The Taking of Libbie, SD (13 page)

“You mean, how did he play us?”

“Yes.”

“The usual way. First he dazzled us with dollar signs, then he threatened to take them away. The rest is a little complicated.”

“Does it need to be?”

“The national range for what is rated a regional shopping center is three hundred thousand to nine hundred thousand square feet. The syndicate Rush represented was seeking approximately seven hundred and fifty thousand square feet with room to expand. Parking is generally figured at three times the estimated floor area of the facility, so we were talking about eighty acres, total. Randisi—he’s the one who owned the land.” Miller gestured out the window toward the farmland across the highway. “Randisi refused to sell, wouldn’t even consider it. Rush said he and his syndicate were prepared to go elsewhere. We insisted that we could acquire the land through eminent domain. He said he doubted his partners would be willing to wait while the case worked its way through the political system, maybe even the courts. Also, there was no guarantee that an arbitrator would fix the sales price at the amount he and his partners were willing to spend. And then there was the cost of infrastructure—sewers and the like—which was sure to escalate. To assure Rush and his partners that they would get the land at their price, we agreed to put funds matching the current cost per acre into an account in the Libbie bank and pay them the difference, if there was a difference.”

“How much?”

“The average value of nonirrigated cropland in South Dakota is thirteen hundred and seventy-five dollars an acre. Eighty acres—we put up one hundred and ten thousand dollars, plus an additional one hundred thousand for infrastructure.”

“That’s what he stole? I thought it would be more than that.”

“That’s what he stole from us. I have no idea what other people in town might have put in.”

“McKenzie,” Tracie said, “our yearly fiscal budget is set at five hundred and forty-two dollars per resident. With twelve hundred and twenty-one residents, that works out to six hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars.”

“You bet a third of your operating budget on a mall?”

“We weren’t betting anything,” Miller said. “We would have delivered the property at Rush’s price. We wouldn’t have lost a penny. Besides, do you have any idea how much income the mall would have generated for Libbie through property taxes? It would have funded most of our services. Hell, we would have been able to give folks free snowplowing.”

While he spoke, Saranne emerged from the kitchen and began wiping tables and checking ketchup bottles.

“I notice that the mall would have been built across from your own property,” I said.

“What of it?”

“Probably it would have increased traffic for your restaurant and service station and all the rest.”

“So?”

“Property tax aside, I was just wondering if you would have been as insistent about putting up the money if the mall had been built somewhere else.”

“Do you have something to say, McKenzie, or are you just talking?”

“I don’t want to call you greedy—”

“Then don’t.”

“Only I wonder if that’s why the Imposter picked this location. Because he knew he could count on your—let’s call it your strong entrepreneurial spirit—to make his plan work.”

“Are you saying I had something to do with this?”

Saranne moved closer to our table, obviously eavesdropping while pretending not to. I spoke a little louder for her benefit.

“If you had said no, Mr. Mayor, none of this would have happened.”

“I did what I thought was best for the town.”

“Everyone on the city council thought it was a good idea,” Tracie said.

“The Imposter was counting on that. I wonder how he knew that he could.”

When neither of them replied, I filled in the silence that followed.

“Miller, how much time did you spend with the Imposter?”

“I know where you’re going with this, McKenzie. Chief Gustafson told me you thought Rush had an accomplice. Someone from Libbie. It ain’t me.”

From now on, let’s not tell the chief any more than we have to
, my inner voice told me.

“The Imposter needed a password to loot the escrow account. You’re one of six people who knew the password.”

“It ain’t me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I said aloud. “How much time—”

“Very little. I spent very little time with him.”

“Oh?”

“We spoke. We spoke a lot. It’s not like we were friends, though.”

“What did you speak about?”

“The mall.”

“What else?”

“Just the mall.”

“Did you ever have him over for dinner?”

“Yes. Once.”

“Did he meet the family?”

“Leave my family out of this.”

“What did you speak about then?”

“The mall.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Are you going to pay the town back for any of the money that they lost on this deal?”

“What? No. Why would I?”

“Could you pay it back if you had to?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We live in uncertain economic times. Maybe you’re overextended. Maybe you need extra cash.”

“I told you—” Miller stopped himself and closed his eyes. I never saw anyone actually count to ten before. When he opened his eyes, he said, “I will not be provoked.”

I didn’t believe him.

Miller stood slowly. Saranne was several tables behind him. She abruptly turned her back and moved away.

“You’re looking for an accomplice,” Miller said. “That’s fine. You keep doing that. You’ll tell me when you find him.”

It was a command, not a question. Miller seemed surprised when I smiled disdainfully and shook my head.

“What’s the magic word?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“No, but it’s close.”

Miller’s eyes swept from me to Tracie and back again. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Here’s the thing, Miller,” I said. “I don’t work for you. I don’t like you. So either be polite, or fuck you.”

“McKenzie,” Tracie said.

“People don’t talk to me like that,” Miller said.

“Maybe if they did, their town wouldn’t be on the brink of bankruptcy.”

“McKenzie, please,” Tracie said.

“I changed my mind,” Miller said. “I think you should leave Libbie. The sooner the better.”

“I don’t care what you think,” I said.

Miller stared at me as if I were an accident alongside the road. After a few moments, he shook his head slightly. “I will not be provoked.” He turned and walked away.

“McKenzie, what are you doing?” Tracie wanted to know. “Mr. Miller is an important man in this town. Probably the most important.”

“Who says?”

“I say. What was the point of insulting him like that?”

“Patience,” I said.

Saranne didn’t return to the table until Miller was long gone. When she did, she immediately began retrieving plates.

“How was the burger?” she said.

“Lousy,” I told her.

“You really have to come in at night. The old man actually pays for a real cook then. He has specials, the cook. I get to sample them, so I can tell you what’s good. Otherwise, you’ll want to order the ribs. Our cook makes great ribs. Rush said they reminded him of the ribs you can get at Taste of Minnesota.”

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh. Rush said every year around the Fourth of July he would go to Grant Park for Taste of Minnesota, and he always made a point of eating the ribs. You’re from the Cities. Do you ever go to Taste of Minnesota?”

“Often.”

“Are the ribs good?”

“Yes, they are.”

“At least he told the truth about one thing.”

“Did you spend much time with Rush?”

“Not as much time as people say I did.” She glanced at Tracie. “Do you need anything else? Dessert?”

“Do you recommend dessert?” I said.

Saranne shook her head and smiled. “No.”

“Well, then…”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Saranne was just out of earshot when Tracie spoke. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she said. “That’s why you insulted Mr. Miller. To make an ally of his daughter.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

A few minutes later, Saranne returned with the bill. She set it in front of me. Tracie reached across the table and picked it up.

“I got it,” she said.

“Whatever,” Saranne said. “You know”—she was talking to me now—“you should be careful how you talk to the old man. He’s mean.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Maybe it’s because he’s so old.”

“How old is he?”

“Over seventy.”

“Must be tough for someone as young as you to have a father that old.”

“His age isn’t what makes it tough. It’s not his time anymore, and it pisses him off. He wishes Reagan was still president, arming the Contras in Nicaragua and firing air traffic controllers and scaring hell out of the Russians.”

“Long before you were born.”

“That, too. My mother says he was a good person back then. She says he was happy back then.”

“How well did he get along with Rush?” I said.

“The other McKenzie? I don’t think he liked him. Rush wore expensive suits and real cuff links, and the old man thought that was way too la-de-da for South Dakota. My mother liked him, though, even liked the cuff links. When he came over for dinner that one time, they talked up a storm, mostly about the Cities. Mom was from the Twin Cities. ’Course, that just made it worse as far as the old man was concerned, them liking each other. I gotta go. If you come back for dinner, make ’em seat you in my section, okay?”

“Okay.”

I watched as Saranne made her way back to the kitchen.

“How to win friends and influence people,” Tracie said. “You should give lessons.”

I left my chair and made my way to the restroom.

“Leave a generous tip,” I said over my shoulder.

I didn’t use the facilities, yet I washed my hands just the same. Afterward, I activated my cell phone and called a familiar number.

“Hello,” Shelby said.

“Hi, Shel.”

“McKenzie, where are you? Are you still in South Dakota?”

“I am.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Is Victoria around?”

“Upstairs.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“Just a second.”

A minute later, Victoria was on the phone. She spoke as if I had forced her to put her life on pause. “What is it?”

“How would you like to make a quick fifty bucks?”

“Do I have to do anything illegal?”

“Of course not.”

“Dangerous?”

“No.”

“What’s the fun of that?”

“I want you to go online and find out if there are any high schools in Chicago that call their sports teams the Raiders.”

“Do you think the Imposter’s from Chicago?”

“You’ve been to Taste of Minnesota—”

“Where you can buy food from all those booths and they have free concerts.”

“Do you remember where is it?”

“Well, yeah. On Harriet Island, down by the river in St. Paul.”

“The Imposter said it was in Grant Park.”

“The place in Chicago where President Obama gave his victory speech after he won the election?”

“Correct.”

“I’m all over it.”

“That’s my girl. One more thing. What’s your computer password?”

“My password? I’m not going to tell you my password.”

“What I meant—if you wanted to hack into someone’s Facebook account or something, what password would you use?”

“I don’t know. Their name and birthday?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I met Tracie outside the entrance to Grandma Miller’s. The bison was waxing poetic about the vistas of South Dakota.

Tracie said, “Where to now?”

The bison started singing “Home on the Range.”

I pointed across the highway.

“Introduce me to Farmer Randisi,” I said.

“I’ve never actually met the man.”

“I thought you knew everyone around here.”

“Randisi is a recluse. Or antisocial. I don’t know what. He has no family, as far as I know. No friends. You never see him in town except for Sunday morning services, and even then he’s in and out in a hurry, never stops to talk. He does his shopping—I don’t know where he does his shopping, but it’s not in Libbie.”

My admiration for the Imposter was starting to grow.

“He picked his targets well, didn’t he?” I said.

Randisi kept his property like he was expecting company. He lived in a pristine white clapboard house on a low hill at the end of a groomed gravel driveway. A rich, manicured lawn surrounded the house, and green and purple fields of alfalfa bordered that. The outbuildings were recently painted, and what machinery I could see, although well used, looked like it had just come off the dealership lot. There was a turnaround at the top of the driveway. Large stones painted white bordered a small garden planted in the center of the turnaround. In the center of the garden was a flagpole. Old Glory flapped listlessly in the breeze.

I parked the Audi between the flagpole and the farmhouse. We hadn’t been in the car long enough for it to cool properly, yet it was still far more comfortable than the heat that greeted us when we left it. The sun was now high in the cloudless sky, and it glared down on us as if it were bad-tempered. The faint breeze that caused the flag to sway brought no relief. I saw large birds circling off to my left, and I wondered if they were buzzards—they felt like buzzards. Sweat trickled down my spine to my waist as I headed toward Randisi’s back door. Tracie trailed behind.

I knocked once, and the door flew open.

Randisi was standing on the other side of it.

He was pointing a rust-spotted, long-barreled .38 Colt at my head and smiling as if he had played an April Fool’s prank on me.

“What do you want?” he said.

I had been taking martial arts training on and off ever since the police academy. Some instructors were better than others, yet even the worst of them preached the same sermon—act without hesitation. Hesitation will get you killed.

Randisi was holding the gun in his right hand. I slid to my left even as I seized the wrist holding the gun and angled it away so I was out of the discharge line. I stepped in closer, took hold of the barrel of the gun with my other hand, and pushed it toward Randisi, rolling it against his thumb—the thumb is the weakest point of the hand. The gun was now pointing at his chest, but I kept twisting it until he let go of the butt. I released his wrist and shoved him hard backward into the kitchen. He lost his balance but didn’t fall. He grabbed his thumb with his left hand and said something that sounded like “Huh?” I released the spring-loaded latch on the left side of the gun, swung out the cylinder, tilted the gun upward, shook out all six cartridges onto the kitchen floor, slapped the cylinder back in place, and handed the Colt butt first to Randisi—all in the time it took to say it.