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.