After the Rain

by Chuck Logan

  She peered into her coffee cup. “By now Jane’s probably called my old man. Or that cop has, so he’ll be coming to pick up Kit.” She set down the cup and raised her hand, fingers spread as if holding off an invisible oncoming weight. “Once he gets here, I’ll have to talk to him.”

  “What’s he like, your husband?”

  Nina didn’t have to fake a word. It came out straight and honest and she wasn’t planning to hold Ace’s eyes so directly when she said it but she did: “Hard to read. Sorta like you. Lives mostly below the surface.”

  “All things being equal, if he’d a met you like I did yesterday, coming off some bad rebound scene, and you half-tanked, would he have…ah?”

  “Taken advantage of me?”

  “Yeah.” “Probably not. He told me something once. About barroom attractions. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but, he said when something comes at you out of nowhere, it’s probably not attraction. Probably it’s more a question of propulsion.”

  Ace made a soft reeling motion with his finger, asking for more.

  Nina shrugged. “He’s a good dad.”

  Ace repeated the reeling motion. Wanting more.

  Nina pursed her lips, then bit down hard on the words, not having to fake this one either. “Just that the fucker thinks he can tell me what to do!”

  Ace leaned back respectfully. “I get the message. We’ll take it one day at a time.”

  Nina stood up. “I’ll do the dishes.”

  He cocked his head and studied her. “No you won’t. I can tell. It just ain’t your thing.”

  Perceptive, she thought. So she didn’t argue and went for her purse to get her cigarettes. She paced back and forth, smoking while he did the breakfast chores.

  This wasn’t the way it was suppose to go, was it?

  She was starting to like the guy.

  Nina excused herself to use the bathroom, and when she shut the door she heard Ace go down the stairs. As she was finishing up, she became aware that she could overhear voices; Ace and Gordy talking in the office. Stooping and listening carefully, she soon figured out that the water pipes under the sink ran down through a hole in the tile and floor joists. The hole was masked off with a piece of plywood, split to fit around the pipes. She knelt down, removed the plywood, and put her ear to the pipe.

  “So, did you get any?” Gordy said.

  “Oh yeah, went all night. Whips, chains, she tied me up and slapped peanut butter in the crack of my ass. It was wonderful.”

  “Bullshit. You didn’t get any. You’d be in a better mood and you’d’ve sent her on her way. Look, I gotta go gas up my truck, be right back,” Gordy said. “Almost forgot, George called.”

  “George, great. Lemme guess,” Ace said.

  “Where is she?” Gordy lowered his voice.

  “Aw c’mon. Cut the shit. Upstairs putting on her face.”

  “Man, you are one pussy brain.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So? George?”

  “Sounds like one of his moonlight packing specials.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Ace said.

  Nina squirmed to get more comfortable and pressed her ear closer to the floor. She heard Gordy leave, heard the door slam, then a moment later heard a muted truck engine start up and drive away.

  Then Ace was on the phone talking.

  “Hey, George, you old bootlegger. What’s up?…Aw, man, I don’t know, at this late date. Why don’t you get Gordy to pick it up?…Okay. You got a point. I don’t trust him on something serious, either. Just let me know. Bye.”

  Nina waited another five minutes. She spent the time putting on eyeliner and lipstick. Then she took her cell phone from her purse and went downstairs.

  Ace was standing in the empty alcove to the right of the bar. He’d brought a chair and set a cardboard box on it. He was taking a picture off the wall. It was the framed yellowed front page of a newspaper. The headline read: LANGDON—MISSILE CITY, USA.

  “Hey. You could help me take these down and wrap them. I promised them to the county library.”

  “Can I see?” she asked as she left her phone on the bar and came forward. He handed over the frame. Nina scanned the page. A picture of the town’s main street. A map showing Sprint, Spartan, and Safeguard sites.

  “See?” said Ace. “They put in the Minutemen in the late sixties, so then they started building the ABMs to protect the Minuteman silos. That’s how the bar came about. They built this big trailer park for the construction crews right across the road. This place used to really jump back in ’71, ’72.”

  Nina noticed that he was unguarded, remembering—there was a softness to the depths of his eyes that was at odds with his physical persona.

  “Yeah,” he went on, “the population of the town doubled. The work crews brought their kids, and we had students in our schools from every state in the union.” He took the framed page back and wrapped it in newsprint and put it on the box. “Mom used to joke how we had a rush hour when the crews changed shifts. Just like in a big city.”

  It started as a tightness in her chest and traveled up into her throat, her chin, and tugged on the corner of her lips. A feeling of…what? Was it sadness? No, more like trespass.

  I wouldn’t feel like this, goddammit, if he was more…bad.

  But he wasn’t.

  Or was he? Who was George?

  She remembered seeing him earlier with the pistol. Casual, charming, putting it away, never mentioning it.

  “Dad brought in the equipment dealership, thought he was going to really cash in on all the construction contracts. But then, like a lot of things around here, it all sorta dried up and blew away.”

  He pointed to another picture, a massive snarl of interlaced steel reinforcing rods. “Nixon’s pyramid. Government put out close to two hundred million bucks for that pile of concrete. Just south of town at Nekoma. I’ll show it to you if you’re still around. Was supposed to house the radar for the ABM system. Never used it. Jimmy Carter. SALT II.”

  Nina looked away, saw another newspaper page under glass. A quote in the center of the page: “If North Dakota seceded from the Union it would be the world’s third-largest nuclear power.” She turned and studied him, wrapping faded mementos in newsprint. What was he doing? Dallying with her? Pretending to accept her and her sad little personal story?

  If he was who they thought he was, he had to be suspicious.

  “Is there any coffee left?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said, not even looking up from his wrapping. “Gordy keeps a Mr. Coffee in the office.”

  She walked directly to the office, went in; there was a desk, computer, fax machines, printer…and wouldn’t you know it?—next to the phone: a caller-ID unit.

  A second later she pushed the review button. The data materialized on the tiny gray screen, a time, today’s date, the number, and a name: Khari George. She grabbed a pen off the desk, removed a Post-it note from the pad beside the phone, scribbled the number, then slipped it under her shirt and into the waistband of her panties. The coffeepot sat on the edge of the desk, half-full of black tarry liquid. She selected the cleanest-looking one from a lineup of several mismatched mugs, filled it, and went back into the bar.

  As she came out, Ace was reaching up with both hands, his back to her. He was taking down a faded military pennant that showed a wedge of stars and the wreathed heading: 321 ST MISSILE WING.

  Seeing him like that, back turned, vulnerable, she had the impression that he was dismantling and packing away pieces of his own life, not just picture frames. She remembered his blithe bar chatter about depression. And how Gordy sounded suspicious of her. Yet Ace was casual to the point of folly. She remembered a suggestion from his dossier; that his charming drinker’s act was likely an attempt at self-medication.

  What if she were stalking a cripple?

  And if so, was it an advantage or a disadvantage? What would Broker say?

  Ace turned, saw her watching him, and asked, “Are you all right?�
� Just then she heard Gordy’s truck pull up in front. A second after that, her cell phone rang.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Broker did not enjoy the smile on Jane’s face, or the way she relished each word she spoke: “You know all about domestics, right? What we have in mind is the domestic from hell. You’re pissed, hurt, and dead tired. You’re the perfect estranged husband.”

  “The bar is called the Missile Park,” Holly said. “Shuster’s got a pad on the second floor. It’s just west of town on the highway, on the left. Go in there and read her the riot act.”

  “Yeah, make it real, take it to the edge.” Jane chanted her encouragement like a cheerleader as she punched numbers into her cell.

  “I get the impression you and Nina can come across as pretty authentic. Like, real pissed at each other,” Holly said.

  “We’re counting on it,” Jane said, cell to her ear, and as her call went through she sneered into the phone, “Hey, bitch, where are you?” Pause. “Why am I not surprised. Yeah, well, your old man is here to take Kit back. He’s coming down to drop off your things.” She turned to Broker, winked. “She says go fuck yourself.”

  Jane ended the call, then released Kit from captivity in the bathroom. Holding up pruned hands like fulfilled prophecy, Kit hopped on the bed, captured the TV remote, worked into the cable menu, and found the cartoons. Almost immediately the Road Runner honked his signature beep-beep on the TV.

  Broker went over and kissed his daughter. She half-responded; brows knit, wrapped up in her cartoon, she said, “This is where the boulder falls on Wile E. Coyote.”

  “Great,” Broker said without enthusiasm.

  Holly clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a worn leather travel bag. “Some of her stuff. Go.”

  Swearing under his breath, Broker plodded out into the strange town, the immense hovering sky, the almost liquid humidity.

  He was a realist, he told himself. He was attuned to ruthless practicalities. He didn’t court notions like karma. Or destiny. He certainly didn’t believe in poetic justice.

  But this sure as hell felt like payback.

  And he could imagine Nina smiling as she pictured him acknowledging the uneasy sensation of being swept up in someone else’s undercover cliff-hanger. He shifted from foot to foot and stared north, toward Canada; imagined Wahhabi soldiers tiptoeing through the endless wheat with suitcases strapped to their chests.

  It was not out of the question. So…

  Onward.

  Dutifully, he drove down Highway 5, spotted the bar, which was a wreck, and parked the Explorer next to a tan Tahoe that had a dented left-front fender. He got out and hefted Nina’s bag. The Missile Park had seen better times: the porch sagged, bricks were falling out of its facade. Unlike the monument in the park, the badly proportioned missile painted over the door had faded almost to invisible. It was partially obscured by a FOR SALE sign.

  Broker walked up the steps, opened the door, and commanded his heart to start manufacturing ice cubes. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped inside.

  The direct approach. An exercise any kung fu master worth his chi would know as Fool Walks Into Lion’s Den With Pocket Full Of Lamb Chops.

  Musty, dark, layers of slowly rising cigarette smoke. Lots of mirror showing behind the bar. No bottles.

  To announce his entrance he raised the bag to above his waist, opened his hand in a stylized gesture, and let it drop.

  Ka-thunk!

  Three sets of eyes jerked up. Broker ignored a flash of thigh and calf and bare shoulder, the red hair. The flimsy cotton dress. No, goddammit, it wasn’t even a dress. It was a T-shirt with the arms cut out down to her hips almost. He scowled.

  His T-shirt. Then—

  Nina.

  She sat at a table in the back of the room. And he paid no attention to the languid blond guy kinda poured into a chair next to her. That would be Ace. He did take a half-second to register the second guy in the room. He stood behind the bar. Shorter, wide in the shoulders, wearing suspenders—no, not suspenders, a wraparound Velcro back brace. Obviously the guy who did the heavy lifting. Lots of bushy hair. Kept his shirt open three buttons down his chest so the mat of chest hair climbed up like a ratty vine, connecting up with his mustache and his unshaven chin and his sideburns.

  Like a freakin’ badger. He’d probably be the other one the sheriff mentioned. Forgot his name.

  Okay. Broker scanned the room. The bar was in the shape of an L. To Broker’s right, the short leg of the L formed an alcove off the main room. A solitary chair sat in the space with a cardboard box on it. Crumbled newsprint was creeping out of the top of the box.

  Aware that the three of them were fixed on his every move, Broker casually started down the bar, his own attention focused on Nina, who was working through a Method acting exercise about smoking a cigarette. Ace Shuster sat across from her. A newspaper section lay on the table under his elbows. The crossword puzzle. Great. The thinking man’s smuggler. Their heads were bent forward, like comparing notes. Shuster’s hand gestures and body language suggested someone wrestling with the dimensions of an obvious question. Is this gonna be trouble? And if so, how much?

  Broker’s eyes clicked back on Nina. He hadn’t seen her in six months.

  A complex scurry of emotions formed a knot in his stomach. Concern edged out anger; but not by much.

  Nina looked right at him and rose to a half-crouch when their eyes met. Ka-pow.

  Make it real. No problem.

  It had always been there.

  Not a planned marriage.

  A pregnancy, a marriage to sanctify it. A daughter.

  Other people found an equilibrium, hand and glove, yin and yang—complementary energy. Even darker partnerships found a balance—the enabler, the drunk.

  They had never agreed.

  They had always fought.

  They never gave in. Rather than compromise, they had separated.

  All his friends agreed. A match more suited to the boxing ring than the marriage bed.

  And not real good for the kid.

  Auntie Jane and that Hollywood character wanted a domestic? No problemo.

  Broker wasn’t used to seeing her show so much skin. Wasn’t used to seeing her wear makeup. Wasn’t used to seeing her with a glass of whiskey in front of her in the early afternoon.

  She’d relaxed her martial precision into honky-tonk ripeness. No, more than that—a rawness. Palpably, from the set of her hips and her jaw and her eyes, she hungered after something, and this dumb shit Shuster probably thought it was some combination of booze and himself.

  How’d she do that? Was it the funky shirt, the way she held herself? She’d never gone to any trouble to make herself attractive for him. But she was sure laying it on for this pretty-boy asshole.

  Nina lowered her eyes and her fingers touched Ace’s forearm; like just a little scared. So she had added vulnerability to her repertoire. Some mix of catch me, fuck me, I can’t help myself.

  He looked at Shuster’s chiseled jaw and cheekbones, his touseled blond hair, his thick forearms. At exactly the wrong moment an old line he must have used a dozen times when he was younger jumped into his brain. You ever notice how you have the best sex with the worst people?

  As if on cue, Shuster stood up. “My place, my rules,” he said. “Talking is fine. So’s yelling. But no hitting.”

  Broker tried, but failed, to ignore Shuster—because all of a sudden there was real anger, jealousy, and possessiveness churning in his chest. The kind of kid’s stuff that could get a forty-eight-year-old man killed in a North Dakota bar.

  Gordy did a fast eye exchange with Shuster. Shuster cooly warned him off as Broker took a few more steps. Now Broker had Gordy at his back. He stopped three feet from the table and aimed a casual snarl at Nina. “Brought your stuff, hon. Sorry, but Jane wouldn’t part with the motorized dildos, or the whips and chains.”

  Nina just said, “Aw shit. You.”

  He stared at her. �
��So you dumped Jane already.” Then he shifted his attention pointedly to Shuster. “At least she didn’t have cowshit between her toes.”

  Shuster stood up a little straighter, loosened his shoulders, and shook out his hands. Not much, just enough. Broker heard Gordy’s boots scrap the floor, coming around the bar.

  Nina shrugged, definitely raw. “So much for trusting a fuckin’ dike.”

  “Whatever. Look, I came to take Kit home before she’s totally damaged by all this. Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Nina’s voice clotted, she showed her teeth and her knuckles.

  “I’m not doing anything you haven’t done, you asshole.” The challenge in her voice conveyed a pretty convincing picture of a woman who might like to see two men fight on a hot humid afternoon.

  “I want to talk to you—outside,” Broker said.

  Shuster nodded. “Like I said, talk is fine.”

  Broker shot him a look. “Is there a fucking echo in here?”

  Shuster cooly stepped back. “So talk,” he said.

  Broker took a second look at Shuster, sensed Gordy at his back. He had been sizing up men for thirty years, and Ace Shuster looked like amiable trouble. Not dumb, or mean, just low-key dangerous. And Broker’s quick study detected none of the overpressurized compulsion he associated with the true out-of-control asshole or psycho. This Shuster was trickier than that. He had some irony. Some of Holly’s steel behind silk. He’d be full of surprises.

  While Broker was pumping out the ice, Nina was going equal and opposite; fighting off a major meltdown behind her sternum, in the neighborhood of her heart.

  Look at you, you sassy son of a bitch. Been a drag all year and now you’re gonna make your one redeeming move. Like some major-league egomaniac pitcher who thinks he can go the distance, high on bottom-of-the-ninth, bases-loaded, full-count cool—twenty-four hours and here you are, standing in the same room with me.

  “So talk,” Ace said, stepping back to give them room. He made the briefest of eye contact with Broker, saw the bandaged hand, then looked back to Nina. A fast once-over that gave nothing.