“What’s this about?”
“Business.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“For now, keep a steak knife in your apron and keep the nearby tables clear of people.”
“That’s going to be tricky. We’re full every —”
“Trust me. It’s better this way.”
“Anything else?”
“Ice water, how about? My mouth is dry as shit. But do me a favor and bring it in a wineglass.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Jenna gives her a glass and Talia slurps one ice cube after another and crunches them down. She chessboards the restaurant, thinking about how her strategy might change depending on how things play out. Yesno is like a computer they have failed to back up. He knows everything about Frontier’s operations. She’s not here because she’s soft for him, like Johnny. She’s here because she needs him. She hates, more than anything, two things: being disrespected and being told what to do. She’s dealing with both right now and can’t stop clenching and unclenching her fists.
Maybe Walter Eaton just wants a clean transaction. A fair trade. But she doubts very much the meeting will be that clean. She’s been trained her whole life to suspect what someone says is different than what he means. Because nobody is better at hiding things than Minnesotans. They’ll happily give you directions anywhere, except to their own houses. If they hate you, they smile. If they think somebody’s a freak or a pain in the ass, they’ll never say so; they’ll just use words like different. Arguments get swept under the rug, desires play out quietly in dark bedrooms. At concerts, nobody dances or sings along, all of them keeping whatever thrill they feel bottled up inside. Live here long enough, you learn to see below the surface of things. There is subtext hidden beneath every conversation, just as there are fish churning darkly beneath the ice of every frozen lake.
Everybody thinks Talia’s brother is some war hero, a prodigal son returned home to do the family right, but she knows him to be a liar and a loser and a physical abomination. And everybody pretends her father is the patron saint of the Northwoods, but the truth is every halo is forged with a hammer.
She discovered the truth about him when she was still a teenager. The two of them were driving home from a Christmas Eve service at the Lutheran church when, on a dark county highway, a truck roared up behind and flashed its brights and laid on its horn and then nudged them with its bumper hard enough to lurch the car and nearly push them off the road. Her father put on his blinker and pulled onto the shoulder and she asked what he was doing and he smiled at her kindly and said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”
In the side mirror she could see the man climbing out of his truck and approaching. He didn’t look like a person. In the wash of the headlights, he was an angry shadow. He carried a tire iron. With it he shattered their rear taillight, dented the roof, and spider-webbed the windshield, all the while screaming How could you? and How dare you? As this transpired, her father calmly reached under his seat and withdrew a Glock from a spring holster and rolled down the window and shot the man in the mouth.
She cried out as the body flopped to the asphalt. Everything seemed suddenly so quiet when her father turned toward her with blood spotting his cheek. He withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face and said they were safe now. But it was time to clean up. Would she help? She shouldn’t feel bad. We don’t feel bad for a weed that gets clipped by a lawn mower or a mouse that gets eaten by an owl. “Sometimes the people without power hate the people with power. And they will steal that power if it’s not upheld.” They had no choice.
He could justify anything, she learned. His office door had always been closed, and now she understood what happened behind it, as he began inviting her to meetings and asking her to accompany him on trips. These were the days when iron had lost its value, when the mines were shutting down, when the Frontiers were doing everything they could to keep their investments sound and Northfall alive.
There was the would-be mayor whose political campaign they ruined with a prostitution scandal. There was the five-years-clean-and-sober sawmill owner they successfully tempted with drugs in order to kick-start an illegal logging operation that funneled lumber into Canada. The hunting accident that befell the congresswoman; the disappearance of a group of radical environmentalists. She could go on.
Talia is her father’s daughter. But whereas he epitomized what it meant to be a Minnesotan—always calm, stoic, genteel, no matter how black his impulses—she is what she is: Loud. Gigantic. Vulgar. Subtext is a language she doesn’t speak. What she says is what she means. Her inside is her outside. And that’s how she feels their company, Frontier Metals, ought to be. Naked in its ambitions. You want to succeed? Don’t pretend otherwise. Go ahead and rule the world.
Mickey Golden pushes inside the restaurant. Alone. He doesn’t take off his sunglasses. Beneath his leather jacket, one of his arms is in a sling. He goes to the table Eaton had reserved and finds an old couple seated there, spooning up their soup. He turns in a slow circle until he finds her. A stare seals between them. He smiles and holds up a finger and wags it. He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and texts a message one-handed.
She rises as he gets closer and he says, “Look at you. All polite.”
“I always stand up when a lady approaches the table.” She puts out her arms and motions him forward. “Now get over here.”
“We gonna hug it out?”
She stands a head taller than him, but he makes up for his height in the broadness of his shoulders. They lean into each other, pretending an embrace while actually patting each other down. His hand lingers on her waist and in response she bashes his sling and he hisses in pain. “Don’t make me hurt you again,” she whispers in his ear.
She sits down. Rather than going to the opposite side of the round table, he takes the seat beside her and scoots close. He slides a hand under the table, feels for anything that might be duct-taped there. Then he reaches behind her and checks the cushions of her chair. “Satisfied?” she says.
“I am now.”
“Good. Then how about you move to the other side of the table,” she says. “Unless you’re looking to play footsie, I’d personally prefer some distance between us.”
He nods his head toward the entrance and says, “Can’t. Got to leave room for our friends.”
She sees then that Walter Eaton and Yesno have arrived. Eaton removes his Stetson and shakes the snow off it and hangs it on a rack. One of his hands grips the elbow of Yesno, escorting him forward.
Jenna approaches them, smiling her welcome, and they speak briefly. She tucks four menus into the crook of her arm. With a wave of her hand she indicates that they should follow. Yesno stumbles along as if drunk, dragged by Walter. One of his eyes is blotched with a bruise.
The men take their seats in silence, and Jenna snaps down menus in front of them.
“Now that we’re all here,” she says, “can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, wine, beer, or cocktails?”
Walter’s nose and cheeks are purpled with broken capillaries. He keeps his pouched eyes on Talia as he says, “We’re going to need a minute, hon.”
“No problem at all.” Jenna’s smile twitches at the corners. “I’ll let you get settled.”
“Before you go,” Walter says, “you mind taking these away?” He pats the silverware bundled in a red cloth napkin. “Knives make me nervous.”
“Oh, okay. No problem.” Jenna’s eyes meet Talia’s for a moment. “I’ll be back in a few.” She scoops up the silverware and hurries away.
Yesno keeps his head bowed. His breathing is shivery, as if he’s sucking air through a broken straw. A long thirty seconds pass before Talia says, “I already patted down your pit bull.”
“You want to give me a tickle too? You’re welcome to. Don’t got much to hide.” Walter pats his body. “My jeans are tight enough, bet you can read the dates of the c
hange in my pocket.”
“How you doing, Yesno?”
Yesno might have nodded, but it’s hard to tell. She wonders how badly they’ve hurt him, what injuries might be hidden beneath his sports coat. “He’s fine.” Walter claps him on the back hard enough to make him flinch in pain. “Just fine. Ready to go home.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Oh?” Walter says and flips open the menu. “But we haven’t even had a chance to consider our options.”
“Pie’s good. Let’s say we get right to dessert.”
His finger runs down the page and stops and settles on something with a tap. “This trouble between us—it’s gone on long enough. Don’t you think?”
“What do you propose?”
“I’m a businessman. My ultimate concern is the dollar. How about something that would benefit us both instead of costing us both?” He reaches across the table and takes what’s left of her water and swallows it down. “We want a stake in Frontier.”
“You think we’re just going to give you —”
“No. I don’t think that. I’m offering to invest.”
She can’t hide the surprise in her voice when she says, “What?”
“I liquidate everything here. Hand over my equipment and property holdings. Sign over my employees. In return, we own a share of Frontier’s future profits.”
She doesn’t know what to say, so she looks to Yesno; he remains hunched over as if in prayer.
Walter says, “I hate this damn place, if I’m being honest. Y’all can keep your walleye and buffalo plaid, your Vikings and snowmobiles and canoes and polka and whatever the hell else you think makes this frozen wasteland special. Want to wash my hands clean of it all, get back to home. Texas is calling. Longhorn country’s where I belong.”
She doesn’t respond except to pull her wineglass slowly back across the table. “Or maybe I just take Yesno and leave?”
Her eyes are on Walter—who’s giving her a jowly smile—so she doesn’t see Mickey slide a hand into his sling and remove a blade from his elastic bandages. He prods her in the ribs just below the breast. “That’s not going to happen,” he says.
“Tell you what,” Walter says and knocks the table with his knuckles. “You keep thinking about my offer. Because it’s a good one. And while you’re thinking, I’m going to go fetch my lawyer. He’s out in the parking lot and he’s got us some paperwork to look over.” Walter stands from his seat and hitches his jeans. “Back in a jiff.”
The big man marches out of the restaurant and leaves the three of them sitting there.
“Yesno,” she says, then, louder, “Yesno!”
He bobs his head upward and gives her a little smile and only then does she realize how unfocused his eyes are.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says. And then to Mickey: “What’s wrong with him?” She assumed earlier he was merely injured and afraid, but this looks like something else.
“Settle down. We gave him a few heavy doses of Benadryl. That’s all. Guy’s so high-strung. Figured it was better to keep the negotiation mellow.”
At that Yesno slumps over in his seat, fighting sleep. Which is when she notices his sports coat. He always wears one to hide his disfigured spine, but right now he appears to be hiding something else. The coat is buttoned to the breast and a squarish bulk presses against its fabric. “What is that?” she says.
“What is what?” Mickey says.
“Under his jacket. He’s got something on him.” She holds her wineglass two-handed. “What have you done?” She raises her voice as she says this so that Mickey doesn’t hear her snap off the glass’s base.
The blade against her ribs pulls back as he studies Yesno. “I don’t know what you’re yapping about —”
And that’s when she jams the broken fang of the glass stem into his cheek. She was going for his neck, but he jerks away at the last second. The glass grinds and scrapes his molars. He wrenches back with a scream.
She explodes upward and uses her momentum to flip the table onto Mickey. Yesno wobbles and then slumps off his chair and onto the floor. His sports coat splits open. Beneath his white collared shirt, she can clearly see the outline of explosives wrapping his chest.
She doesn’t know how much time she has. Maybe Walter’s plan was to get her to sign the paperwork and then blow Yesno to hell as she drove him home. Or maybe he’s going to take her out now. Take them all out. Mickey seemed clueless when she called attention to the suicide vest. It’s possible he doesn’t realize he’s already a victim.
She hoists Yesno up by the collar and slits a finger down his shirt, popping all the buttons from their holes. The black vest squared with C-4 is now visible. But before she can do anything more, there is a spine-cracking impact as a thrown chair hits her.
She falls forward onto another table and it overturns with a splintering crash. The blur of what’s happening all around her doesn’t really register. Dishes shatter. People scream. Chairs scud out from under tables. From the floor, she pops up into a wrestler’s crouch and tries to split her attention equally between Mickey, charging toward her, and Yesno, turtling across the floor.
Mickey’s sunglasses hang askew. He seems to be smiling, but really his cheek is gashed open to reveal all the teeth on one side. He tries to tackle her, but she pivots with his weight, and they both topple into the central fireplace. The brick ledge bites her back and the screen tears from the chimney and tangles up Mickey’s knife as he tries to jam it into her.
“He’s going to kill you too,” she says. “Don’t you —”
But he’s not listening; he head-butts her in the face hard enough that her nose shatters. Her vision throbs an electric yellow. With one hand she blocks a thrust of his knife and with the other she feels her way blindly into the hearth. She pulls out a flaming log and swings it in his direction. She hears the sizzle of flesh and a high-pitched cry. She smells his hairspray catching fire.
She staggers back toward Yesno. Her mouth is full of blood, and her vision is blurred with tears, but she’s getting her bearings again. “Everybody out!” she screams. “Everybody get the hell out of here!” Though at this point, the restaurant is nearly clear of people except for a few who linger and goggle at her.
Yesno is trying to stand up, holding a chair for support. “Take it off,” she says and rips at his coat and shirt. The fabric tears. Finally she hurls the shed mess of it to the floor. The suicide vest has Velcro shoulder straps, and she tears at them, trying to free him.
Talia nearly jabs an elbow into Jenna when she appears by her side and says, “What can I do?”
“Get him out of here,” Talia says just as Yesno unshoulders the vest. It is the first time she has seen him undressed. His chest is hollow and his back is knuckled over and his skin has a flaky, oniony quality.
“I’m sorry,” he manages to say. “I’m so sorry. I —”
“Shut the hell up and go. Only ones who’re going to be sorry are these assholes.”
By this time, Mickey has recovered. He has only one good arm, but he still manages to chuck chair after chair after chair at Talia. One strikes her thigh and bunches the muscle into a stone-hard cramp. She limps as she dodges away, trying to swipe the chairs aside as they come hurtling toward her. One shatters against the wall. Another hits the entrance to the bathroom with such force that its leg pierces the hollow-core door and dangles there, the world turned on its side for a second.
Her back thuds into the wall and she looks up to see the mounted elk rack. She leaps and snatches the antlers. They snap off with her weight. With a flip of her wrists, she readjusts her grip on them—and now both her hands are clawed. She lets out a howl and so does Mickey and she lunges toward him, raking the air.
* * *
The restaurant is mostly empty, but a line cook, a busboy, and a dishwasher linger near the entrance, watching the mayhem unfold behind Jenna. “Out!” she screams as she ushers Yesno forward. They startle and
hold open the door for her, but she pauses—for just a second—to pluck Walter Eaton’s Stetson off the hat rack. Then she pushes her way out into the white swirl of the day.
The parking lot is crowded with people. Some press cell phones to their ears. Others clutch themselves against the cold and try to squint through the windows. She rushes through them. Yesno’s bare skin steams in the cold.
The snow is falling more thickly now, and it bites at her face and dizzies her vision. She turns in a slow circle and says, “Where are you?” And then she spots the Escalade parked across the street. And the heavy shadow of the man seated in it.
They pass a bench on the sidewalk and she deposits Yesno there and says, “I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t protest, merely draws his legs up and curls into a submissive ball.
Her feet nearly slide out from under her when she steps into the slushy street. But she keeps her footing as she approaches the Escalade from an angle. It is idling, and melted snow weeps down its windows.
Jenna withdraws the steak knife from her apron and arranges it in the cowboy hat’s hollow. When she yanks open the driver’s door, she finds him studying his cell phone and hurriedly punching its screen. He looks up at her with surprise when she holds out his hat and says, “Sir? You forgot this.”
She shoves the Stetson into his chest, and the knife continues into him, nudging through a gap in his ribs. He stares at her in disbelief as blood blooms around the thick wooden handle of the blade. The cowboy hat soaks through with red and takes on the appearance of a crumpled rose.
She retreats a few steps, and at that moment the Lumberjack Steakhouse explodes and the force is such that Jenna sees her reflection crack in the side mirror.
34
* * *
There was a myth in the Northwoods about a black cabin. It was born in the time of the voyageurs, when men would cut through icy waters in their canoes and portage between lakes with hundreds of pounds of furs humped on their backs. Just when they were at their most desperate—sick with fever or lost in the maze of lakes or freezing in a blizzard—the black cabin would appear. Smoke would rise from its chimney. Lamplight would burn in its windows. There was something unsettling about the scabby black bark clinging to its logs and the ghostly moan of its porch boards, but the people in the stories couldn’t help themselves. They had reached a point of desperation. They had to go in. But they never came out.
The Ninth Metal Page 25
