The Drifter (20 page)

“I thought you weren’t supposed to do that.”

Zolot gave him a look. “Are you supposed to? No. Can you? In about a hundred different ways. And did I mention he inherited a big chunk of her wealth?”

Jesus, thought Peter. “So, any advice?”

“Yeah. Don’t let him come up behind you with something pointy. I would guess he’s capable of anything, but you’ll never catch him at it.”

“Shoot first, is what you’re telling me.”

Zolot flashed a ferocious grin. “Who, me? I never said that.”

The truck shifted on its springs as the dog moved in the back, hearing Peter’s voice.

Zolot peered speculatively at Peter’s rocking Chevy. “What you got in there, a fucking water buffalo?”

“Listen,” said Peter. “Two questions. One, if I get close to something, you want in?”

The heat of rage and violence came off the man in a wave. The grin got wider.

“I thought you’d never ask. What’s your second question?”

Peter said, “Who’s your old partner?”

T
he Riverside Veterans’ Center looked different in the daylight. The masonry shell of the building was badly damaged. The cream-colored brick was cracked and bulging in lumpy waves as it slowly separated from the structure beneath. Chalky white stains cascaded down from the parapets, signs of water leaking through the caps or the roof. Someone would have to take the veneer apart brick by brick to get it right. Do that or tear the whole building down.

But the paint was fresh on the veterans’ center’s windows, and Josie, the helicopter pilot with the ponytail and a different pair of paint-spattered jeans, was cleaning the glass with a mop and a squeegee. Bare wet hands on a cold November day, and intent on her work.

Peter said, “Can I give you a hand with that?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Just like the Marines,” she said. “Showing up when the tough job is done. This is my last window.”

“What about lunch?” he asked. “Have you eaten yet? I’m buying.”

She smiled. “Let me buy you lunch. There’s a pot of chili on the stove inside.” She watched his eyes. “We can haul some chairs out here if you like. Have a picnic.”

Peter took a breath. “Thanks. But I’ll come inside. You were going to give me the tour.”

“Yes, I was.” She picked up her bucket and tossed the dirty wash water into the street. “By the way, the lunch won’t be free,” she said. “I’ll be demanding some work hours out of you down the road.”

Peter opened the door for her. “I’ll do what I can.”

Inside, Peter saw the man with the shaved head and long beard she called Cas sitting at the same desk, typing furiously into his laptop. “Is he always here?”

“He lives here,” Josie said. “I’m not here all the time, but I don’t think he’s left the building for more than a few hours since he showed up a few months ago.”

“What’s he writing, a book?”

“I asked him.” She smiled. “He called it a manifesto.”

“That doesn’t sound good. What’s it about?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it. He’s pissed off about the financial crisis, how the banks broke the economy. He’s hard to follow. I gave up talking to him about it. I wouldn’t worry about him. I think his meds are pretty strong.”

Walking toward the back hall, Peter’s eyes caught the swirling grain of the unfinished plywood. His chest began to tighten immediately.

She must have seen something in his face. “Why don’t you go sit by the front windows?” she said. “The afternoon light is really great. And I’ll get us some chili. You want jalapeños and cheese?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was right, it was better by the windows, although he could still hear the clacking of the keys on Cas’s laptop. The chili was spicy, full of flavor, and Josie had a way of looking at him that
made him feel like she could see something inside of him. Maybe something not quite evident to Peter himself.

He really wanted for her not to be involved with this thing.

“You coming to the march tomorrow?” She had a smear of chili on the corner of her mouth. He wanted to reach out and wipe it off, but he didn’t.

“What march?”

“Duh,” she said. “Veterans Day. There’s a march to the War Memorial. We’re all going. The center will be closed up for the day. We start at Veterans Park at ten, it goes until two. There’s gonna be a polka band and bratwurst and everything.” Her grin made her look fifteen years old. “You should come. It’ll be awesome.”

“Tomorrow’s busy,” he said. “But I’ll do my best. Gosh. Polka music and bratwurst.”

“And everything.” She punched him in the arm. “Don’t make fun.”

“Never,” he said, rubbing his biceps. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something. You remember about my friend Jimmy?”

“Who killed himself.” She nodded, serious now.

“Yeah. Well. I think he was hanging around with another guy. A black guy, with scars on his face, missing one earlobe. Does that ring a bell?”

“That sounds like Boomer. Kind of a loudmouth. He was friends with Cas, they used to sit and talk.”

“Was? He doesn’t come around anymore?”

She shook her head. “Boomer claimed somebody stole something out of our lockers. He ran around yelling at people, starting fights. But he never would tell me what was taken. I had to kick him out. He was being an asshole.”

“You have lockers?”

“Sure,” she said. “Some of our guys are homeless, and they need a place to keep their stuff. I roughed some boxes together out of scrap lumber and cheap padlocks. Not super-secure.”

He stood up. “I think I’m ready for that tour.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “It’s not much.”

The white static roiled up when Peter came to the plywood wall, but he pushed it down and focused on his breathing. The plywood hall opened into a makeshift living space. There was an improvised kitchen on one side, a dented fridge, an old electric stove, and a few secondhand cabinets. Then two rows of bunks and footlockers, made of plywood and two-by-fours, and at the far end of the room two doors. On the side wall was a cheap hollow-core door. On the back wall was a giant iron door, much older and heavier, crusted with rust flakes.

Josie waved at the cheap door. “Bathrooms through there, again, not much, we could really use some help with those. You know anything about plumbing?”

“Enough,” he said. “What about that door? That big iron monster?”

“No idea,” she said cheerfully. “Although we might have to get it open one of these days. I think we’re going to need to expand.”

“How are you funding this place?”

“Funding?” she said. “What funding? I walk around and knock on doors and ask for donations. We found the couches on the curb. I talked an appliance repairman out of the fridge and stove. Sometimes I buy food with my combat pay. But when the cold weather comes we’ll get a lot more guys. We’ll be stacking them like cordwood.”

“What about rent? Construction, permits, all that.”

She laughed at him. “You don’t get it. There are no permits. We’re completely under the radar. The building’s owner walked away from it, I can’t even find who owns the place. The Health Department doesn’t even know we’re here.”

“It’s a squat? The whole place is a squat?” Although occupying an abandoned building was definitely one way to keep the rent down.

She shrugged. “Fuck ’em. We’re doing real work here. Besides, it’s always better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

He could picture her behind the stick in a flight suit and helmet, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, cutting the hard contours of the Afghan mountains. He thought she must have been very good at her job.

“What about the neighbors? Nobody wondered who you guys were?”

“That resale shop across the street called the cops on us about four months ago. We hadn’t gotten all that organized yet. The city sent some guy who came in and looked around. He was pretty nice, actually. He said not to worry about permits and permissions. Said if I was serious about helping veterans, just put up a sign outside, start doing the job. Fix the place up like we were the real thing. If the building’s owner came forward, deal with that when it happened. He even came back a week later with business cards for us.”

“He bought you business cards?”

She shrugged. “Someone left them by the door, I figured it was him. He seemed to want to help. Like I said, he was a nice guy.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“I only met him once. Dan? Dan something, from the city.”

Or maybe Sam, thought Peter.

“Tall and skinny?” he asked. “Wearing a really nice suit?”

“I guess,” she said. “Clothes aren’t really what I look for in a guy.”

Either she wasn’t part of this, thought Peter, or she was a really good actress.

She said, “Hey, after the march tomorrow? Some of us are going to the Landmark. Shoot some pool, have some beers, tell some stories. You want to come?”

“I’d love to. Really. But I have kind of a busy day tomorrow. Can I let you know?”

C
rossing the street from the veterans’ center, he saw the tan Yukon parked at the curb, Lewis in the shadows, leaning against Peter’s truck. Leaning without leaning, ready to move at any time, but looking as still and patient as if he’d spent a week waiting, and was ready to spend a month more.

“Time to make the doughnuts.” Lewis wore his black suede jacket, but no hat. If he felt the cold of the wind, it didn’t show. “Found your black Ford. An Excursion, all chewed up on the driver’s side. Put a GPS beacon under the back bumper. Find it again whenever you want.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “GPS beacon?”

“Had it lying around,” said Lewis. “Syncs to my phone.”

“Tell me.”

“Called in a favor and had a guy look up the plate. Registered to a black Ford Excursion owned by some guy in West Bend. Bernard Sands, retired dentist, never even had a parking ticket. Living in Florida, planning to put the house on the market in the spring.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yep. Told ol’ Bernie I was an insurance broker, trying to save him a few bucks. He won’t do business with a brother, though.
Anyway, I drove to West Bend. House closed up tighter than a frog’s ass, that Ford locked in the garage. But there’s a different plate on Bernie’s bumper. That plate registered to James R. Bond, in Milwaukee.”

“James R. Bond?”

Lewis nodded. “Not his real name. Doesn’t exist anywhere else. Got no credit cards, owns no property, no Social Security number. No criminal record. No James R. Bond with that date of birth found in any open state or federal database.”

Peter looked at him. “I thought you were some kind of armed robber or something.”

Lewis smiled his tilted smile and put a little extra street in his voice. “Maybe I is, maybe I ain’t. But a man can’t make no kind of living these days without a computer.”

“So how’d you find that Ford?”

“Drove around. Kept my eyes open. Finally got lucky and found it parked. Stuck my GPS on it. Haven’t laid eyes on Mr. James R. Bond. But that Ford ain’t moved since I found it.”

“So where is it?”

Lewis’s eyes gleamed. He was clearly enjoying himself. “You want to know where it is?”

“Yes, Lewis, I do. Where’s the fucking Ford?”

“Parked around the corner.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“So you gonna sit on it, or am I?”

Peter looked at his watch. He had something else he wanted to do, and the timing was important. “How good is that GPS?”

“Good enough. My phone’ll let me know if that Ford starts moving. And where it goes.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded at Lewis’s Yukon with its elaborate tubular steel bumper. “Are you legally connected to that truck?”

Lewis eyed Peter suspiciously. “It’s my damn truck,” he said. “Why you asking?”

“I’m asking if the plate and registration have your name on them. If it could be traced back to you if something happened.”

“Nothing gonna happen to that truck,” said Lewis. “That’s a police special, bought at auction. Cop engine, cop suspension, cop tires. I love that damn truck.”

“You’ve seen my truck,” said Peter. “It’s a classic, but not exactly tactical.”

“No shit, jarhead. But you ain’t driving my truck.”

“Hey, that’s fine,” said Peter. “You can drive if you want. All you had to do was ask.”

Lewis gave him a look.

“It’ll be fine,” said Peter. “Really. But first I need someone to take care of the dog.”

“What, you got one of those little toy poodles? Won’t it fit in your purse?”

“You’ll like him.” Peter walked around to the mahogany cargo box, taking out his keys. “You’re not carrying a hamburger in your pocket, are you?”

“Man, I don’t like dogs.”

Peter turned the key and unlatched the cargo box door. Lewis backed away the whole time. Mingus punched the door open with his nose and launched himself out of the box like a guided missile. He landed four feet from Lewis at full stop, crouched, growling.

“What the fuck!” Lewis had bent his knees and brought up his hands automatically.

The growl ramped up past tank-engine levels as Mingus showed the serrations of his teeth. He had a lot of teeth.

Lewis slowly reached behind him for the Glock tucked into his belt.

“Better not,” said Peter, enjoying the moment. “He’s a lot faster than you.”

Lewis stilled his hands, eyeing the animal. “What the fuck kind of dog is this?”

Peter smiled. “His name is Mingus. He was Jimmy’s dog. I kind of inherited him. But he doesn’t listen to me. He pretty much does what he wants.”

“You jarheads are fucking crazy.” Lewis was pinned in place by that growl.

“Mingus?” The dog cocked an ear back, willing to listen, but kept his focus totally on Lewis. “You ready for some dinner?”

Mingus came out of his crouch, licked his chops, then yawned, showing fangs like a maniac’s knife collection, bright with saliva under the streetlight. He stretched, then trotted around and jumped effortlessly through the open window of Peter’s truck.

Lewis had his breathing under control. “This is why I don’t fucking like dogs.”

“Why don’t you follow me to Dinah’s house. But stay in your truck when we get there,” Peter said. “She’s going to be mad enough at me without her seeing your ugly ass.”

—

“You want me to what?”

Dinah stood in her open doorway, blocking access to the house, a look of horror on her face.

Mingus sat on Peter’s foot, panting happily, his teeth gleaming in the dim porch light. Peter realized that this was the first time Dinah had seen the dog without the rope-and-stick contraption. The dog looked less ridiculous without it. And more dangerous.

“It’s just for one night,” said Peter. “Maybe two. I brought his food.”

“Peter, that dog terrorized this neighborhood for weeks.”

“I think he was just hungry,” said Peter. “He’s actually a nice dog. Very protective.”

“Peter, if you think for one minute—”

“Mom, who is it?” Charlie came to his mom at the open door. Then he saw Peter and the dog. “Mingus!” He pushed past his mother, who grabbed for his arm and missed. The boy dropped to his knees and hugged the dog, who washed the boy’s face thoroughly with his wet slab of a tongue.

“He smells like strawberries,” said Charlie. “You gave him a bath.”

Dinah’s glare could have started a fire. “Peter.”

Little Miles wandered over. “Hello, Mr. Mingus,” he said, and put out a hand to the dog, knuckles up like Peter had shown him. The dog licked his way up the boy’s arm, cleaning off what looked like spaghetti sauce. Miles giggled. Dogs always liked little kids. They tasted like sweat and table scraps.

Dinah sighed. It was the sound of a mother who knows when to give in.

“You better be the one to feed him,” said Peter. “So he knows you’re in charge.”

She gave him the stinkeye. “It didn’t work with you.”

Peter gave her his most winning smile. “One more thing,” he said. And held out the chrome .32 he’d taken off the scarred man.

“No, no.” She took a step away.

“The safety is here.” He showed her. “On, off. Point and shoot.” He held it out again. “Take it, Dinah. Just in case.”

She shook her head but opened her hand. Peter put the gun in her palm.

She held it out from her body like it might explode. “Lieutenant Ash.” The muscles worked in her jaw.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”

She looked at the boys, who were busy with the dog, then at Peter. She reached across the space between them and tapped him hard on the chest with a pointing finger.

“You had damn well better.”