by Chuck Logan
Ace passed on sports, repelled when he saw a lot of Minnesota purple in the feature football art. He came to the daily crossword and settled in on 1 across. “Four-letter word for southern veggie,” he said.
“Corn,” Gordy said.
“C’mon numbnuts. It says southern.”
“Ah, grits?”
“Four letters,” Ace said. He checked 1 down. Dark yellow. After a moment he penciled in “ocher,” which gave him an O for 1 across. Okay. He got it. He was starting to pencil in “okra,” when he heard tires crunch to a stop on the weed-choked trap rock out front.
Ace and Gordy exchanged surprised looks when they heard something they hadn’t heard at the Missile Park in a long, long time: female voices. And these female voices were on the shrill side, pitched high, banging back and forth at each other.
Ace winced and looked at Gordy, who shrugged, came around the bar, went to the front, and looked out the window.
“Two chicks and a little girl,” Gordy said.
“What are they driving?”
“Looks like a red Volvo. Hard to tell the way it’s all dusted up. With Minnesota plates. Got an old green Wellstone sticker on the bumper. And, ah, this rainbow-type decal.”
Ace’s expression jiggled between a wince and a grin, “A Volvo, huh? Boy. They’re lost for sure.”
“I hear you. Jeez, busy day—old Chevy truck just pulled in, too. Arizona plates.”
“So what are they yelling about? The women.”
“Ah.” Gordy craned his neck closer to the window. “Sounds like one of them wants to use the john and the other one ain’t buying it, says it’s just an excuse to have a drink. Now the other one and the little girl are trying to talk her out of it.”
“What’s she look like?” Ace asked.
“Which one?”
“The one who wants a drink.”
“Ah, she’s a redhead, not bad; kinda tough-looking.”
Ace came forward off his stool. “How do you mean, tough?”
Gordy grinned. “Tough like the grim-fucking-reaper. She’s got this skull-and-crossbones tattooed on her shoulder.”
Ace nodded. Gordy would like that. Like it better if she had a Harley logo tattooed on her ass.
Just then the door opened. And Ace expected to see a tough redhead walk through. Instead, it was a leather-tanned older guy wearing this flowery, flowing orange and red Hawaiian shirt, with a full head of hair going white. Ace sat up and took notice. You don’t see that many older guys with forearms like that, who walked so light on their feet. Who came into a room checking everything with those pale quiet eyes. Ace had seen eyes like that on serious lifers during the month he spent on orientation in the Bismarck state pen before they sent him out to do the easy time on the farm.
“I’d get near a phone if I was you, call nine-one-one,” the guy said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Got a cat fight goin’ out there.” He walked to the bar, sat down, and stared at the wall full of pictures.
Gordy came up. The guy said, “You serving any lunch?”
“Sorry, the kitchen’s closed. We’ve sort of gone out of business,” Gordy said.
Very clearly Ace heard one of the women yell, “Yeah, well, I didn’t drive all the way out here to watch you crawl into a bottle in Nowhere, North Dakota, goddammit.”
Gordy and the guy drifted to the window and stared into the parking lot.
“Which one’s that?” Ace asked.
“The other one,” Gordy said.
The guy nodded, “The dark-haired, dikey-looking one.”
Ace and Gordy perked up and raised their eyebrows thoughtfully. The dikey one. Uh-huh.
The guy shrugged. “Minnesota plates. That’s a dead giveaway. Twin Cities is a regular dike pit. I feel bad for the kid.”
Ace and Gordy nodded again, thoughtfully.
“Aw, screw lunch, gimme a beer,” the guy said.
“All we got left is Old Milwaukee,” Gordy said.
“That’ll do.” When he had a beer he gestured at the walls of an alcove to the right of the bar. The framed pictures, newspaper articles. A military unit flag. “Yeah. This is the place.”
“How’s that?” Gordy said.
“I was here once, back in the seventies. Came to visit my brother when he was in the Air Force, in the 321st Missile Wing. Was stationed down in one of those control pods, tending to ten of those big mothers, the Minutemen. We sat in this bar and had a beer.”
Ace smiled. And Gordy said, “Sure, during the Missile Time.”
The guy nodded. “Usually I take Route 2 across, but, hell, thought I’d swing up through here, not in a big hurry. So when did they pull the missiles out?”
Ace stared at his coffee cup. In the shadow of those missiles he’d had something like a happy childhood. Whole damn town had…
“You fucking bitch! You are not going to pull this shit after all we been through…” The angry voice screeching through the front door. The floor snapped back on its hinges, rattled off the wall.
Then, “Mommm…”
That was the kid. A wail full of shattered innocence that got to Ace like a dentist’s drill—kid suddenly figuring out, hey, my world is falling to shit here. That nothing’s for sure anymore. Something kids shouldn’t have to bend their minds around. Ace understood it perfectly from arguments in the house back in town. His eight-year-old son Tyler, and six-year-old Trevor…
Ace shook his head. He’d started losing to Darlene when he let her stick those foo-foo names on those boys and he never did catch up.
And then Ace got a look at the redhead.
Chapter Four
She came spinning through the door fast. Ace thought he caught a whiff of sulfur—but also roses—so he sat up and took a hard look as she wheeled around and confronted the dark-haired one, hands on hips.
“Back off, Janey…” Real strong no-nonsense voice.
The redhead was built, but not that built. And she was pretty—but not stun-gun pretty, to Ace. What struck him was her presence. Her stance, the tattoo on her shoulder, and the set of her eyes hinted at danger.
Not just trouble. Trouble in a woman was appealing to scavengers who like to nose around in weak, messy lives.
Uh-uh. Just lookit the way the energy pulses around her. Like a swarm of hornets.
He saw real danger in her too-intense green eyes—and Ace was thinking, Damn if a redhead couldn’t look like she invented anger. Eve, the first woman, was probably a redhead. This one was mad and fed up as a woman could be; short red hair frizzed out like static. She wore flared jeans with cargo pockets, this iddy-biddy white top with spaghetti straps and short at the waist, so her flat belly’d show. And sandals. Red lipstick; red polish on her fingernails and toenails starting to chip like she’d picked at it all the way from Minnesota. All that red hit his eyes at once, like warning flags. Clear across the room he could see the pale stripe of untanned skin on the third finger of her left hand where she had recently removed a wedding band. Her worn leather saddlebag purse caught his attention; gray quill leather he couldn’t place. And the way it seemed to overflow with too many things, Ace read the purse as a sign.
Like her life, maybe.
And then their eyes caught briefly in some fast barroom magic. Ace had to work at getting his breath. He felt the smile roll into his face, rubbing out the hangover. Figure the odds.
Damn.
You spend your life standing out under the biggest loneliest sky in the world and you’re just bound to get hit by lightning…eventually.
And, aw shit, her eyes were that kind of sticky hot that transfix a guy if he ain’t real careful. Damn if he didn’t feel the tug clear across the room. And he was sure he knew her just a little bit. Not real sure if you’re a saint in the kitchen, but I’d bet my last dollar you’re a whore in the dark.
Ace Shuster just had to go with it.
And it was like the feeling he woke up with this morning had climbed in the catbird seat and was driving hi
m the way he’d pushed all that big iron for Irv Fuller’s dad all those years. The tug just kept getting stronger and more complicated with him ad-libbing a few self-dramatic flashes of redemption and rescue and deliverance. So he just had to stand up and clear his throat, like he was waiting on a formal introduction.
Goddamn, Red. I been waiting to meet you all my life.
The dark-haired one was inside now and read his face quick and fired a hostile look right through him.
The dark-haired one…
And for a moment Ace almost took a sensible step back because these women had all the right curves but he didn’t see an ounce of softness showing and that should be a caution—but his curiosity had the better of his common sense…
And then he thought, Uh-huh, like the guy said, the dark-haired one could be a lesbian. Maybe that’s what he was picking up? She was younger. Cleaner of muscle—no, strike that—more like colder, with permanent moody shadows burned right into her like beautiful bruises. Witch-black hair, styled short on the side, longer on top. No makeup, no purse; green designer fatigue pants and heavy black boots. And carrying a lot of metal, gleams of it notched the outline of both ears and pierced her left nostril. More at her throat, a coke spoon on a silver chain, Ace thought. He squinted and saw it was a little double-bladed ax.
“Girls, girls.” Gordy tried acting big and easy and gracious. Coming forward, the peacemaker.
“Girls!” hissed the redhead. “You see any fucking girls around here?”
“Mom!” The little girl made a face.
Gordy swallowed and said, mollifying: “Ladies.”
“I’ll settle for the ladies room,” said the redhead, raising her eyebrows.
“Ah, that door past the pinball machine.”
Ace eyed Gordy, who raised a reassuring hand. “No problem, I cleaned it this morning.”
Ace nodded and turned his attention to the kid, who was around six or seven, in beat-up tennies, shorts, a yellow T-shirt with North Shore printed across the chest. She was angular like her mom, with the same freckles and the same thick, burnt-crimson hair, but longer, pulled back in a ponytail. Dejected, she plopped down on a chair at the table and folded her arms across her chest.
The dark-haired one lit a cigarette. The kid waved her hand in disgust, got up, stalked across the empty bar, past where Ace stood and brooded at the pinball machine in the corner. She went up on tiptoes and studied the glassed-in bumpers and lights. Touched the flippers on the side.
Aware of Ace watching her, she asked, “What kind of video game is this?”
Ace was impressed. Cool kid. Staying focused through all this bullshit. He smiled. “Well, it ain’t a video game. This is what you call a machine. Got no computer in it. There’s springs and pulleys and stuff like that.”
The girl made a face. “Springs?”
“Yeah, you put in a quarter, pull that knob, and these five ball bear—”
“Kit!”
The dark-haired one hurled it with a sharp huff to her voice, almost like a snort, like when a doe warns a fawn.
The girl smiled tightly and stepped away.
“Not supposed to talk to strangers, huh? That’s good. Tell my own kids like that,” Ace said with a nod, leaning back.
The mom came out of the john. Her hands busy around her waist in a reflex, tucking in an imaginary shirt. The dark-haired one got up and approached her. “Well,” she said.
“There was a theater in town, maybe you two could take in a show.” Eyes darting. Still some mad in her voice, dismissive.
“While we’re taking in a show, where are you going to be?”
“Here maybe. I’ll hang out for a while. I need some time to think about things.”
“Things.”
“Us. You and me. I need some time to think about us,” said the redhead.
To Ace the words were barbed. Like big muskie lures swishing in the air. Whatever they had going had burst through normal restraints.
“You bitch,” said the dark-haired one. “I took time off work. I walked out on Debbie to play nursemaid to you. Now you’re sliding back into it.” She shook her finger in the redhead’s face. “Hang out here, huh? And drink, right?” She stuck a finger in the redhead’s face. “You’re the one who has to get drunk to tolerate sex with a man, remember.”
The redhead slapped the hand away. A crisp focused slap that cracked like a whip and brought Ace forward on the balls of his feet.
“No, please,” the kid cried.
The dark-haired one seized the redhead by the arm and yanked her toward the door. The redhead resisted, they began to shove each other. The kid screamed, got between them and both women tried to move her out of the way. Tug-of-war.
The kid came away wincing with red Indian burns on her arm.
The dark-haired one was coiled to hit back but Ace was up and moving, amazingly light on his feet for a man with a bellyful of hot hangover gravel. Going in, he noticed that the old guy at the bar had put down his beer bottle and stood, hands loose at his sides, watching in a certain way.
“Hey, take it outside,” Gordy yelled.
“Mom. C’mon, let’s go,” yelled the kid, grabbing at her mother’s arm.
“Not now, okay? Just, not now,” the redhead said. Then, in an eruption of nerves, she shoved her daughter away. “Look. Mom needs a time-out. Okay?”
“That’s it, hands off the kid,” Ace said.
The guy at the bar was bouncing slowly from foot to foot, watching them carefully with those flat dead lifer’s eyes. Ace signaled him, firm but not belligerent. Back off. I got this.
Gordy rolled his eyes. “Ace, you’re making a big mistake here. Walk away, man.”
Ace ignored Gordy, threw open his arms, swept the women forward, and marched them through the door. They banged down the porch steps and into the parking lot.
“What’d I tell ya,” the guy said as he and Gordy hurried out the door. To watch. “A cat fight.”
“I don’t know. I’m sure not buying this. Uh-uh,” Gordy said.
Cats?
Ace was thinking: More like cougars, jock cougars, padded with muscle. It took all his strength to move them and then a full minute to untangle them and get them separated. Enough time for several cars to pull onto the shoulder of Highway 5 to rubberneck the goings-on. Ace sensed more than saw the drivers hunching to their cell phones. As he held the women at arm’s length he was panting and sweating with the exertion, and his hangover had started banging like a drum.
But he felt good, younger, in step with fortune.
“Okay,” he said, “it’s like this. Red, you sit on the porch. And you…”
“Jane,” the dark-haired one snarled.
“Jane—you go stand by your car. We’re going to calm down for a minute. Then we’re going to talk, one at a time.”
“Where do I go?” the little girl said, rubbing a fist over her tears.
“You stay right here with me,” Ace said as he gently lowered a protective hand on her shoulder.
It took another muscular minute to manhandle them into their separate corners. Just about the time he got them quieted down, Ace saw the black-and-white Crown Vic with the Cavalier County five-pointed gold star come up fast and turn into his parking lot.
Chapter Five
County Deputy Lyle Vinson had graduated in the same class with Gordy and Ace’s brother Dale. With his bulk augmented by a Kevlar vest, Lyle looked like the product of a union between a fire-plug and a sumo wrestler as he eased from the car.
He hitched up his service belt and took a thoughtful sip from a twenty-ounce plastic bottle of Diet Coke, set the Coke on the roof of the car, and hitched his belt again. Studied moves. Letting some seriousness sink into this situation. Then he eyed the two angry women. Then the crying little girl. Finally he settled his gaze on Ace.
“Couple people called dispatch about a ruckus in your parking lot,” Lyle said. “Little early in the day for a drunk bar fight, ain’t it, Ace? Seeing’s
how they ain’t been a fight at the Missile Park for going on ten years.”
“Nobody’s drinking—yet,” Jane said.
“Nobody’s drinking, period,” Ace said. “The redhead came to use the bathroom and the other one and her got into an argument, so I helped them outside and separated them and…”
Lyle held up his hand, “Let’s see some ID, folks. License and registration.” The two women went to their purses, then the glove compartment of the car, and produced their driver’s licenses and the title to the Volvo.
Lyle raised an eyebrow. “You just bought this car yesterday in St. Paul?”
“Yes, officer,” the redhead said.
Lyle took the licenses back to his squad. While Lyle ran his checks, Ace played uneasy referee and cautious explorer. He discovered that when he looked at the redhead, the resolution on things sharpened up and the day acquired this pleasing velocity. He listened to the suddenly playful wind. Felt it ruffle through her hair.
He tried to read the driven energy centered in her hollow cheeks, those hungry eyes.
Definitely strung out.
He could understand strung out. And when he dared to listen with his heart he heard a rushing, as if they were both leaning into the same white-water rapid that was about to sweep them away.
Ace blinked and caught himself as Lyle returned, handed back the licenses. “No wants, no warrants,” he said, then he knelt next to the little girl. “Hi there, what’s your name?”
“My name is Karson Pryce Broker.”
“That’s a lot of name,” Lyle said.
She nodded. “My dad calls me Kit.”
“And where is your dad?”
“At home, in Devil’s Rock, Minnesota.” Her lower lip trembled. “They had a fight, so we went on a trip with Auntie Jane.” Then she lost it and her whole face transformed into a red tear gusher.
“Oh boy,” Lyle said. Then he patted the girl on the shoulder, stood up, and looked at the redhead. “How’d she get those marks on her arm?”
“I was trying to move her out of the way so she wouldn’t get caught in between,” the redhead said.
