Pretty Girl Gone (17 page)

“Mr. Hugoson—”

“You don’t hear real good, do you, boy?”

He stepped nearer. Somehow he seemed to expand, becoming larger, straighter, harder, with eyes that held all the warmth of an ice pick. He stared at me without blinking so I would know that he was a dangerous man and certainly not squeamish about assaulting a trespasser. It was unnecessary. I already knew he was a dangerous man. I took a step backward as my right hand moved slowly to the spot on my hip where I would have holstered my gun if I hadn’t been so careless as to leave it in my glove compartment.

“News travels fast in a small town,” I said.

“Bad news does.”

I turned to my right, but he was quicker, moving so that the setting sun was at his back and shining directly into my eyes.

“Why are you afraid to talk to me?”

Hugoson strung together a half dozen altogether filthy obscenities that suggested he wasn’t afraid of anything, much less a big city punk of dubious sexual orientation.

“Does your mother know you talk like that?” I asked. It was a horribly lame retort, I know; it was the best I could come up with at the moment.

In response, Hugoson turned his back on me and stepped inside the barn. A moment later an unseen motor hummed and the huge door shuddered, shook, and rolled shut. I cursed out loud. I wasn’t used to having doors slammed in my face, especially such big ones.

Brian Reif had a worn, weary expression that reminded me of a retired civil servant, someone who had been beaten down by ignorance and indifference and ingratitude. I found him inside A-1 Auto across the street from Nick’s Family Restaurant and recognized immediately that he wouldn’t talk to me. At least not civilly.

He was alone, wearing the same dungarees he had on at the Rainbow Cafe, and was working on a nearly new SUV. He came into the office when I arrived, looked at me for about two seconds, turned around, and walked back into the garage. Without an audience, he had no use for a confrontation.

I followed him.

“How did the meeting go after I left?” I asked him. “Sign up any new members?”

He answered by taking an air wrench to the lug nuts of the SUV. The car didn’t need tires, but then he wasn’t changing them, just loosening and tightening the nuts with the air wrench, making noise.

“Mr. Reif . . .”

The noise was so loud I heard it in the soles of my feet.

“Mr. Reif . . .”

I decided I might as well be talking to a microwave oven. I was angry enough to consider whacking Reif on the side of his knee with the heel of my boot, except there was nothing to gain by it. Still, I might have done it anyway if I hadn’t been distracted by the opening bars of “Don’t Fence Me In” played on my cell in between blasts of the air wrench. I recognized the phone number on my display. I returned to the office and answered it.

“Hi, Nina,” I said.

“McKenzie. Tell me you’re not still angry.”

“I’m not angry. I never was.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Then why don’t you come over. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I’d love to . . .”

“Prudence Johnson is singing tonight, one of your favorites.”

“I can’t.”

“You are still angry.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“I’m not in the Cities.”

“Where are you?”

“A couple hundred miles southwest, in Victoria, Minnesota,” I explained.

“You rich jet-setters. The world’s your playground.”

“I really appreciate the invitation, though.”

“What are you doing in Victoria and what is that god-awful noise?”

Reif was still working the air wrench while he watched me, obviously wishing I’d go away.

“Nina, I can’t talk right now.”

“Okay, well . . .”

“I’ll call you later tonight.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I love you,” she said.

I deactivated the cell without replying. I closed the phone and slipped it into my jacket pocket. I gave an enthusiastic wave that Reif pretended not to see and stepped out of the office into the auto shop’s parking lot. It was only about 5:30 but night was already a dark reality. Across the street the bright red neon sign of Nick’s Family Restaurant beckoned to me.

I opened the door to Nick’s, stepped inside, and let the door close itself. It was a big, heavy wooden door that could easily withstand a battering ram. It seemed to fit perfectly with the rest of the restaurant’s decor—scarlet carpet, white stucco walls, false timber beams across the ceiling, and small, high windows built to discourage patrons from throwing one another through them. The bar was shaped like a horseshoe and surrounded by stools with black cushions. There were square tables with four chairs each arranged in the center of the room and a dozen high-back booths along the walls. The lights were dim except for the neon signs behind the bar and mounted on the walls that advertised various brands of beer and tequila, and the air reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume sold for seven bucks a bottle. In the corner, a young woman stood in front of the jukebox, biting her nails as she studied the selections. Her companion at the nearest table watched her intently, as if he were afraid that the next button she pushed would end all life as he knew it.

Family restaurant?
Not my family, I told myself.

Still, most of the booths were filled—most with families—and so were half the tables. Three waitresses moved between them, serving food and beverages. Two men worked the bar, one old, one not so old. I drifted toward the bar. Before I was halfway there the older bartender called to me.

“McKenzie. What’ll ya have?”

That stopped me. There were joints where they actually knew my name. Just not this one.

While I thought about it, the bartender waved me over. He was bald, round, soft, and as milky white as mashed potatoes. Yet his eyes were bright and he smiled like a man who took it as a personal triumph whenever he could make someone laugh.

“I’m guessing you would be Nick Axelrod,” I told him.

“At your service,” he said loudly. It seemed everything he said was loud. He extended his hand and I shook it. His grip was firm but he didn’t try to impress me with it.

“Since this is your maiden voyage aboard the Good Ship Nick, the first drink is on the house.”

“In that case, make it a single malt Scotch.”

Axelrod laughed boisterously.

“Good one,” he said. “Glenlivet?”

“Perfect.” I removed my jacket and draped it over the back of the stool.

“Water, ice?” Axelrod asked.

“On the side.”

For some reason Axelrod thought that was funny, too.

“I’m guessing Coach Testen told you I’d be by,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Tried to be cool, but you could tell he was all hot and bothered. Said a little prick in an expensive leather jacket was besmirchin’ the good name of the Victoria Seven and I should throw your ass out.”

“Why would he say that?”

“I don’t know. You don’t look so little to me.”

“I meant about throwing me out.”

“Coach is probably tryin’ to protect his image. Thinks he’s John Wooden, for cryin’ out loud.”

“He thinks he’s in the same league as the Wizard of Westwood, a man that’s won ten NCAA basketball championships?”

“What can I tell ya? Hey, you know what you need? Roast beef served open-faced on sourdough bread with garlic roasted mashed potatoes and gravy. Yum. Your mother couldn’t make it better.”

“That’s no endorsement. My mother could barely make dinner reservations.”

Axelrod thought that was hysterical.

“The woman could mess up Pop-Tarts,” I added.

If he had been able to reach across the bar, Axelrod probably would have slapped me on the back. Instead, he rapped the bartop with his knuckles and proclaimed, “You’re okay, kid.”

I felt as if I had just passed some important initiation, which was what I was going for: Why else would I insult my mother’s culinary skills?

“Seriously,” Axelrod said, “You’re not leaving here until you eat something.”

“Do you have a salad bar?”

“No, we don’t have a salad bar. This is Nick’s.”

“Someone has to make a stand against healthy food.”

“Damn straight. Hey, Jacey.”

A waitress seemed to appear out of thin air.

“This is my daughter, Jace,” Axelrod said.

Of course I recognized her. The girl from Fit to Print.

“Hi,” she said. Her smile was bright, but brittle. You could smash it with a word. Her eyes had the look of a small animal suddenly confronted by something much, much larger.

“Good evening, Jace,” I told her. “My name is McKenzie.”

“Mr. McKenzie.”

“Jace. That’s an interesting name.”

“My real name is Judith Catherine, but since I was a kid everyone called me J.C. Somehow that was abbreviated to Jace.”

“I like it very much. It’s pretty.”

Jace’s smile became relaxed and warm, her eyes less frightened.

She was a good height for her age, about five foot seven. Her features were small and well turned, not yet beautiful, but beauty was there, like the buds on a rose bush. She smiled as though she had a lot to smile about.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Axelrod said, his voice taking on a conspiratorial timbre. “Jacey’s too young to be working in a place that serves alcohol. Shh . . .”

“Daddy, what’s alcohol?” Jace asked.

“We’ll talk about that when you’re twenty-six. Just remember, what do you do if the police arrive?”

“Buy ’em a drink and take them in the back room?”

“That’s my little girl.”

Jace rolled her eyes. “As if . . .” She turned to me, her pencil poised over the order pad. “What would you like for dinner?”

“It’s called supper,” Axelrod said. “He’ll have the special.”

“It’s supper when you eat at home,” Jace insisted. “When you eat out it’s called dinner.”

This time it was Axelrod’s turn to roll his eyes.

Jace promised to return in a few minutes with my order. Axelrod watched her depart.

“I’m going to miss her,” he said. “She’s at that age now where she’s actually pleasant company, where she has interesting things to say.”

“Is she going somewhere?”

“College. In the fall. You think I want my daughter hanging around Victoria all her life? Don’t get me wrong, Victoria is a great place to grow up and a great place to grow old. In between, for someone who wants to make something of herself—Jace’ll be graduating high school soon. It’s time to move on.”

“You seem to have done all right,” I volunteered.

“Yeah, well, all I ever wanted was right here. I guess you could say I was seduced by small dreams. Jace, though, Jace has big plans, big ambitions.”

“What ambitions?”

Axelrod laughed loudly.

“They seem to change from week to week, but they’re big. Very big.” He laughed some more.

The restaurant continued to fill up until only a few empty seats along the bar remained. Glancing at the other patrons, I discovered that they were all white. I don’t know why I found that so disconcerting, but I did. Maybe Jace had a very good reason to hide her relationship with the Hispanic kid at Fit to Print.

While Axelrod busied himself assisting the other bartender, Jace served the hot roast beef.

“Thank you,” she said when she set the plate in front of me on the bar.

“For what?”

“For what. For not blowing my cover.”

“I take it your father doesn’t know about Tapia.”

“Nobody knows. Not really.”

“Is your dad a bigot? Will he not understand?”

Jace looked at me like I had just slapped her.

“My father is not a bigot.”

“I’m sorry. I thought . . .”

“My father wants me to go to college, that’s all.”

“And you want to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Because of Tapia?”

She nodded.

McKenzie,
my inner voice told me,
you’re an idiot.

Jace busied herself with other customers, while I ate. I had to admit, the roast beef was delicious, and while the mashed potatoes weren’t
quite as good as mine, I ate every forkful—no Atkins Diet for me! Jace eyed the empty plate before she cleared it, glanced at my waistline, then back at the plate again.

“Huh,” she said. “You must work out.”

“Not recently, unfortunately.” I retrieved my wallet. “Should I pay you now?”

“Boss says it’s on the house.”

I opened my wallet, took out a fifty, and dropped it on the tray Jace was holding.

“I don’t imagine that includes tips,” I said.

“That’s way too much.”

“I remember what it was like to be a poor, starving college kid.”

“Thank you,” Jace said.

“You’re welcome.”

She moved away, stopped abruptly, and spun toward me.

“You’re on his side.”

“If I should have a daughter, I’d want her to go to college, too.”

“Puhleez,” Jace said.

Still, despite her outrage, she didn’t return the fifty.

In between drink orders, Axelrod came to visit. He told a lot of jokes—most could be heard by the rest of his patrons—while I behaved like I had taken Good Cheer 101 in college. Eventually, I asked the questions I had come to ask.