He went to the Land Rover and lifted the hood.
It took about thirty seconds for the sound of the sticking, blaring horn to get a reaction inside the building. A dog barked; some lights went on; movement within. Nolan was waiting, his back to the building, to the right of the door, 9 mm in hand, as the man looked out — a big man, tall, wearing a hunting jacket over a bare chest and shiny blue pajama bottoms. He had a shotgun.
The man was only partway out, the door open, leaning toward the Land Rover and its blaring horn; he didn’t see Nolan, who was behind the partly open door. That was good.
Not good was the snarling dog on the other side of that door, a big dog, from the sound of it, who may not have seen Nolan but obviously sensed him, and knew exactly where he was.
Fortunately, the dog was unable to transfer its knowledge to his owner, who said, “Stay back, Queenie — I’ll let you know if I need you.”
But Queenie had a mind of her own, and as the man stepped out of the doorway onto the gravel, Queenie lurched forward.
Just as she did, Nolan shut the door on the bitch, hard, catching the snapping animal by the shoulders, lodging it there.
“Order it back!” Nolan said, shoulder pushing against the door. The dog, which had shut up for a second, caught by surprise and pain, was barking hysterically, trying to get its big German Shepherd head around to where she could bite off Nolan’s left hand, on the door knob. Above it all, the Land Rover’s horn was going as though this was a jail break.
The guy was standing there, his back to Nolan, but partially turned, glancing over his shoulder to see the gun in Nolan’s right hand. His own shotgun was slack in his hands.
“Order it back, I said,” Nolan said, straining against the door.
“Queenie,” the man said. “Get back.”
The dog’s snapping turned into a quiet growl.
“Get back, Queenie.”
The dog pulled back.
Nolan shut the door. Behind it the dog still growled. Even the blare of the Land Rover’s horn couldn’t drown it out.
The big man in hunting jacket and pajama bottoms twitched, as if about to turn.
Nolan said, “You can’t turn fast enough.”
The guy kept his back to Nolan but turned his head just enough to give Nolan a “Fuck you” look.
Nolan said, “Toss the shotgun. Toss it good.”
The guy tossed it.
“Go fix your horn,” Nolan said.
The guy walked slowly toward the Land Rover. Nolan followed. The guy lifted the hood, stopped the blaring. He shut the hood, then turned and looked at Nolan and said, “I’m gonna...”
“You’re going to shut up,” Nolan said.
The guy did.
“I’m not a thief,” Nolan said, which wasn’t exactly true, but in this case was. “I’m not here to cause you any harm.”
“Go to hell.”
“Lean back against the four-wheel. Put your hands on the hood.”
He did.
“What’s your name?” Nolan asked.
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a contest.”
“Bob Hale.”
“You the watchman?”
He bristled. “I own the damn place.”
“No offense. This van here.”
“What about it?”
“It’s the band’s, isn’t it? The band that played here tonight, correct?”
“Yeah. Correct.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“I don’t know. I’m surprised it’s still here myself.”
Nolan was afraid of that.
“Some of ’em loaded some equipment in a trailer and left,” Hale was saying. “They said the other guy would probably be by tomorrow for his amplifiers and shit, which is still inside.”
“The other guy.”
“Jon. The leader. Had a chance to get laid or something and bugged out. He’ll turn up for his stuff tomorrow.”
There was a sound behind Nolan; he turned, quick, and saw the rear doors of the Nodes van open up.
“Get out slow,” Nolan said. He was standing with his back to the building, which he didn’t like doing, but it allowed him to keep an eye on both Hale, by the Land Rover, and whoever it was climbing out of the Nodes van.
“Let’s see your hands,” Nolan ordered. “Over your head.”
It was a girl. A young woman in a denim jacket and jeans. So the bundle under the blanket had been a small, sleeping person.
“I wanted to make sure it was you,” she said. She was staying near the van. A busty little brunette with a pretty, heart-shaped face.
“You’re Jon’s girl, aren’t you?” Nolan said.
“Not his girl, exactly,” she said, shrugging. “But I’m who you think I am. I think.”
“Toni, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. She seemed surprised that he remembered her name. And a little pleased. “Can I put my hands down?”
“Yes, and come over here.”
She went to Hale.
“Bob,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, which was still leaning back so he could keep his hands on the Land Rover’s hood, per Nolan’s instructions, “this is a friend of Jon’s. I didn’t want to worry you before, Bob... but something’s happened to Jon.”
He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody’s kidnapped him, I think,” Toni said.
“Did you call the cops?” Hale asked.
“Can’t,” Toni said.
“Better be quiet,” Nolan told her.
“Why can’t you?” Hale asked.
Nolan raised his gun.
“Just asking,” Hale said.
Nolan looked at Toni. She nodded. He looked at Hale. He said, “Jon and I are involved with some people who wouldn’t like the police involved. You don’t want to know any more than that.”
“You’re right,” Hale said.
“I’ll put my gun away if you’ll take us inside and keep your dog off.”
“Okay.” Hale shrugged.
“Go get his shotgun,” Nolan told Toni.
She did.
Nolan broke it open, handed the shells to Hale, then handed him the empty gun as well.
He turned to Toni. “Get my shoes, would you?”
“You’re in your stocking feet!”
“That’s why I want my shoes.” He pointed to them.
She got them for him. He put them on.
Then Hale led them into the Barn, commanding his surly dog to heel, which it did, reluctantly.
Hale took them out into the bar, where he turned on some lights. The dog headed for a nearby pinball machine and curled up beneath it and slept; even in repose, it looked like a killer. Nolan asked Hale if he had some coffee. Hale asked if instant was okay and Nolan said fine.
While Hale got the coffee, Nolan got the story of what had happened here, from Toni’s point of view.
“When Jon never got back,” she said, “I went out and found the van was still here. I couldn’t think of anything to do but hope you got Jon’s message, and wait for you to show up.”
“So you waited in the van.”
“Yeah, but I fell asleep and didn’t hear you get here. Didn’t hear you prowling around, either. You say you tried the doors on the van?”
“The ones up front, yes.”
“And I slept right through it. I’m not very good at this, am I?”
“Well, you’re new at it. And I’m quiet.”
“Yeah, you sneak around in your socks. I didn’t wake up till that horn started in. Scared the shit out of me, too.”
“So Julie runs a gambling joint,” Nolan said. “That explains the Chicago connection.”
“What?”
Nolan shushed her, as Hale joined them in the booth with the coffee. The big man seemed almost friendly now. He had even taken the time to put some money in the jukebox; Charlie Daniels was singing something mournful at the moment. But it did serve to give a social flavor to this forced meeting.