Highway 61 (9 page)

“Hmm? Oh, Jenness asked me to tell you—there’s a man in the bar wants to talk. He says he’s your husband.”

*   *   *

Nina walked on the business side of the bar, making sure it was between her and Truhler. I recognized the smile on her face—let’s just say it was less than sincere and let it go at that. Truhler smiled with the same genuineness when he saw her.

“Hello, Jason,” Nina said. Her voice was as cold as the ice in Truhler’s drink.

“Like the man said, you look marvelous,” Truhler replied. His voice wasn’t much warmer. “Doesn’t she look marvelous, McKenzie?”

“Marvelous,” I said.

I climbed up on the stool next to him.

“Whatever else you think of me, you have to admit I have excellent taste in women,” Truhler said.

“The problem, Jason, wasn’t your taste,” Nina said. “It was your brand loyalty.”

“Ouch,” Truhler said. He took a sip of his drink and then waved it at the bar. “It looks like you’re doing well.”

The downstairs component of Rickie’s was humming with customers taking up nearly every table, booth, comfortable sofa, and overstuffed chair. The upstairs portion, which featured a full-service dining room, bar, and performance area, was standing room only—jazz and blues chanteuse Debbie Duncan was singing up there, and she always packed them in. Yet Nina replied with one of those positive-negatives Minnesotans use when they don’t want people to know what they’re thinking—“Not too bad.”

Truhler took another sip of his drink. Nina leaned against the back wall of the bar and watched him. They looked as though they had plenty to say to each other, yet were each waiting for the other to speak first. I gave it a couple of beats before breaking the silence.

“What do you want, Jason?” I asked.

“I couldn’t get you on the phone, so I took a chance—”

“I think it’s shameful that you’ve involved Rickie in your affairs,” Nina said.

“Affairs? Affairs? What does that mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“What did McKenzie tell you?”

“McKenzie didn’t tell me anything. He’s an honorable man. But you, Jason? I know you. If you’re in so much trouble that you need McKenzie’s help, it probably involves a woman. A young woman.”

Truhler took another pull of his drink. Apparently he couldn’t talk to his ex-wife without imbibing.

“We’ve been divorced for so long, Nina, I’d think your anger would have run dry by now,” he said.

“I have an endless supply. You saw to that.”

“So it would seem.”

“I don’t want you in my place.”

“Isn’t it open to the public?”

“Management reserves the right to refuse service—”

“I came here to talk to McKenzie, not make you angry.”

“Yet you do, every time I see you.” Nina crossed her arms over her chest. “Every single time.”

“That tells me a lot.”

“What does it tell you?”

Truhler smiled then, his expression one of smug dreaminess, as though he spent a lot of time contemplating a valuable secret that no one else shared.

“People don’t get angry over things they don’t care about,” he said.

“You don’t get it, do you, Jason? You never have. I was a believer. White houses with blue trim, picket fences, two-point-four children, golden wedding anniversaries, Robert Browning—
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in His hand who saith ‘A whole I planned, youth shows but half; trust God: See all, nor be afraid!’
I wanted all of it. Since I was a little girl, I wanted it. You took the dream away from me, and when I see you I’m reminded of that. The loss becomes a fresh grief. As it turns out, my life is pretty good now, a vast improvement over what it was, and it seems to be getting better every day.” She was looking directly at me when she said that, and like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow in size. “That doesn’t mean I have to forgive you. Besides”—Nina gestured with her chin at the glass in Truhler’s hand; it was half filled with amaretto and 7UP, a very sweet concoction. “You drink like a girl.”

“Charming,” Truhler said.

“You want to talk to McKenzie, so talk to him. Then get out.”

Nina spun abruptly and walked away with long, purposeful strides.

“That woman,” Truhler said. “What a—”

“Hey,” I said. “You’ll be making a big mistake if anything comes out of your mouth that’s not a glowing compliment.”

“Christ, McKenzie. You are so whipped.”

“Fuck you, Truhler.”

I slid off the stool and started walking in the same direction as Nina. Truhler followed close behind.

“No, no, please. C’mon. I’m sorry, McKenzie. C’mon.”

He grabbed my arm. I shrugged it off.

“Erica said—”

I interrupted him again, this time shoving a finger in his face.

“You pull that card out of the deck one more time I’ll make you eat it,” I said.

Truhler took a cautious step backward.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I know I can be a jerk. I know I have no right to ask you for help. I don’t know where else to go. McKenzie, they threatened to put the images on the Internet.”

I wondered then if I’d ever truly understand myself, recognize why I do certain things, why I don’t do others. Most days I’m pretty sure I have a good handle on life, that I have it all figured out. Then something will happen—like Truhler happened—and I’ll realize that I don’t have a clue. This has to stop, I told myself. I needed a plan, a set of guidelines to follow instead of always making it up as I go along. One of these days I’m going to find myself in real trouble and wonder how I got there.

“Sit down,” I said.

Truhler went back to his spot at the bar. I followed him.

“What happened?” I asked.

“They called. I said they would.”

“What happened?”

“I told them what you told me, told them there was no evidence that a girl was killed in Thunder Bay. They said there was a dead girl. They said she had been buried along with my DNA and business card. They said if I didn’t pay up they would tell the police where to dig.”

“They’re bluffing.”

“They also said they were going to post the photos they took of me and the girl on the Internet. Were they bluffing about that?”

“Does it matter?”

“If people saw them, my employers, my clients, my daughter—how could I possibly explain? I could say they were fakes until I turned blue. Do you think anyone would believe me?”

“Can you afford to keep paying?”

“No.”

“Well, then. Something’s got to give.”

“Help me. Please, McKenzie. Help me.”

“Help you do what, exactly?”

“I just want it to stop.”

“Call the cops. Extortion is against the law, after all. You could put your friends away for ten years.”

“It would ruin me.”

“It’s unlikely you’re their only victim. If you put the finger on them, others will probably come to light. It may never go to trial.”

“I can’t take the risk. I just can’t.”

“Truhler—”

“Please, McKenzie.”

Erica,
my inner voice said.

“Dammit,” I said aloud.

“What?”

“When are you supposed to give them the money?”

“Tomorrow.”

“When tomorrow?”

“They’re going to call, tell me the time and location. In the past though, it was always around three in the afternoon and always in a crowded place.”

I glanced at my watch. It was pushing 9:00
P.M.

“We should have plenty of time to get ready. I’ll call you at about eight in the morning.” I winced even as I said it. I hated getting up early.

“What are we going to do?” Truhler asked.

“Follow the money.”

“And then?”

“That depends on where it leads us.”

Truhler thought about it for a few beats. It occurred to me that he was thinking that I might take on his adversaries, maybe even shoot them. He was mistaken.

“Thank you, McKenzie,” he said.

“Nuts.”

*   *   *

I leaned against the door frame of Nina’s office and quoted Christopher Marlowe.

“Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield.”

Nina didn’t even bother to look up from the envelopes she was opening with a letter opener that looked like it could be used in trench warfare.

“Nice try, McKenzie,” she said.

“One of the first things you learn as a cop, you don’t get to choose the victim,” I said.

“You’re not a cop anymore.”

“No, I’m not. Sometimes I forget.”

“I don’t know what all this is about, and I don’t want to know unless it involves Rickie.”

“That’s the only reason I’m involved, so Erica won’t be.”

Nina thought about that for a moment. She looked up from her mail.

“Be careful,” she said. “Jason—he can’t be trusted.”

“I know.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“Thanks for the donuts.”

*   *   *

I stepped outside the bar and took in a lungful of cool air. The wind blew a cloud in front of the moon and I lost a little of my light. The cloud passed and the moonlight came back. I noticed for the first time that it was a full moon. My psychiatrist ex-girlfriend once explained that the chemical makeup of blood was very similar to seawater and the moon pulled on it just the way it did on ocean tides. That, she said, was why we all go a little crazy during a full moon.

My car was parked in the back of the lot. I walked toward it with my head down and my hands in my jacket pockets wishing it were two days ago, wishing I could go back in time and tell Jason Truhler to solve his own problems. I should have been inside Rickie’s listening to Debbie Duncan, drinking Summit Ale, and flirting with my girl. Instead, my girl was upset and I was helping a guy I didn’t even like. This sucks for so many reasons, I told myself—to which my inner voice replied,
The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

Suddenly, I was sitting in the back of a mandatory poetry class at the University of Minnesota reading Omar Khayyám, the line repeating itself in my head like an unwelcome song. I blamed Nina for putting me on a poetry jag—she had started it with her Robert Browning.

“Dammit,” I said aloud.

I immediately looked around to see if anyone had heard my outburst. The parking lot was full of vehicles, yet empty of people. I had just stepped into the aisle between my Audi and the car parked next to it when a man appeared, seemed to materialize out of thin air, and shoved a gun in my face.

I hate it when there’s a full moon,
my inner voice said.

I’ve spent most of my adult life on the lookout, first as a cop patrolling the mean streets and now as an unlicensed investigator or whatever else you might call me—looking for people and things that seem out of place, looking for shadows hidden within shadows, looking for trouble. Yet there I was, trapped between two cars by an armed assailant with my hands in my pockets. Could I possibly be more careless?

The man held the gun steady while a second man approached from behind. I turned my head to get a look at him. Medium height, overweight, the beginnings of a beard, long blond hair flowing down his back—adult men with blond hair make me nervous. Yet it was the gunman who commanded my attention.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked. From the light of streetlamps I recognized him. He was the man who had walked into the office of the Chalet Motel while I was quarreling with Daniel Khawaja. He was wearing the same leather jacket, the same ponytail. Blondie had been with him when they strolled past my room at 3:30 in the
A.M.
They must have followed me from my home after I investigated the break-in.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Where is what?”

Blondie punched me hard in the spine. I heard myself cry out and felt my knees buckle. I had to grab hold of the roof of the Audi to keep from falling. Blondie seized my shoulder and pulled me back between the cars. I nearly fell again when he released me, but managed to keep my feet. The gunman raised his gun with one hand and pointed the muzzle between my eyes. He spoke slowly.

“Where is my coke?”

“Oh, that,” I said.

I felt better, believe it or not. I now knew I wasn’t a random mugging victim. The two men had targeted me because they wanted something specific. That gave me a little leverage, and time—but not much. That’s something else the cops teach you: A bad situation can only get worse. If you’re going to make a move, do it quickly.

“You’re the guys who hid the coke on my car,” I said.

Apparently that wasn’t the answer they were looking for, because Blondie took a step forward and drove his fist into my kidney just above the belt line, putting some muscle behind the blow. I fell forward again, this time against the gunman. He pushed me upright, grabbed a fistful of my jacket and shirt, and shoved the business end of the gun against my throat with the other hand.

“Where is it?” the gunman asked.

“I found it while I was washing my car. Imagine my surprise.”

While we were talking, I cautiously lifted my hands until they were even with my shoulders. No one seemed threatened by that.

“Where’s my fucking coke?” The gunman again.

“Why did you pick me to mule your shit across the border?” I asked. “Did I look particularly stupid or what?”

He shook me by my shirt and jacket. He was a big man and strong, and for a moment I understood how a rag doll must feel.

“Goddamn you, where is it?”

“I flushed it down the drain.”

The gunman’s eyes grew wide, his nostrils flared, and his mouth fell open. Behind me Blondie sucked oxygen like somebody who just heard his dog died. It seemed as good a time as any to bust a move. I set myself, visualized what I was going to do, and then did it.

I grabbed the gunman’s wrist with my left hand and pushed the gun away to the right, bending his arm at the elbow until the muzzle was actually pointing behind him. At the same time, I seized the hand holding my lapel and held it tight against my chest. I pivoted slightly to my right, raised my left leg, and drove my foot down against his kneecap. I heard a cracking sound followed by the gunman’s scream. He dropped the gun and crumbled to the pavement, both hands reaching out to cradle his knee. I heard the gun skitter along the asphalt, yet paid it no mind. Instead, I spun around to face Blondie.