by Nick Petrie
The bartender shook his head.
“What about before he left? Did he have visitors, maybe do a little business on the side?”
“Hell, no. Nobody runs anything out of here. Lewis owns the joint. Jimmy knew how it was.”
“But he came up with Lewis, right? Maybe he had a pass.”
A flat look. “Nobody gets a pass. Nobody.”
Then his eyes flicked past Peter, and in a single smooth motion he plucked up his glass and walked away.
Peter turned and saw Lewis coming in the side door, a black suede jacket over his crisp white shirt, trailing Nino and Oklahoma Ray.
Watching, Peter couldn’t think why Lewis needed them. The man moved with no visible effort, and in the dim light of the bar, he seemed almost to float across the floor. Stopping at the bar, his weight was balanced, his knees slightly bent. He was out of Peter’s reach but ready to change that. Ready for anything.
He looked Peter up and down. Calm, quiet, his voice just audible over the music. “You don’t seem no worse for wear.”
“The accident happened to somebody else.”
Lewis didn’t even blink. “And I give a shit why?”
“Because you’re going to have to call his mama. And tell her why her boy got shot in the head.”
Lewis turned to go. Over his shoulder, he said, “We’ll talk about this outside.” He said something to Nino, who led the way through the door, his right hand rooting in the pocket of his Packers jacket.
Peter went last, the taste of copper in his mouth, wishing he hadn’t left his .45 in pieces strewn all over town.
17
As he stepped outside, Nino was already throwing a looping overhead right at his head. Brass knuckles gleamed slightly on the leading edge.
Peter smiled. The fresh air felt good in his lungs. The oxygen charged into his bloodstream and into his muscles.
Nino was very fast for a guy shaped like a beer keg.
But he was overeager, maybe overconfident, and started out too far away from his target, Peter’s head. And Peter had known something was coming.
So he pulled his head back out of the way and gave Nino’s arm a push as it went past, adding momentum to the weighted fist on its plotted path. This encouraged Nino’s rotation, Nino having overcommitted because he was counting too much on the knucks.
And on top of it he hadn’t kept his chin tucked.
Peter had no sympathy for a guy with brass knuckles.
He could feel Oklahoma Ray winding up somewhere behind him, so he made it quick. Before Nino could unwrap himself, Peter stepped in close and hit him with a short, hard left to the side of his thick neck.
It knocked Nino back, choking and off-balance. Peter pivoted toward Oklahoma Ray, who was hard up on the toes of one foot, the other already airborne fast toward the side of Peter’s head.
At least the guy had put on some shoes, thought Peter, watching the foot approach. He knew he was too late to get completely out of the way of it, but he was still willing to try. He bent his knees and turned away from the blow, catching just the toe of Ray’s red boxing boot high on his cheek. The pain bloomed like a midnight rose.
But Peter had been hit before. Pain was just information. Information that should not interfere with your ability to do the job at hand.
He kept his focus on Ray, whose second foot followed faster, with more momentum.
He was fully airborne, nearly horizontal, his form perfect until Peter dropped beneath his scissoring legs and punched him hard in the crotch.
Ray landed badly, one elbow on the pavement. Peter kicked him in the head, not unkindly, saw Nino staying down with both hands clutched at his neck, then turned, all charged up, toward Lewis, who stood ten feet away with a flat black automatic pistol in a perfect two-handed marksman’s pose.
Awash in adrenaline, Peter touched the forming bruise on the side of his face.
“Now you’ve got three mamas to call. And what have you got to show for it?”
Lewis gave Peter the same faint, tilted smile. “One dead jarhead is what I got. I’m not calling anybody’s mama.”
Peter held his hands away from his body.
“I’m not carrying,” he said, glad of it now. “Want me to turn around so you can shoot me in the back?”
“Depends whether you want to see it coming.”
The muzzle of the pistol didn’t waver. Outside the circle of the bar’s door light, it was almost invisible in his hand.
The night was dark, the streetlights broken and the moon in hiding.
Peter wondered if he would die outside a corner bar in Milwaukee, after everything he’d seen and done.
It didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected.
At least he wouldn’t die bored. Or wondering if he’d ever have a normal life.
Then he thought of Dinah.
With the paper bag of money tied up with string, and the man with the scars driving past her house. Maybe finally stopping and getting out of his big black Ford, the chrome pistol in his hand. Walking up the new porch steps and rapping on the front door.
Okay, that bothered him.
It bothered him more than almost anything.
He put down his hands. “Don’t you want to know who got shot in the head?”
“Don’t b’lieve I care,” said Lewis. “Long as it ain’t me.”
“Somebody sent a shooter my way. Not you?”
Lewis shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I sent a shooter, you’d be dead six times.”
Peter believed it. He angled his head at the two men trying to pick themselves up off the sidewalk. “Then why this?”
Lewis shrugged, the tilted smile wider now, showing a little of who the man was. The gun vanished into a coat pocket. “Thought it’d be fun. See what you got.”
“Now you know.”
Lewis nodded, thoughtful. “That I do.”
Nino was clearly having trouble breathing as his throat swelled up. Ray, still blinking off the sparkles, hadn’t yet risen past his hands and knees.
Peter said, “How’s your health plan?”
“We vet’rans, man. Uncle Sam got our back.” He turned to Nino. “Can you drive?”
Nino opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He nodded.
Lewis angled his head toward the Escalade parked across the street. “We working next week,” he said. “Better go see Saint Mary. Tell ’em you got in a fight over a woman.”
Which maybe wasn’t too far from the truth, thought Peter. Nino and Ray were just collateral damage.
The Escalade drove away. Peter thought about their conversation earlier in the day. He said, “What about Dinah? Will you still keep an eye on her? Discourage the guy with the scars?”
Lewis stared at him. “Told you I would,” he said. “I keep my word.” The tilted smile was gone. His tone was casual, but he was serious.
Peter nodded. “Good.” Somehow it was the answer he knew he would get.
Lewis regarded Peter like an object of great rarity. “You get that,” he said.
Peter shrugged. “What’s not to get?” His cheek throbbed. He would have a nice bruise tomorrow. It was traditional to put a steak on it, but Mingus would just eat it, then lick him to death. A bag of frozen peas would be better. The dog was not a vegetarian.
Then he had a better idea. “Hang on a sec,” he told Lewis. Went inside, pulled on his coat, and paid the barman for a six-pack of PBR in longneck bottles. Went back out, handed a bottle to Lewis, and opened one for himself.
Then raised it in a toast. “Semper fi, motherfucker.”
“Fuck the Army,” said Lewis, then drank. His shoulders touched the brick building. He appeared to lean against it, but the position was deceptive. He wasn’t at rest. His weight was still balanced, his feet still directly beneath him. Like a bi
g cat in a tree, watching what passed below. Watching Peter.
Peter rolled the bottle against his cheek. The cold felt good. He took a long drink, half the bottle. He could feel the adrenaline draining from his system. The static drifting down and away. He wanted a shower. He wanted to sleep in a bed. Not necessarily by himself.
But mostly he wanted to find out what the fuck was going on.
It was becoming a very familiar feeling.
Lewis said, “So what’s your play here?”
“There’s no play,” said Peter. “I came to fix Jimmy’s porch and found a bag of money. Dinah thought it might be yours. That guy with the scars was watching her house.”
“I meant the original play,” said Lewis. “The one that got you fixing her porch to begin with.”
Peter noticed that the man didn’t always sound like the street. It might be where he came from, but it wasn’t who he was. Peter figured there was more to Lewis than anyone knew.
He said, “The Marine Corps has a program—”
“There is no program,” said Lewis. “I made some calls. The Marines aren’t paying you to fix anything. You got your discharge sixteen months ago. So why the fuck are you here?”
Peter sighed.
“Jimmy was my best friend,” he said. “He got wounded on my watch, and got sent home. Then I heard he killed himself, and I hadn’t gone to see him. I let him down. That’s how it is. So I came to help his family. Fixing the porch was a place to start. And I didn’t think Dinah would let me help unless I told her it was on Uncle Sam.”
“And Jimmy’s widow gonna show her gratitude?”
“It’s not like that, Lewis. She doesn’t show it, but she’s drowning. She’s going to lose her house. She needs to refinance, but the banks aren’t lending to anyone, let alone a single mother whose house is worth half what she paid for it.”
Lewis just looked at him without expression. Peter didn’t figure him for a guy who was following the foreclosure crisis, but he didn’t look confused, either.
“Dinah’s a strong woman,” Peter said quietly. “She’s not going to do anything she doesn’t want to do. She doesn’t owe me anything. I’m the one paying the debt here.”
Lewis shook his head. “You some piece of work, jarhead. Buying into all that shit about honor and obligation.”
Peter looked back at Lewis. “I’m not the only one,” he said.
Something passed between them then. Some acknowledgment of Dinah. Of debts owed to the past, before the future could be recognized or imagined.
“Maybe not,” said Lewis. He looked into the darkness. “Shit.”
They drank some beer. The November wind whistled in the trees. A car alarm sounded on the next block.
“So you were Army,” said Peter. Lewis nodded. “How long were you in?”
“Just the one tour. Early on. Didn’t like taking orders.”
“What, you expected different? It’s the Army.”
Lewis gave another eloquent shrug. “Had my reasons. Learned what I wanted and got the fuck out. Put myself to work.” He looked at Peter. “Could put some your way, too, you want. Man with your skills.”
“I’m working this right now,” said Peter.
“Yeah, but you’re flat broke,” said Lewis. “I can tell just looking at you. Wearing the same clothes two or three days. You ain’t had a shower in longer than that.” He looked at Peter steadily. “Pay’s good. Just a few hours’ work. Your kind of work.”
“I’m done with that, Lewis.”
“Riiiiight,” said Lewis, the tilted smile wide now in genuine amusement. “Tonight you shoot a guy trying to kill you. You take out a pair of skilled operators looking to give you a beatdown, and do it in about fifteen seconds. When I pull a gun, you don’t even blink. You not done with nothing, jarhead. You just a goddamn soldier of fortune like the rest of us.”
“I’m going to finish this thing here,” said Peter. “After that I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Go home, maybe. Get a job.”
Lewis snorted. “Get a job? Swing a hammer? Be a damn citizen? That’s not a life. Might as well be laid out in a bag. No, you got a taste of the real life over there, a real solid taste. And now you can’t live without it.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s you,” he said. “Not me.”
Lewis looked at him with a certain uncharacteristic kindness. “I saw your face when Nino came at you with those knucks. You lit up like it was your birthday. Like you was alive for real.” He pointed his bottle at Peter. “We not that damn different, troop. You may think you done, but I know better. You best figure that shit out.”
Peter drained his beer. “That reminds me,” he said. “You know where I can buy a weapon? I had to get rid of mine earlier.”
Lewis laughed out loud. “Oh, you one solid fuckin’ citizen, all right.”
—
Later that night, Peter sat in his truck and looked through his windshield at the Riverside Veterans’ Center. He’d gotten the address from the business card he’d found with Jimmy’s things.
Mingus lay on the passenger seat, his stink sharp enough to cut.
The vet center was in the front corner of a big old building, a repurposed warehouse that had seen better days. It was after eleven, but a warm yellow light spilled through the big windows. He saw shadows moving inside, shadows that must be people.
He wondered if anyone in there had the white static.
If they’d managed to do anything about it.
He’d come back tomorrow and see if anyone knew Jimmy.
A woman came out, a backpack slung over one shoulder, holding the door open with her foot, still talking to someone inside. She moved her hands a lot when she talked. She finally waved good-bye, shrugged into the backpack, and walked up the sidewalk.
She had dark curly hair in an unruly ponytail, and she wore a fleece jacket zipped to the neck. In paint-spattered jeans and hiking boots, she had a long, purposeful stride, like she could walk forever.
But she watched her surroundings. She saw Peter sitting in his truck across the street, his missing driver’s-side window maybe looking like the window was rolled down. Her face creased in a smile, but he noticed she didn’t come too close to the truck. Definitely careful.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice carried in the dark. “You waiting for somebody?”
“Nope,” said Peter. “Just hanging out.” Mingus perked up and came to the window, stepping on Peter’s crotch as he did. “Ow. Shit.” He struggled to adjust.
“Oh, you have a dog.” She came closer then. “Okay if I pet him?”
“He doesn’t like everybody,” said Peter, but the dog was already grinning at her, tongue hanging out over the picket fence of his teeth, tail wagging hard enough to knock the rearview mirror out of whack.
“Hi, puppy.” She showed Mingus her hand, then rubbed him behind the ears, releasing a wave of pepper spray and dog funk. “Whoa. He must have rolled in something pretty gnarly.”
“Yeah, he’s overdue for a bath,” said Peter.
But she wasn’t looking at the dog, she was looking at Peter. “We have showers in the center,” she said. The bruise left by Ray’s shoe was on the far side of his face, hidden by the dog. But still aching. “I think there’s some chili left, too, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m good,” said Peter, wondering how she knew he was a veteran. “I’ve got something to do, anyway.”
“Suit yourself.” She gave Mingus one last rub. “Bye, puppy.”
And she walked away with that long, purposeful stride, scanning the street ahead and not looking back.
Peter didn’t have anything else to do. Unless you counted four more beers and an ice pack for his bruised face.
And a parking spot in front of Dinah’s house.
Because if Lewis hadn’t sent the shooter, then
the scarred man did.
And the scarred man knew where Dinah lived.
The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat
The campfire guttered low in the cold wind. The man in the black canvas chore coat leaned over to pick up another log and set it in place. The wind blew the coals bright orange, and the flames soon caught the new log.
The van driver sat on a tree stump, hands out to catch some heat. He wore a camouflage hunting jacket over his plumber’s sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up. A scatter of beer cans lay at his feet. “Shit, put on another, Mid. It’s colder’n hell out here.”
Midden, the man in the black chore coat, shook his head. “We’re keeping a low profile, remember? We don’t want some local boy to see the light out in the woods and wonder who we are.”
The van driver took the last pull from a pint bottle of tequila, then threw the bottle on the fire, where it shattered and flared briefly as the alcohol burned. “Shit, nobody’s lookin’ for us, Mid. We’re fuckin’ ghosts, man. We’re gonna change fuckin’ history, show those fuckin’ bankers that the people run this country. C’mon, put on another log. It’s the last run. Might as well party, right?”
Midden looked at his watch. He was tired. And tired of this. “Sure,” he said. Then reached inside his black canvas chore coat, pulled out a target pistol, and shot the van driver twice in the chest.
The van driver fell off his stump, two dark red spots barely showing through his camouflage jacket.
He made a gurgling sound and turned his head from side to side. His hands wandered across the fallen leaves, reaching for something that wasn’t there.
Midden stood over him, pistol at his side. He wanted to tell the man to hold still, but it didn’t seem right to ask.
Then the van driver looked right up at him, eyes trying to focus. Aware or unaware that he was dying. Midden shot him once in the forehead. He stared down at the other man for a moment, watching as the light went out of him. He wondered what it was like.
Then went to get the new shovel from the back of the old Ford.
He’d burn the truck long after midnight, when the flames were least likely to be seen. The plume of black smoke would dissipate before dawn.