“Of course he isn’t a straight cop,” said David, still smiling.
“I don’t know about the other one.”
“I’m a member of AARP,” said Garrison.
“Here’s the deal,” Broker said to David. “It happens I am a temporary deputy in this county, so I can run you in on the dope, which I’ll say I found in the course of investigating the house invasion you pulled on me. You with me so far.”
“But you don’t really want to do that, do you?” said David, still smiling.
“What’s going on, David?” asked Denise.
“He wants to talk to Victor,” said David. “We’re cool. I told you about this guy. It’s business.”
“Smart kid,” said Broker. “C’mon, let’s push this car out of the ditch. Lorn, there should be a shovel around the cabin.” Broker removed the floor mats from the Audi while Garrison went to the cabin, poked around outside, went in, and emerged with a snow shovel.
After digging out, Broker stuffed the floor mats under the bogged tire. Denise got in, started the Audi. Broker, David, and Garrison pushed. The tire bit into the mats, spit them away but picked up the traction to climb back on the road.
“Now what?” asked Denise.
“Take off. Tell your employer to call me. I’m in the book.
And no rough stuff, or David here will be decorating the bottom of Lake Superior.”
She looked at David. Totally self-assured, he nodded.
“Okay,” she said. Then to Broker, “You have some of my property.”
“Sorry, I’ll hang on to the Walther.”
Lurching, brake lights jarring, she backed up the driveway, turned on the access road, and accelerated toward Highway 61. Broker turned to David, who was still smiling, up from North Lake Shore Drive to slum among the jack pine savages. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, huh?”
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.