Homefront pb-6

by Chuck Logan

  Encouraged, Sheryl’s voice raced ahead, “Yeah, and we take our time. We’re thinking next January and February. See, we need winter-”

  Shank had sat patiently. Now he leaned abruptly across the table and silenced her speech with a medium harsh look. “No disrespect, Sheryl; but let’s nail this Broker guy first.”

  “Absolutely,” Sheryl agreed, sitting up straight, grinding her teeth together. “How about we meet again tomorrow.”

  Shank studied her for several long seconds, and Sheryl got this feeling she was like the chick in the stage show, strapped to a rotating wheel while the magician threw knives at her. Except these were icicles.

  She continued carefully, “That’ll give me time to contact my partner. He’s the one who got the line on Broker. You’re gonna have to talk to him.”

  “Sure, makes sense,” Shank said slowly. “Give us time to tidy up some details, think over your project. This, ah, place you got your lab; it’s way out in the sticks, right? Real remote…”

  “Yeah, you’re gonna hear wolves,” Sheryl said.

  “No shit.” Shank grinned spontaneously. “I never seen a wolf, except at the Como Zoo; they run along the chain-link fence…”

  “Yeah,” Sheryl said, nodding, blindsided by his disarming easy smile. “I been there.”

  “Okay. Cool. So your partner lives there…and there’s wolves.” He looked off, thinking. “Where’d you meet this guy?”

  Sheryl heaved her shoulders. “When I got back from Seattle, I was bringing balloons into the joint. You guys put me on his list.”

  Shank narrowed his eyes. “One of our members?”

  “Nah, he was just, you know, paying his rent, so your guys wouldn’t jack him around. He was in Education, right. Practically lived in the Vo Tech Shop. He didn’t want to get stuck in seg. Did a year for transporting coke with intent to sell.”

  “I need a name, Sheryl. We know you. But we won’t do business on this scale with strangers, you understand,” Shank said frankly.

  On this scale. It was gonna happen. “Okay, it’s Morgun Bodine. Spelled with a u, gee-you-en.”

  “Anything about him we’d remember?”

  “He’s got this alligator tattoo on his left forearm. Goes by Gator.”

  “So it’s up north.” Shank gnawed his lower lip, running it in his mind. “So maybe he bumped into Broker near where he lives?” He raised his eyebrows.

  Sheryl pursed her lips, balked.

  Shank lifted his palms in comic exasperation, “C’mon, Sheryl, let’s put this motherfucker on the fast track. You got a lot riding on this. Whatta ya say?”

  Sheryl’s palms started to sweat. She rubbed them together in a nervous reflex, then put them in her lap. It was rushing the plan. But they were so close. And she didn’t want to piss Shank off, not now. She brought her hands back up and placed them on the table and said, “North of Glacier Falls, near the border. And yeah, that’s where he is.”

  “Where Broker is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good girl,” Shank said emphatically, reaching over and squeezing her right hand. “Okay, I’ll talk to some folks. But I’ll need a day. Tomorrow’s kind of tight. How about we…have breakfast Monday morning? Where should I pick you up?”

  Instinct kicked in; Sheryl didn’t want to tell him where she lived. “Ah, I’ll be on the corner of Grand and Dale, in front of the drugstore.”

  Shank stood up. “Monday. Eight A.M.; you handle that?”

  “Sure, what’re you driving?”

  It took Shank a moment to answer, like he had to think about it. “Gray Nissan Maxima; got all the bells and whistles,” he said. Then he gave her a thumbs-up, “You done good, Sheryl.” As he turned to leave, he grinned again. “Wolves, huh?”

  “Lot of wolves,” Sheryl said, again catching some of his infectious smile.

  “Sounds like my kind of place,” Shank said, then he padded off through the milling herd of grazing food zombies and vanished out the door.

  Sheryl drew the moment out. Reached down and raised the coffee cup, enjoying the slight tremble in her fingers. Then she left the booth and put a medium swing in her walk going into the women’s restroom, where she jockeyed around with the lumbering herd animals to get some face time at the mirror. She removed the binder, shook out the ponytail, and leisurely combed her hair. Then she applied lipstick and a touch of eyeshadow. Walked out of that bathroom stepping like a Thoroughbred.

  Two minutes later she stood in the parking lot next to her car, removing the Wal-Mart jacket, bundling it, and tossing it under the swayback rusted-out Honda Civic parked next to her. She thumbed the remote, opened the door, and pulled out her good leather coat, put it on. Then she got in, turned the key, and just sat in the Pontiac for a while, waiting on the heater, running her hand over the leather seat. Gonna miss this car, she thought. Took a deep breath, exhaled, and punched in Gator’s pager number in her cell. When the voice mail came on, she punched in seven sixes, so he’d know it was her.

  Now give him half an hour to get to the phone booth at the store.

  Longest thirty minutes of her life.

  She sat and smoked and listened to people on Minnesota Public Radio talking about the dumb goddamn war. Then she took a roll of quarters, went back into the Country Buffet, and made the call on the pay phone.

  He answered immediately, his voice shaking with excitement. Or maybe it was cold.

  “They remember Broker being around at the time Jojo got killed. I think we’re eighty percent go. I just met the guy who’s gonna do it. You ever hear of the Shank when you were inside?” Sheryl said.

  “Before my time. I thought he was just a story,” Gator said.

  “No story. He’s real, I had coffee with him thirty minutes ago. He says if it happens, it’s going to happen fast. So start getting ready.”

  “How soon?” Gator said.

  “Dunno. I got another meeting to talk details Monday morning. If it’s on, how do you want to handle it?”

  “Have him call me at the shop. He’ll say he’s interested in the restored 1919 Fordson I got sitting in front. Maybe he wants to get it for his dad or something. I’ll give him directions.”

  “All right.” Sheryl paused for three heartbeats, wondering if she really could peel off the life she’d lived like the cheap Wal-Mart jacket and throw it away. Then she just said it. “Love you, babe.”

  “Yeah,” Gator said.

  “Later,” Sheryl said.

  She ended the call, got back in the Pontiac, and put it in gear. Two minutes later, accelerating down the 494 ramp, she marveled. Shit, man, haven’t said that to a guy and really meant it since…high school.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  After supper, Kit sat at the desk on the insulated office porch, practicing her cursive penmanship on a ruled worksheet. The porch was an add-on to the original house, so she could see into the kitchen through two windows set in the wall. Mom and Dad were doing the dishes, bumping into each other, slow like, way more than usual. In fact they were laughing.

  Since she and Dad had come home from school and seen Mom running on the road, a different mood had been building between her parents. Kit got the part of about being happy that Mom was getting more like her old self, but there were parts to it she couldn’t figure out; like whatever they were seeing when they looked at each other was invisible to her, a grown-up mystery.

  She did have a basic idea about the difference between good things and bad things, and she decided that, whatever it was, it was a good thing. She turned back to the worksheet and drew a loopy G.

  As Broker and Nina removed the dishes from the washer and stacked them in the cupboard, they played billiard with their eyes; soft cushion rail shots, indirect. Not an urge, not yet a desire, more like a discreet question that hovered over them. Physical contact? Whattaya think?

  Broker thinking, Probably be the time to fill her in on the local soap opera that had been percolating offstage. He made a start.


  “You know, when Kit had that fight at school?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, the kid’s dad got a little aggressive in front of the school and, ah, I kinda dropped him,” Broker said.

  Nina grimaced with mock severity, “What? You hit him?”

  “No, no,” Broker was quick to add, making frantic erasing motions with his hands. “I just sort of threw a choke hold on him.”

  “Uh-huh. Just a choke hold. And Kit? She knew about this?”

  Broker folded his arms tightly across his chest, and as he talked, his right hand jerked out and back, punctuating his explanation. “We thought it best not to bother you with it. And, well, he came back at me. The tire on the truck? That was probably him. And Kit’s bunny was probably in the truck because it wound up planted on a ski pole”-he pointed his jerking hand out toward the woods-“out by the ski trail. Griffin took it home the last night, stitched it up.” He took a breath, exhaled. “Had Ditech’s collar buckled around the neck. So he probably got the cat too.”

  “Jesus, Broker. He came on the property?”

  “It’s cool. When Griffin came over, he brought the sheriff-”

  “The sheriff, what the-”

  “Ah, oh yeah, I left something out. The kid’s dad is the garbageman; he was driving the truck yesterday morning, and he flung our garbage in the ditch while I was watching. So I collected it, took it to his garage, and dumped it in front of his office. Ah, that’s why the sheriff came out.”

  Nina grinned. “Christ, Broker; we came up here to keep a low profile. And you started a war?” She shook her head.

  “Me? He started it, asshole came at me-”

  “Well, I guess this explains you being more snaky than usual.”

  Broker unfolded his arms and went back to making the brisk scrubbing motion with his hands. “No sweat. It’s all taken care of. The sheriff is affecting a rapprochement. I’ll meet him halfway, maybe replace the kid’s shirt that got bloody, like that. Griffin went and talked to the guy…”

  Nina actually laughed, and it was good to see her bubble with spontaneous humor. “Harry? Oh, great, and he’s so good at quiet diplomacy. He’ll just cut the guy’s throat, along with his wife and kid, kill the pets, burn the house, and spray the land with dioxin so nothing ever grows there again.”

  They were both laughing now. Infectious giggles. Months of pressure surfacing and popping like cold bubbles.

  Kit wrenched open the porch door, deep glower creases in her brow. Clearly, she felt left out. “Keep it down, you guys,” she announced. “I’m trying to study.”

  “She right,” Nina said. “Get a hold of yourself.” She rinsed a dish in the sink and handed it to Broker, who obediently put it in the washer.

  Despite her show of annoyance, Kit went fast into sleep, tucked in happy with her risen bunny. Broker and Nina stepped carefully down the stairs. As they walked into the kitchen, their eyes met once, then glanced away. It was mutual.

  The laughing jag at the sink had exhausted the requirement to talk. And the loud drifting silence dwarfed mere language. Broker thinking how the vectors of their lives had flashed in tangents, fiercely independent; now they had been united during this crisis. The big dangling question: Now what?

  The wrong word might betray a lurch of hope or fear, precipitate an avalanche. Tip her back into the darkness.

  For months they’d moved in a clumsy deliberate weighted dance around each other, two deep-sea divers in old hard suits. They’d bump surfaces, but their skin remained remote, not really touching, covered by layers of protection. Air hoses trailing, getting tangled.

  And that was also in the signal of their eyes. Careful now, kicking off the deep-sea weights. Could be danger in ascending too fast.

  So they treaded forward, side by side, through the tactile silence. They were coming up from a great depth. Still braced for the riptides, undertows, and threats…

  …that had coiled and thrashed in the close shadow of madness.

  Griffin had built a plywood platform in one corner of the office off the kitchen that supported a queen-size futon. The bed was covered with a lush green-and-orange quilt of vaguely Polynesian design. Bolsters and pillows to match. The colors were an exception to the stern North Vietnamese blacks, browns, and grays that Griffin favored. A souvenir perhaps, left behind from some forgotten amorous interlude. The bed beckoned now, a shallow protected place. They rambled there.

  Still no words.

  Nothing needy or hungry. Slow moves with no wasted motion. Nina striped off her clothes efficiently-the precocious birthday girl unwrapping a present. Chaste almost, until you saw the grinning skull-and-crossbones tattoo on her right shoulder. And the scars.

  Two pairs of jeans mingled on the floor, socks, underwear; his shirt, her blouse. Chilly on the porch. Goose bumps. An almost adolescent scramble to get under the sheets and quilt.

  Christ. How long? More than a year.

  Since he’d strayed with Jolene Sommer.

  Their first kiss was tentative, gentle. Cautiously, they found each other with a slow innate mastery of all things physical. They did it almost weightless, hummingbirds guarded on a bed of eggshells. She was especially wary, having lost control and not sure she had regained it.

  Broker was making love with a woman who matched him scar for scar. His fingertips grazed the slick braille on her hips, her butt, her shoulder, her legs. And the one he couldn’t claim; the cesarean below her navel. Her birth canal had been scarred by fragments of the Kalashnikov round that had clipped her hip. After Kit’s difficult birth, the doctor told them they would be taking chances having another child.

  Still no words. A final perfect fit of hope and fear. They took courage for granted, were less honest about being stubborn.

  What was she thinking behind her green eyes? Probably what he was thinking: What happens now that we’re getting through this crisis?

  Will we go back to who we were before?

  Will we be changed?

  Slowly she fingered the pack of cigarettes and lighter from her jeans, put one in her mouth, and lit it. Then she held it to his lips. He puffed but did not inhale, watched the smoke curl up to the tongue-and-groove ceiling. He remembered the Vietnamese connection. ARVN soldiers jotting on slips of paper, then burning them in the predawn. An airstrip at Phu Bai, Broker watching, waiting for the helicopters that would take them in. Smoke was the prayer language of the dead.

  No words.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Harry Griffin passed a fitful night that was not altogether unpleasant. Sometimes, like now, when he’d get excited, this auxiliary energy kicked in. He woke up, ready; electric in the dark. And it seemed as if all twenty-five years of his sobriety surrounded him like a thick magnifying lens. Images from his past life jumped up huge, in aching detail.

  Four-thirty A.M. He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and heated water, ground coffee, put a filter in the Chemex coffeemaker.

  Waiting for the water to boil, he went into the living room and sat on a cushion in front of the fireplace. He folded his legs in a half lotus, shut his eyes, and tried the TM trick: let his runaway thoughts stream away like rising bubbles. Tried to calm down.

  Didn’t work. He startled when the teakettle shrieked, boiling over. So much for the tricks. He got up, poured the water into the ground coffee, and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Luckies. Since he couldn’t get his night horse back in the barn, he settled down to ride it out with coffee and cigarettes.

  Sitting at a stool at his kitchen snack bar, he held out his right hand, thick-veined, bone prominent, absolutely steady. Vividly he remembered the last person he’d killed. Ten years ago, when he got talked into that last-minute hunting trip in Maston County…

  Coming in on a dead run toward the shots and screams, seeing Chris Deucette, sixteen, working the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge, then aiming the deer rifle at his stepdad, Bud Maston. Maston lying in the snow, already bleeding. Supposedly Harry’
s buddy…

  Felt again the smooth reflex swing, his own 3006 coming up.

  Safety clicking off…

  Snap shot, peep sight, eighty yards.

  Easy.

  The Maston County prosecutor didn’t even convene a grand jury. Called it self-defense.

  The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese he’d slain were just numbers on a time card. A job. Didn’t bother him. None of them did, not even that whole family in Truc Ki, the night that stealth had required he use the knife. Broker had puked and walked away, struggling to believe there were still rules even down in the bottom sewer of guerrilla war.

  Nothing he could remember bothered him.

  Griffin curled his fingers into a fist.

  It was the one he couldn’t remember…

  That night, after the war; blacked-out drunk, walking the Cass

  Corridor in Detroit, maybe a lingering scent of sweat and perfume from a stripper at the Willis Show Bar. Or maybe the hooker in Anderson’s Gardens down the street. Had his.38 jammed in his waistband because he sure as hell found it there in the morning with four rounds fired…trouble easy to find…all the jive punks on the street, flipping gang signs, pulling up their fucking shirts, showing off their 9-millimeters…

  It was that single image of a zombie homicidal clown that haunted him; a mindless drunk composed of reflexes staggering around in the night. Reason he’d called Broker in Minnesota, got in his old cherry ’57 Chevy, and driven to the frozen North. Reason he’d sobered up with Broker’s help. Got to keep that jokester locked up…

  Griffin squashed out his cigarette in the full ashtray and watched the sun rise thin over the lake. Okay. Be honest. Maybe the last one did get to him, the kid. There’d been a woman in St. Paul he thought he might marry, even start a family. Maybe Broker was right. He’d run away. After that scene in the woods, he’d quit his newspaper job and migrated up here. Do some honest work with his hands where there were fewer people.

  Fewer people to hurt.

  But there were exceptions. And possibly Gator Bodine was one them.