The Drifter (13 page)

R
aindrops dotted his windshield and dampened his shirtsleeve at the broken window.

Closer to the freeway, the neighborhood was sprinkled with vacant lots, sometimes half a dozen to a block. The city had taken foreclosed and derelict homes for back taxes, sold what it could, and torn down the ones past saving. They’d filled in the foundations and planted grass, hoping the economy would change and the lots would be worth something again. Maybe they would.

He chose a lot on a relatively full block, a narrow gap in the cityscape that stood out like a missing tooth. The ground sloped uphill from the sidewalk, and from the rear of the lot he’d be able to see over the parked cars. The demolition crew had left a driveway in place, probably because it was nearly new. A sign in the middle of the grass read
NO PARKING, NO DUMPING, NO DOGS, NO FIRES. BY ORDER OF THE CITY OF MILWAUKEE
.

Peter backed his truck to the end of the drive, let Mingus out to wander, then walked the perimeter of the property until he’d found enough stones and broken bricks to make a decent fire ring. Once his kindling was alight, he laid on deadfall sticks and scrap lumber from Dinah’s porch to get a good base of coals. He’d picked up
surprisingly little garbage. He figured some neighbor had adopted the lot, mowing the grass and cleaning up. He wondered how long he’d have before someone called the cops.

The rain was worse now, slanting down in small, hard drops, so he unfolded his silver poly tarp and stretched it from hooks at the top of the cargo box to wooden stakes he pushed into the wet ground, trying to keep his cookfire mostly dry without setting the tarp alight. He found an empty garbage bag and closed one end of it at the top of the truck door and let the other end hang down over the broken window. It might keep most of the rain out of his sleeping quarters.

He needed to get that window fixed.

Then, with his campsite otherwise in order, he unfolded his chair, snagged a beer from the cooler, and fed the fire while he thought about Dinah and Jimmy and the scarred man. Jimmy’s money and the C-4 in the suitcase. Lewis and Skinner and the missing Marine and the Riverside Veterans’ Center and Josie with the ponytail.

He thought about what he knew, which wasn’t much, and what he didn’t know, which was a lot.

Starting with why Jimmy had put the money under Dinah’s porch. He hadn’t been able to leave it at the bar where he worked. Why hadn’t he just left it under his own bed?

Then Peter thought about the shooter with the AK-47, who showed up when Peter was leaving. And the three guys passing the joint on the corner, one of them on his phone. Maybe the scarred man had been trying to find Jimmy’s place. Maybe, like Peter, he knew the block but not the house. Maybe he found the house by following Peter. It would have been easy enough to track his truck.

All that thinking made him hungry. He’d stopped for groceries earlier in the day, which included a long piece of flank steak. When
he got up for his second beer, he dropped the steak into a plastic bag to marinate in some lime juice and soy sauce and garlic chunks, then set his grill grate over the flames. Camping out is no reason to eat bad food.

As always, he thought about scraping the previously burned meat off the grill and decided against it with the irrefutable logic that the heat would kill off the germs.

When the coals were orange and white and several inches thick, he dug the flank steak out of the marinade and draped it gently on the grate to char while he dug out the tortillas and salsa and a pot of black beans. The beans were genuine refrieds, meaning that he’d cooked them several days before, and now he was cooking them again. He set the pot on the grate and poured in some beer to help the beans rehydrate, thinking that there were benefits to city living. He couldn’t cook flank steak over a fire above the tree line. Not unless it was from the flank of a trout.

Maybe he could be an urban camper. Buy one of these vacant lots and sleep outside. Maybe rig up an outdoor shower. That would work, right?

Until winter came.

—

Mingus came back from his explorations, wet and stinking worse than ever. He shook himself, then came to the fire to sniff at the steak. His fur steamed in the heat as he leaned against Peter’s legs, soaking his jeans. Aside from the parked truck and the silver tarp, the flickering orange light made the modern world recede until Peter and Mingus could have been any hunting pair from the last ten thousand years.

Hungry and wet, waiting for the meat to cook.

When the flank steak was charred but still pink inside, Peter
forked it off the grill onto his cedar plank and sliced it thin with his knife, elbowing the dog away with each slice. “Bad dog, Mingus. Wait your damn turn.”

He warmed the corn tortillas briefly on the grate and assembled a giant plate of world-class steak tacos. Laid on some beans and salsa and folded one into a tight roll and offered it to Mingus. He swallowed without appearing to chew, as was his right as a dog. Peter figured Mingus wouldn’t mind the salsa, given that he’d basically inhaled a whole canister of pepper spray the day before. He needed to wash the dog. With some kind of serious soap.

“Ahoy the fire.”

A voice out of the night, filtered through the rain.

Peter was so focused on dinner that he hadn’t noticed the figure approaching from the sidewalk. Some Marine. The rain on the tarp damped the sound, and the firelight wrecked his night vision. But he didn’t feel too bad. The dog hadn’t noticed, either.

Anyway, he figured anyone out to hurt him wouldn’t have made an announcement. So he wasn’t going to stand up. If he abandoned the cutting board, the dog would eat everything, including the cutting board.

“Come on in,” he said.

The figure came closer, still hidden by the night. The raspy voice of an older man raised up over the sound of the rain. “This here’s city prop’ty. Like a park. Ain’t no camping on city prop’ty.”

Mingus woofed and bumped past Peter in his chair, a hundred and fifty pounds of wet, stinking dog. “Mingus, stay.”

“Hold your dog, mister,” said the raspy voice. “I don’t want to shoot no man’s dog.”

“Hang on.” Peter scrambled to his knees on the wet grass to grab Mingus by the rope collar. “Don’t shoot.”

At the edge of the circle of firelight was a black man maybe
eighty years old in an oilcloth slicker and a black fedora with rain streaming from the brim. His face was sunken and rubbery, like maybe he didn’t have his teeth in. But he stood broad and strong for all his years, and he held a gleaming bolt-action rifle like he knew what to do with it.

He tilted his chin at the bullet holes in Peter’s truck and cargo box. “You been shot at enough from the look of things,” he said. “And I wouldn’t put a dog out in this weather. So I give you ’til nine ayem tomorrah ’fore I call the police. But do me the courtesy of cleanin’ up before you go.”

“Yessir,” said Peter. “I will.”

The old man half turned to go, then turned back. “You gon’ be warm enough out here?”

“Yessir,” said Peter. “I’m fine, thanks. In fact, I can offer you a cold beer if you’d care to sit by the fire.”

The old man shook his head. “I got to be home direc’ly or catch hell from the missus. But you stay dry and take care, hear?”

Peter smiled. “Yessir.”

The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

Midden could hear the bar band out in the parking lot.

It was Friday night, and a steady stream of pickup trucks and battered old American cars pulled off the highway onto the flat stretch of gravel, then emptied themselves of singles and groups and couples already starting to dance as they headed toward the front door.

Midden sat in the white Dodge van, watching.

Beside him, a big man with scars on his face, missing one earlobe, shifted restlessly on his seat. “Come on, motherfucker,” he growled. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Calm down, Boomer,” said Midden. “Don’t spook this guy. He’s going to be nervous as it is.”

The man with the scars glared at him. “Remember who you’re talking to. I’m the king of cool.”

“I can tell,” said Midden.

“Listen, motherfucker—”

“There he is,” said Midden, nodding at a man walking alone across the gravel. “Keep it relaxed, okay?”

“I know what I’m doing,” said the man with the scars. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot, calling out, “Hey, Kevin. Kevin, my man!”

Midden followed, staying three steps behind to reduce the appearance of threat, watching Boomer calm himself. It was, Midden thought, a little unnerving how the man went from cocky asshole to cool customer in a dozen steps. But he knew that Boomer had practiced this discipline each time he’d put on the bulky blast suit, breathing deep, bringing his pulse down, preparing to defuse whatever jury-rigged device the patrols had found. You can’t have shaking hands when you hold the wire cutters.

Kevin took a step back when he saw Boomer striding toward him. Boomer slapped a hand on the man’s thick shoulder, smiling and nodding. “Hey, how you doin’, man? Gettin’ ready to tear it up on a Friday night?”

Kevin said, “Hey. Uh, I thought we were meeting inside.”

The quarryman was built wide and strong and close to the ground. Pale limestone dust drifted lightly across the legs of his work jeans and the tails of his quilted flannel shirt. But he looked nervous, thought Midden. Nervous wasn’t good.

“It’s so damn loud inside, hard to have a real conversation, you know?” said Boomer with a wide grin, the man’s best friend. “You got what we asked for, right? I got your money right here.” Boomer patted his coat pocket. “Where’s the stuff?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Kevin, his eyes flicking to Midden, then back to Boomer. “Over here.” He led them reluctantly over to his muddy Dodge pickup and opened the hatch on the cap. “This is all I could get,” he said, handing over a wrinkled brown paper grocery bag.

Boomer unrolled the top and pulled out a handful of newspaper-wrapped cylinders. He unwrapped one to expose a gleaming silver tube, a little smaller than a cigarette, with wires coming out of one end.

“Kevin,” he said. “I certainly do need the blasting caps. But I can buy those at any gun show. What I need,” he said, his voice rising, “what I fuckin’ need, is a dozen full sticks. We talked about this.”

“The sticks are a lot harder to fake the paperwork,” said the quarryman. “Especially the amount you need. This is serious shit, you know.”

“But can you get them?” said Boomer. His smile flickered on and off like a bad lightbulb. “You told me two weeks ago you could get them.”

Kevin shifted on his feet. The leather was worn away from the steel toes of his boots, the exposed metal polished from the stone dust and shining in the sodium lights of the parking lot. “What do you need this for, anyway?”

Boomer’s smile flickered on again. “I told you already. I want to divert a creek on my land up north. Got some big boulders to break up.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said.” The quarryman looked from
Boomer to Midden, standing a few paces away, then back to Boomer. His heavy hands were curled into loose fists at his sides. “I can’t do it,” he said. “The risk is too big. They’re paying too close attention.”

“Man, I already paid you,” said Boomer. “Is this about money? You need more?”

“No,” said Kevin. “It’s not the money. I just can’t do it. The money you gave me, it’s in the bag. Take the caps and we’ll call it even.”

“We’re not even,” said Boomer. “We need the sticks.”

The quarryman closed the cap’s rear hatch with a slam. “Can’t help you. And I’m leaving, so get the hell out of my way.”

Boomer opened his coat to show the man the chrome pistol tucked into his waistband. “You’re not leaving yet.”

The man took another step back, one hand slowly rising into the air. But the other hand was a little slower, seemed to get caught on his shirttail for a moment.

Then his hand came up holding a giant Magnum revolver, a real Dirty Harry hogleg, and pointed it right at Boomer’s face, Kevin’s eyes bright under the pole lights. “Asshole, I said I’m
leaving
.”

Midden sighed. Everyone’s a gun nut, he thought, as he took a half-step behind Boomer’s bulk. He raised the .22 and put a single round past Boomer’s shoulder into the quarryman’s forehead.

The shot made a flat slapping sound that was lost in the noise of the bar band, which was deep into some drum-heavy oldies number. Kevin went over like a tipped tombstone.

Boomer spun, one hand cupped over his ear. “Motherfucker, we
needed
him!”

Midden shook his head and tucked the pistol away. “He was done. One way or the other. He had a gun. And he saw us both.”

“Fuck,” said Boomer. “Fuck!” He kicked the body hard, and air went out of the dead lungs with a whoof.

“Keep it down,” said Midden, bending to pick up the quarryman’s feet. “Get his hands.”

Boomer examined the fallen Magnum. “Where’s the fucking safety on this thing?”

Midden stood patiently, holding the dead man’s heels. “Boomer, get his hands. We can’t leave him here.”

They carried the body toward the van. Boomer said, “And I don’t appreciate your using me as cover.”

“It was just to hide my gun hand,” said Midden. “Those Magnum rounds would punch through both of us without slowing down.”

They lifted the body into the back of the van. The bowels let go and the distinct odor of shit and death filled the cargo space.

“Jesus Christ,” said Boomer. “We’re gonna have to smell that?”

“Until we find a place to bury him.”

They climbed into the van and Midden started the engine. Boomer rolled down his window, still complaining as the cold November air flooded in.

“That goddamn Kevin. We’re runnin’ out of time, and we need that starter charge. It’s gonna be hard to find another quarryman. Fuck, it’s cold in here.”

He rolled up the window, sniffed experimentally, then swore and rolled it down again.

“None of this would have happened if that fucker hadn’t run off with my plastic.”

“Tell me again why you can’t just make a new batch.”