away report it's common to be underfed and beaten. They spend every hour they're not working either asleep or focusing on Morris Cathers's pile of pamphlets and books about the superiority of the white race. Several of the pieces are included in the file, and Sonny has to force himself to get through them.
Branowicz and Franklin are sympathetic but unyielding when they quiz him. They come over every afternoon and run him through the names, dates, and details of both The Untouched Purity and his own character.
Sonny decides to call himself Samuel but still go by Sonny. "If we keep the junior on the end of my name, We'll say I was named after my dad, so everyone calls me Sonny."
"I like it," Franklin says, and Branowicz nods in agreement. "We just need a last name now."
"No Jones or Smith," Branowicz says. "It's a bit too on the nose."
"Windsor?" Sonny asks, and they all laugh.
"How about Thomas?" Branowicz suggests. "It sounds white as hell without being obvious about it."
"Samuel Thomas, Jr. But call me Sonny. I was named after my dad, so I've always been Sonny," Sonny says to see how it sounds.
"Are you Sonny on any documentation they might dig up?" Branowicz asks. "Is the nickname anywhere they could find online?"
"Nope. Hell, half my squad doesn't even call me Sonny."
"Perfect."
*
Sonny spends his mornings and evenings on the message boards, learning more about his targets and immersing himself in the idea that his character likes these people. He plays up how hard his "divorce" was and says the right things about his wife taking the kids and moving three states over. He enthuses about the chance to fish on the lake just outside of town and offers to bring booze from the city since the town is in a dry county.
He also combs through the boards in search of "Mickey." Franklin and Branowicz had given him Mickey's screen name (RideNPride) so he knew who to trust. It's peppered throughout various threads, but Sonny notices he doesn't start any. Instead, other people tag him or mention him, and he shows up to respond. It's smart, Sonny thinks. People on the boards describe him as friendly and helpful. He can grill with the best of them and is absolutely trusted within the ranks. To question his loyalty, Sonny discovers when he reads a closed thread, is to be threatened with ass kickings.
Sonny wonders what it does to someone's psyche to spend months playing a part like this. Whoever Mickey is, Sonny's extra glad he can step in and help. Hopefully, he can get the information out but also give Mickey some tenuous connection to the world outside his work.
The day before he leaves, Sonny tries to get Franklin and Branowicz to tell him anything about Mickey.
"He has to befriend you," Franklin says. "You can't approach him."
"I know that," Sonny says as he packs flannel shirts and jeans into a duffel. "But some sort of hint could help if he gets nervous."
"He won't. He's expecting you."
"And if you look surprised to meet him, you can say it's because you pictured him differently," Branowicz interjects.
"Fine," Sonny says with a sigh. "Can't blame a guy for trying."
Franklin and Branowicz exchange a look. "He won't be there the first couple of days," Branowicz says after Franklin nods. "He's running errands for Cathers. Moving kids around. It wasn't planned, but it'll give you a couple days to get used to things before you two see each other."
"I'll practice my poker face," Sonny says, giving them a grin in thanks.
*
An hour before he goes to bed that night, Sonny's phone rings. It's an unknown number. He answers it after reminding himself not to use his last name, just to be extra safe.
"Hey, it's Sonny. Who's this?"
"Carisi, it's Chief Dodds."
Sonny nearly drops his phone. He hasn't talked to the Chief since he made introductions. "Sir, now's not a good time."
"I'm aware of your schedule," the Chief says. "I just wanted to speak to you for a moment."
Sonny almost tells him to go fuck himself, but he bites back the urge. Instead, he waits in silence. If Chief Dodds wants to talk, he can do it without Sonny's prompting.
"Okay," the Chief says into the silence. "I just want you to know I think very highly of you and wish I could have said something different. You're a smart, capable, and emotionally honest person, and you deserved better from me."
Sonny can't breathe for a long moment. Chief Dodds sounds deeply sincere, and it reminds Sonny so much of Mike. He wipes at his eyes. "Thank you, Sir," he says. "I…" he has to clear his throat to keep speaking. "I appreciate hearing that."
"If you'd like to talk after you get back, please feel free to reach out. I'll give your number to my assistant. He can forward your call to wherever I am."
"Okay," Sonny says, feeling light-headed. "I'll remember that."
"Thank you for your time," Chief Dodds says. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Sonny replies and lets Chief Dodds hang up first.
He expects to be up half the night thinking about the phone call, but Sonny drops off almost instantly. He doesn't remember his dreams and thinks about how he's always believed that forgiveness can release you. He'd forgiven the Chief the moment he'd apologized, and he says a prayer of thanks as he carefully wraps his rosary over his hand then sets it in the drawer of his bedside table. He feels lighter than he has in months, and while it doesn't lessen his grief at losing Mike, it takes a weight off of him that he's hated carrying.
*
The town is named Jackson, and Sonny knows from his research that it's an intentional reference to the capital of the Confederacy. He fights the urge to flip off the hand-carved sign that welcomes people to "An Unspoiled Enclave." Wouldn't be good for him to blow his cover because someone saw him giving a sign the finger.
He follows the directions he was given by a man named Kevin, though Sonny has to pretend he doesn't know that. His screen name is BeerFed, and he was officially deemed the welcoming committee in the thread that arranged Sonny's whole trip.
The directions are easy to follow, and Sonny pulls up in front of a small community center five minutes after he passes the town sign. There's a man of about thirtyish waiting out front. He's wearing a flannel shirt open over a gray T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. There's a worn red ball cap in his right hand. Sonny's dressed basically the same, though he's in a white undershirt, and his hat is a Mets hat he's had since college.
"You must be White and Proud," Kevin says, holding out his hand as Sonny gets out of the car. "I'm BeerFed."
"Nice to meet you!" Sonny says, making himself smile widely as they shake hands. "Samuel's my name, but everyone calls me Sonny. I was named after my dad."
"Kevin," Kevin says. "Good drive?"
"It was beautiful," Sonny says. "I can see why you all like it up here."
"Well, more than one reason," Kevin says with a knowing look, and Sonny makes himself chuckle.
"This where you work?" Sonny asks, gesturing to the community center.
"No, I manage the grocery store. The community center's just the easiest place to meet people coming in to visit."
Because it has a clear view of the entire town square, Sonny thinks. You can see visitors coming from half a mile, at least. Especially if they're not supposed to be coming.
"It looks nice. You and your friends built it, right?"
Sonny lets Kevin tell him about building the community center. Sonny knows it all already, but it allows him a few minutes to fully sink into character as Kevin gets into the car with him and gives him directions to the far end of town.
"Larry's wife just changed the sheets in the guest house this morning," Kevin says as he has Sonny turn down a gravel road. "She got the windows open too, so it should be aired out when we get there."
"I appreciate the hospitality. I've really been looking forward to this. Just some time to relax and be around people who understand things, you know?"
"Definitely," Kevin says. "That's the whole point of Jackson, you know. To just be with people who understand us."
*
Larry's wife is named Charlotte. She and Larry live in the house next to the guest house. She greets them with iced tea and asks Sonny if he's heard from his girls.
"Finally got to talk to them last night," Sonny says, letting frustration color his voice. "Had to guilt Andrea for an hour though. I don't wanna be the guy who talks bad about his ex, but it's hard."
"A mother's place is with her children and her husband," Charlotte says with deep sympathy. "We are all so sorry about what you've been through."
"That's very kind. Thank you," Sonny says. "Have you been on the message boards?"
Charlotte laughs like Sonny's told a very funny joke. "Oh, no, that's the boys' club. The other wives and I have our own places."
"She means each other's living rooms," Kevin says. "They say it's a study group, but Larry says it's mostly gossip."
"What do you study?" Sonny asks, though he knows it's the same books and pamphlets he's been reading.
"Just Morris's writings," Charlotte says. "Not in a weird way like those evangelicals or anything. We just think there are so many layers to his work."
"I've only read a little bit on the message boards," Sonny replies. "I'd like to read more if anyone can spare copies."
"Oh, the guest house has everything," Charlotte says, beaming. "Just help yourself. A lot of it doesn't get posted online because of how people want to misrepresent the ideas."
Sonny makes the proper sympathetic noises and keeps Kevin and Charlotte talking until Larry comes home from work. He greets Sonny warmly, but there's wariness in his body language. Larry is one of Cathers's lieutenants, and Sonny knows he'll be watching him very closely. If he decides Sonny isn't completely truthful, there could be trouble.
"We should give you a few minutes to settle in," Larry says after a few minutes of chit chat. "Let me help you get your bag out of your car."
"Oh, I can get it," Sonny says.
"I insist. You're our guest," Larry replies like Sonny knew he would.
Sonny opens the trunk of the car and lets Larry lift out his suitcase and the fishing rods he's brought. Sonny grabs the soft-sided rifle case tucked against the back of the trunk, then hauls up the box of booze he'd bought the night before. "Couple of people on the boards had some special requests," Sonny says as Larry looks into the box. "I thought the least I could do is bring enough for everyone in the neighborhood."
Larry laughs, and Sonny knows he's just scored a good point. "We don't have neighborhoods up here, Sonny. Just neighbors."
"Sounds great," Sonny says and lets Larry lead the way to the guest house.
*
Sonny eats with Larry and Charlotte that night. He tells them about his "ex" and their two daughters. His stories are about Jesse and Billie, but he's renamed them in his head because he doesn't want even their names in these people's mouths.
He hides under the covers to write a report about his day using Google docs. Franklin and Branowicz will download it and wipe the original from his Drive, just in case someone finds a reason to go through his phone.
The next morning, Charlotte feeds him breakfast, and Kevin shows up to give him a proper tour. It takes less than half an hour, and then Kevin leaves him at the guest house so he can go to work.
Sonny gets an itch under his skin. He doesn't need to gather information. He's here to retrieve it. But it doesn't feel right to be under and not be learning something. He ends up laying in a hammock tied between two trees in Larry and Charlotte's side yard with a book by Cathers that the ATF hadn't had a copy of. There's nothing new in it, so Sonny spends some time mentally listening off the logical fallacies and composing counter arguments in his head.
"You look deep in thought," a man says as he walks up to Sonny. It's Morris Cathers, but Sonny isn't supposed to know that.
"It's an interesting read," Sonny says, holding out his hand. "I'm Sonny. I'm staying in the guest house."
"I know who you are," Cathers says with a smile that's clearly supposed to be endearing. "I'm Morris Cathers."
Sonny feigns shocked surprise and watches Cathers swell with pride at being known and respected. Sonny asks him questions about his writing and pretends to listen with a bit of awed interest.
"I shouldn't keep you," Morris says after Sonny's sucked up for a solid fifteen minutes. "I just wanted to say hello and let you know we're having a cook out at the lake tonight to welcome you properly. You can meet some more of the people you've been talking to."
"Wow, that sounds great," Sonny replies. "From everything I've heard, you've got a lot of people who really know their way around a grill."
"We do," Morris agrees, and his eyes light up. "In fact, our best griller just called to say he's going to be able to make it. He was travelling for work, but his trip got cut short, so he'll be back later this afternoon."
"I can't wait to meet him," Sonny says. "Who do we consider the best griller? I don't want to guess wrong when I get there."
Morris laughs. "His name's Mickey. You can't miss him. He's tall, and he'll be camped out with the burgers."
Sonny wonders what happened on the road that Mickey had to cut his trip short. Morris doesn't seem concerned, but Sonny knows from experience that the best con men can keep a straight face through anything. "I look forward to meeting him," he says.
*
Sonny takes a shower late in the afternoon. He takes longer than usual, using the absolute alone time to prepare himself to see Mickey face-to-face. He's been running through a list of possible cops, but the only person he knows can do deep undercover is Amaro, and there's no way he's going to pass in this crowd. He decides it must be someone who knew him at the academy or someone who worked with him in a previous squad before he landed at SVU. Maybe they heard about his undercover work through the grapevine.
He peeks through the blinds in the bedroom when he hears a few voices. A small group of men are walking towards the lake, which is a quarter mile from the guest house. They're in flannel shirts and jeans, but their shirts are buttoned up, and no one's wearing a ball cap. Cathers's views espouse always giving off an All-American masculinity, but he also says a man should know when to dress himself up a bit. A cook out with a new guest they've been talking to online for months seems like a reason to polish up just a smidge. Sonny flashes himself a wry smile in the mirror as he pulls on a fresh pair of jeans. His mother would be proud of their effort if they weren't a bunch of racists.
He picks a flannel at random and discovers it's too large on him. The shoulders hang down, and the cuffs are too wide. He stares at it for a long moment before he realizes it's Mike's. They'd laughed more than once when they'd met up for lunch or breakfast and discovered they had the same taste in day-off clothes. Henleys and flannels and jeans. Sonny hadn't even realized any of Mike's shirts had made it into his apartment.
Sonny hangs the shirt back up and takes a moment to steady his breathing. He pulls out a blue and black flannel and slips it on, then sits down to put on his boots. There's a knock on the front door of the guest house, and Sonny walks over to open it, zipping his jeans as he goes.
Kevin and Morris are at the door, both of them dressed similarly to what Sonny's already seen. "Hi, guys!" he greets, stepping aside so they can come inside. "I'm thirty seconds from ready."
"Then we caught you just in time," Morris says. "I always like to walk with guests to the cook out."
"And I'm tagging along since I'm the welcoming committee," Kevin says with a self-deprecation he doesn't sell. He's clearly thrilled to be walking next to Morris and trying to downplay it. Morris doesn't pick up on his excitement at all, clearly taking Kevin's adoration as his due.
"Give me just a minute, then," Sonny says. He walks back to the bedroom and buttons his shirt before tucking it into his jeans. He goes back into the living room to sit and tie his boots. He pushes his hair straight back off his forehead when he straightens up.
"I have to be honest," Morris says, stroking his beard, "I'm surprised a man named Sonny can grow a full beard."
It's meant to be an insult, but Sonny isn't supposed to pick up on it. He scratches his nails through his beard and laughs. "My name's not the only thing I got from my dad," he says.
"You're Scottish, right? At least partly," Morris says.
"My dad's full-blooded," Sonny says. "Mom's English and Danish."
"That's a good bloodline."
Sonny waves a hand down at himself. "Well, it got me where I am today."
Morris chuckles, and Kevin only joins in after he does. "I'm not trying to grill you," Morris says. "I just have an eye for these things." He taps by his own eyes. "The blue eyes are always a good hint, though. That's how you know someone's got an especially pure bloodline."
Sonny nods like he's been told a real secret and manages a smile thinking of how hard his parents are going to laugh when he tells them about this asshole. His eyes and his nose are as Italian as anything else about him, but he knows from Cathers's writings that he considers Italians "dirty" and not fully "pure."
"Looks like you're ready," Morris says and stands up. "Let's go."
"Lead the way," Sonny replies.
When they get close to the lake, Sonny can't help but be impressed. It's set up with several picnic tables and half a dozen permanent grills like you'd find at a park. There are lanterns strung around poles that are evenly spaced around the whole area. Closer to the lake, there's a fire pit with benches surrounding it.
"We built it all up ourselves," Morris. "Kevin oversaw a lot of it."
"It was a group effort," Kevin says to Sonny. "We're big on that here. We should all be working together to make the world better, you know?"
"Sure," Sonny agrees, briefly picturing dousing the entire area in lighter fluid and setting it ablaze. "You really get to know people when you work on a common goal."
"Exactly," Morris says. He leads Sonny to a table absolutely groaning under side dishes and the booze that Sonny brought. "The ladies outdid themselves, but that's true every time," he says, gesturing to the food. "And I'd like to personally thank you for bringing beverages. That was very nice of you."
"I'm glad I could contribute something," Sonny replies.
Morris reaches into a cooler next to the table and pulls out two beers. "Feel free to start with anything you'd like, but I tend to prefer beer before my meal."
"A beer sounds great," Sonny says and pulls his keys out of his pocket, showing Morris his bottle cap keychain. He feigns mild embarrassment as Morris opens the caps by hand. "Well, I look like a jackass," he says.
The men milling around the table laugh. "Don't worry," Larry says, coming up on Sonny's left. "They're not twist offs. Morris just likes to show off a little."
"Well, I'm impressed," Sonny says, repocketing his keys. "The last time I tried that, I shredded my hand."
Morris hands him a beer and holds up his own. "I'll make a big toast later, but for now, welcome."
"Thanks," Sonny says and taps their bottles together before taking a long drink. The moment he's done, men are walking up to introduce themselves and their wives. Sonny greets everyone warmly, glad as always for how sharp his memory has always been. He can pull out a fact about every man he speaks to when they say their screen name, and he asks each lady what they made for the meal. He knows better than to ask the wives about any opinions. Charlotte telling him the message board was a boys' club painted the gender segregation line clearly. Franklin and Branowicz had assumed as much given how other white supremicist groups built gender segregation into their beliefs, but they hadn't been sure. Sonny plays it as safe as possible and sees the men approve of him, which means their wives will follow suit, at least if asked.
Half an hour later, Sonny's in the middle of a group of men as they discuss what fish live in the lake and the best bait to catch them. He's been careful to nurse his beer while making it seem like he's drunk more than he has. Everyone around him has cracked their second already, and while no one's forcing him to keep up, they're clearly watching him.
Sonny takes a long-looking drink from his bottle, though he manages to keep most of it from getting in his mouth. "Gonna catch up with you fellas," he says, and they all pat him on the back as he breaks from the group to head back to the cooler. There's a large trash can next to the cooler, empties already piled in it. Sonny drops his bottle in so it lands at an angle, the rest of his beer quickly dribbling out. He pulls another beer from the cooler and is pulling his keys from his pocket to get to his bottle opener when someone stumbles into him from behind.
"Oh, hell!" a man yells, and Sonny freezes momentarily, the voice sounding entirely too familiar. "Sorry, man," the man continues as he presses a hand between Sonny's shoulder blades and walks around him. Sonny finishes fishing his keys from his pocket and doesn't look up right away. He can't. Because he's hearing things.
"Sorry," the man says again. "I was rushing for the grill and didn't see you." A large hand comes into Sonny's view, even though he hasn't lifted his head. "You must be the visitor. It's Sonny, right? I'm Mickey."
Sonny clasps the hand, and forces himself to look up. Mickey has a high and tight going shaggy at the top and a full beard. His smile is welcoming but impersonal, and Sonny has to swallow back a scream.
Because Mickey is absolutely and without question Mike Dodds. And Mike Dodds is absolutely and without question dead.
"Yeah, I'm Sonny," he manages to say and is impressed at how placid his voice is. "I hear you're pretty great on a grill."
"I get by," Mickey says, and for just a second, Sonny thinks maybe he was wrong. Maybe this guy just looks eerily similar to Mike. But then Mickey taps his middle finger twice against Sonny's palm and breaks the handshake. It's the signal they used when they wanted to hug or touch at work but couldn't do more than shake hands.
What the actual fuck is happening, Sonny thinks, but he can't ask, not here in front of everyone. "Well, I look forward to trying your food," he says.
"I'll do my best," Mickey--Mike. It's Mike. How the fucking hell is it Mike--says before taking two steps backwards before turning on his heel and walking to the grill.
Sonny has to force himself to look away. He has to force himself to open his beer. He does not have to force himself to take a huge drink, but he does have to force himself to stop. All he can think as he walks back over to the men talking about fish and asking them about their favorite bait for trout, is how, exactly, is he supposed to keep his shit together for the next twelve days?