by Chuck Logan
David shrugged, continued smiling. They walked him back to Broker’s house.
71
The lights were still out in Broker’s house, but the propane furnace kept the grayness a comfortable sixty-eight degrees.
They stripped off David’s coat and sat him down on a kitchen chair. Garrison placed the electrician’s briefcase in front of him, opened it, showed him the pictures, the videotapes.
David yawned.
Broker and Garrison signed with their eyes. Garrison stepped back. Broker took a deep breath, composed himself, gave Daddy the afternoon off, popped the lid on a crypt in one of his compartments, and invited his old self out to play.
He held up the picture of David and Denise breaking into Ida’s. “The woman who lives there? Did your people work her over? She’s in intensive care. She might not make it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said David.
Broker tapped the briefcase. “Did you bug her place?”
David held up his hands, wondering. “Not a clue.”
“Did you sneak in here the night of the storm, put a bug in my house?”
David smiled and ran his hand through his thick blond hair. He cocked his head. “Do you know who my dad is?”
he asked sincerely.
Garrison removed a wooden box from under his coat and placed it on the table. A scrolled crest graced the cover. Cigars. David came forward, protesting, “Hey, those are mine.”
He reached. Garrison smacked his hand with the butt of the Remington. David winced, withdrew his hand.
Broker opened the top and perused the ornate logo on the inside of the cigar box. Fabrica de Tabacos de H. Upmann and Habana. And if that wasn’t enough, in smaller letter, in English: Made in Havana-Cuba.
“We owe it to ourselves,” said Garrison.
They both grabbed a Corona. Broker bit off the cap on his. David watched in horror, as if Broker had just chewed the head off a kitten.
“My dad gave me those,” he asserted. The slight tremble in his voice encouraged Broker. Garrison struck one of his blue tip matches; they lit up and blew a thick cloud of smoke into David’s face.
The Havana seed shagged Broker’s palate like the burning manifests of Spanish galleons. He stepped back to let a million taste buds die happy deaths. Assessed David. “You aren’t going to tell us who beat up Ida Rain, are you?”
“Who’s Ida Rain?”
“He’s not going to tell us,” said Broker.
“What are you going to do, beat me up?” David smirked, shook his head. “Look, guys. I grew up here. But my dad-he grew up over there.” David curled his Adonis eyebrows: “He killed a whole province in Afghanistan once.”
A little dizzy from the Havana, Broker turned, opened a drawer, pulled out a roll of duct tape and threw it to Garrison. “Wrap him tight to the chair.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” David started to get up. A sharp ripping sound. A loop of tape lassoed his neck. Garrison yanked him down, whipped the tape around his arms, feet, and thighs. Pinned him to the chair.
As Garrison trussed David, Broker took the Ziploc from his pocket and plopped it on the table. “Hey, David, let’s get high.”
“Sorry, don’t use it.” Hand it to the kid, he had some nuts.
So far.
Broker opened the Ziploc, wet two fingers, dipped and rubbed the white powder on his gums. Touched his tongue.
After the Havana, the vitamin was sacrilege. Smiled. “Mount Everest, you sure?”
“Positive,” said David.
Broker turned his back, fiddled with the Ziploc to disguise removing the folded paper cup from his pocket. Carefully, he swabbed up two fingers with the real. Slipped the crushed cup back in his parka pocket and faced David. “Hold his head.” Garrison locked David’s head in place. Broker gently dabbed the powder into David’s nostrils. David fought against Garrison’s restraining grip, blinked, sniffed. His eyes watered slightly as the tiny ice picks of cocaine stabbed his sinuses.
Garrison released his hold. Broker mussed David’s hair.
“God, he’s so pretty. He looks like that kid in Titanic, don’t he?”
“Yeah,” said Garrison. “What happened to that kid?”
Broker smiled. “You know, he drowned like a fuckin’ rat.”
David squirmed slightly, but maintained his haughty sangfroid. His father’s son, braced for a beating. Broker opened a cabinet, withdrew a glass quart-size orange juice canister, selected a tin one-cup measure from the rack over the stove and began to shovel white powder into the juice container. When he’d put in three cups, he held it up, squinted, juggled it around. Then he opened a plastic bottle of spring water, filled the container, screwed the top back on and handed it to Garrison. “Here, shake that up, would you?”
While Garrison shook, Broker took a wet dishcloth THE BIG LAW/411
from the sink and filled a glass with water. He placed the cloth and the glass on the table. A touch of color crept into David’s cheeks. Controlled fear. Curiosity.
Broker returned to the counter, hunted in another drawer and found a large plastic funnel. He placed the utensil alongside the other items on the table. Kitchen trip.
His Havana had gone out. He chewed it, hands on his hips. “I’ve never been to Afghanistan. But I can show you a trick I learned in Vietnam.”
He came around to David’s side, turned him and tipped the chair back until David was at a forty-five-degree angle against the table.
“For some reason, this works better when you’re tilted back,” said Broker. “Maybe it adds to the disorientation.” He slapped the damp dishcloth over David’s nose and mouth.
After a moment, David started to squirm. His blue eyes swelled. Broker sympathized, “Little trouble breathing, huh?
The idea is to give you just barely enough air to stay conscious. It really messes with your mind.”
David coughed and sputtered, tried to thrash his head, but Garrison’s viselike hands returned and held him immob-ile.
“Now,” said Broker, “we can sit here while I add water, drop by drop; but you have to come from a culture with four thousand years of history to develop the patience for that.
This is the 1990s, so we’re going to speed things up.”
He removed the cloth. David gasped, coughed, sputtered,
“You…guys are…crazy.”
“Absolutely,” said Broker. “Lorn, is the cocktail ready for David here?”
“Right you are,” said Garrison, picking the juice canister off the table and handing it to Broker.
“Um good, nice and thick.” Broker nodded. “Hold David there, will you.” Garrison wedged the chair against his hips, grabbed David’s head in both hands. Broker picked up the funnel. David, eyes swelling in recognition, clamped his mouth shut. Broker pinched David’s nose until he had to open his mouth to breathe. “Thank you,” he said, jamming the funnel between his perfect teeth and deep down his throat. David writhed, gagging against his bounds as Broker explained, “You ever hear about the body packers, David? The dummies who swallow balloons full of cocaine and carry it through customs in their intestines. Sometimes those balloons break…”
“Oww,” Garrison grimaced.
“Yeah,” said Broker, rolling the Havana in his lips.
“Massive overstimulation-the big O, I mean”-Broker snapped his fingers-“that fast. Seizure. Your ticker maxes out. You, ah, ready to blast off, you snotty little punk.”
Broker picked up the canister and splashed white malt into the funnel. David, eyes bulging, neck veins pumped up red, put out a pint of sweat and trembled with a mighty effort to wheeze it back out. The funnel bubbled. His eyes signaled frantically, going from side to side. Broker withdrew the funnel. “Yes?”
David spit the residue from his mouth. Gagged, trying to make himself vomit. Broker cupped his hand over David’s mouth. “Now, you going to answer some questions?”
David nodded furiously, smothering. Broker lifted his hand. “Didn’t bug t
he woman on Sergeant…just checked for mail, address books, diaries…Dad figured this James dude is too smart to use the phone.”
Broker let some of the liquid spill on David’s cheek. He cringed away. “What about beating her?” asked Broker.
“Not us, not us,” David gasped. “Honest.”
“Okay, so where’s the bug in here?”
“I feel sick,” wailed David.
“You didn’t get that much. But your pupils are starting to dilate.” He turned to Garrison. “Maybe we could get him to the Clinic, have his stomach pumped. Whatta you think?”
Garrison nodded. “Sure, we could do that. Where’s the bug? How come I didn’t find a tape recorder in your cabin?”
“Nauseous, really…Okay, not a mike: a wireless discreet camera…fish-eye lens. Transmits over normal radio waves.”
His head jerked toward the living room. “Behind the dragon’s eye, aimed at the telephone in the kitchen…set to a TV
channel nobody uses up here. We picked it up on the set next door. Taped it.”
Garrison crossed the room in long strides, climbed on his whittling chair in front of the hearth and pulled a black object from behind the sculpture. The camera sprouted a small antenna and was the size of a cigarette pack
Broker glanced at his dragon, furious. “You were watching me on TV?” He raised the juice canister. “Die, you Communist.”
“I’m not a Communist, I voted for Dole!” David protested, convulsing, huge tears spilling from his eyes. “My dad was a Communist, but only because he had to.”
Broker timed David’s sobs, inserted the funnel, bore down, and poured half of the white liquid down his throat. They watched him try to hold his breath, to fight it. Broker tickled his throat. Finally, choking, he swallowed.
They sat the chair up and turned it around facing the table.
He was hyperventilating, eyes swollen; strangled puking sounds hiccuped deep in his throat.
Then Broker raised the container and drank some of the mixture. When he finished, he smacked his lips so he left a white mustache on his upper lip. David watched, gasping.
Broker reached in the cupboard, removed one of the supplement containers, sifted some residue through his fingers for David’s edification. Then he held it in front of David’s bulging eyes until he quieted enough to read the ingredients.
Broker smiled and patted David on the head. He was almost certain now that David’s crew had not jumped Ida.
Garrison took David to the bathroom to clean up. Broker called Halme’s North Shore Travel Agency in town; Gretchen, wife to Dale Halme, the county deputy, answered.
“Hi, Gretchen, Phil Broker. What’s the quickest way to get to Santa Cruz, California?”
He waited while the tap of computer keys plotted a solution. Gretchen said, “There’s an eleven A.M. flight to San Jose tomorrow-but I’ve had those get canceled if they’re not return booked on the other end. Safer bet is a Northwest daily flight to San Francisco. Leaves four-fifteen our time, gets into San Francisco six-forty-five Pacific time.”
From looking at the Atlas, he figured a two-hour cab ride from San Francisco to Watsonville.
“Get me a seat on the flight to San Francisco tomorrow,”
said Broker. He finished up with Gretchen, gave his VISA numbers and expiration, thanked her and hung up.
He had a strong notion who’d hit Ida. Also, who might have been in his house. And what Keith meant. The signal of the rings.
“Papka-they’re not cops. They’re crazy, no, I mean, they’re psycho.” David, somewhat recovered, sat unbound in the chair and clutched the phone with both hands. His knuckles were white pennies under the skin and the air was thick with Garrison’s cigar smoke. David handed the phone to Broker.
“Hi, how you doing,” said Broker.
“If you’ve harmed my son…” The controlled urbane voice conveyed great resources of retribution. A slight rumble of accent had been filtered through layers of education.
“You mean this weasel who’s been spying on me? It’s not what we did, Mr. Konic, we just spooked him. He’s a little pussy, is all. It’s what we’ll do.” Broker frolicked briefly in the undercover biker persona he’d used ten years ago.
He felt loose, ready. He used to excel at this kind of thing.
Fast, developing, dangerous.
“So,” said Victor Konic.
“So, you stuck your nose in my business in a rude way,”
said Broker. His voice changed, less confrontational, more businesslike. “If you want something. Ask.”
Konic answered directly in the same tone of voice, “Did you find James?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“You know, I need to question him about Caren Angland’s death,” said Broker.
“Right,” said Konic, settling in, enjoying the negotiation.
“Okay,” said Broker, “we want the two million dollars we suspect he took, but you won’t let us have that, will you?”
“No. The money must be returned to its rightful owner.
It’s a matter of…business. And reputations.”
“I have a reputation, too. Half,” said Broker. Across the table, Garrison curled his forefinger into his thumb in an
“okay” gesture.
“We know about your reputation, and it’s only worth twenty percent and you get to live,” said Konic.
“Forty and David gets to live.”
“Thirty,” said Konic indifferently. “Take it or leave it. I have other sons.”
“Thirty,” Broker said to Garrison. Garrison shrugged and tugged the brim of his brown hat down over one eye, drew on his Havana.
Back to Konic: “I want to talk to him alone. I’m serious about taking his statement.”
“What a hypocrite. But agreed. Provided you are not recording.”
“I need an excuse for going out there.”
“And where is that?”
“You know what I look like?”
“We had pictures made.”
“I’m arriving in San Francisco tomorrow at six-forty-five their time. There should be regular flights to San Francisco where you are. I’m flying Northwest flight one-eight-nine from Minneapolis. We had pictures made, too. I want to see you personally. But not before I talk to James. Understood.”
“Agreed.”
“When I get back, we let David go.”
“Fine. What about the money.”
“We don’t know where the money is, that could get complicated. We’ll have to convince James to tell us.”
“Fine. Give me the flight again,” said Konic.
“Flight one-eight-nine. Call their automated flight information and check the gate. I’ll be wearing Levi’s, a Levi’s jacket”-Broker paused, reached across the table and plucked the brown Mickey Spillane hat off of Garrison’s head and put it on his own. It fit just fine-“and a brown felt hat, narrow brim, you know, the kind the FBI wore in the 1950s, chasing Commie spies. You think you can spot that one?”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I’ll tell you what’s funny. We have some waterfalls up here. People go in, they’re never seen again. My partner’ll put your kid in the Devil’s Kettle if you cross me, Konic.”
“Take it easy, we checked you out. We know you. A deal’s a deal.”
Broker glanced away from the table, across the living room at the twisted tenth-century dragon. Hello, Keith. Shake hands with darkness.
72
They had a deal. The unspoken part of the deal was that James was going to die.
Broker had not shared the story of the rings with Garrison.
But Garrison had called it. Women have bad luck around Tom James.
Tom James wasn’t going to die because Konic’s people wanted revenge on a rat. Or because he could endanger a deep FBI undercover operation by telling the truth about Caren Angland’s death.
You know who did it, but you can’t prove it.
Keith had missed. Broker wouldn’t.
He drove to Duluth to catch the shuttle to Minneapolis and his connection to San Francisco.
The trip carried him back into that zone he’d tried to escape, where ordinary life became so many silly commercials you passed though on your way down to the basement to bang on the backed-up human plumbing. The public wanted Asshole Control. Keep the shit moving in an orderly manner through the pipes. Out of sight, so they could pretend life was like Prairie Home Companion. Like public TV.
So here he was again. Learning more than he’d ever wanted to know. And not the kind of knowledge that necessarily makes you wise. More like vampire droppings you cleaned off your shoes after working sundown to dawn, marching up dim stairways into the mystery of other people’s lives.
Eventually you found it all out. Who the mayor was sleeping with. The governor. Even the archbishop. You kept a list of the guilty ones you couldn’t quite catch. You kept your weapon clean and your traps baited.
The strain got to her, Keith had said. Back at the beginning. Same thing he’d said fourteen years ago. The strain got to her then, too-except that time, Broker was the one working undercover.
Broker preferred a window seat, to watch the plains coil up into the Rockies. But he had the aisle. Two teens with California tans sat between him and the window. They wore T-shirts with splashy logos that advertised an amateur bowling tournament in Bloomington, Minnesota.
They both had cassette player plugs screwed into their ears. They both played the same handheld video golf game.
They were ignorant of, or bored with, the Rocky Mountains.
He landed in San Francisco on time, carrying nothing but a light overnight bag with a change of underwear and toilet articles. An intense muscular young man shadowed his arrival. He had curly dark hair, a gold chain around his neck, wore a green running suit, Nikes and did not hide the blue star tattoo on his left hand. He had touched Rasputin eyes.
A poet-priest who kills people.
Without acknowledging each other, they walked slowly through the terminal. Broker sensed there were others. He yanked on the brim of his brown hat and followed along to the cab stand.
