The Last Kind Word (16 page)

“Who's Brian?”

“Brian T. Fenelon. Her manager, boyfriend, pimp, I don't know what, except that he's a creep. Why?”

“I think he's headed this way.”

Josie turned in her stool to see a short man with thin hair wearing a rumpled sports jacket over a colored T-shirt as if he were channeling
Miami Vice
reruns. He moved toward us with the swagger of an athlete who had let himself go, who believed he could still play the game despite the fat that settled around his middle. Claire was a head taller than he was, yet she draped herself on his arm in a way that made me regard her planned marriage to Jimmy as wishful thinking on his part.

“You Dyson?” he asked. His voice reminded me of the high-pitched yap of a fox terrier. “I thought you'd be taller.”

“How the hell does everyone know I'm here?”

“Shhhh,” Josie said.

I glared at her. “Why? Someone's maiden aunt in International Falls hasn't heard yet?”

“Whoa, big fella,” Fenelon said.

He rested his hand on my shoulder. I didn't know if it was meant to be friendly or intimidating. I jerked my shoulder free and gave him my best “don't touch” scowl just the same. He swiveled his head and decided that too many people were watching.

“Let's grab a booth.”

We sat, Claire and he on one side of the wooden booth, Josie and I on the other. I finished my Sam Adams and set the empty bottle on the table in front of me. Fenelon spit on his hands and rubbed them together before leaning forward across the table.

“I don't want to waste your time,” he said.

“I appreciate that,” I told him.

“I know what you're planning. I want in.”

“Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't be like that. I can help you.”

“Help me what?”

Fenelon leaned in closer and whispered. “Help you rob an armored truck.”

I glared at Josie again. “We need another meeting,” I told her.

“I know everybody in the county,” Fenelon added. “Everybody. I can be a big help to you.” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening before whispering some more. “You and me, we could run this town.”

“Isn't that what the Emperor told Darth Vader before they started building the Death Star?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I've had
Star Wars
on the brain lately. Listen. Brian, your name's Brian? I don't know what you've heard—”

“Jimmy told us everything, and I'm telling you, whatever you need, I can get it for you.”

“Whatever Jimmy told you, it's just talk. It doesn't amount to anything.”

“Then why are you still in town where anyone who knows your name could drop a dime on you?”

“That sounds like a threat.” I turned to Josie. “Does that sound like a threat to you?” I turned back to Fenelon. “Did you really mean to threaten me, Brian?”

“No, no, no, of course not. I'm just saying, I can help you—or I can hurt you.”

“Ahh, you can hurt me. As long as we have that settled.”

“Brian,” Josie said. She didn't have the chance to finish her thought before Fenelon cut her off.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” he said. “No one is talking to you.”

I picked up the beer bottle by the neck and smacked Fenelon on his balding head. I hit him hard. Not hard enough to kill him, just hard enough to demonstrate my displeasure—the bottle didn't even shatter. There was a satisfying thud against his skull that sounded like a rock landing in soft dirt, and Fenelon jerked back against the wall of the booth before slipping out onto the floor. His falling out of the booth was what caused people to stare. I carefully set the bottle back on the table. Josie's eyes widened as if she had just discovered that one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World was parked in her front yard.

“He was harshing my mellow,” I said in my defense.

Surprisingly—at least it was a surprise to me—Josie showed more concern for Fenelon than his girlfriend did. Claire watched him fall out of the booth without saying a word, took a deep drag of the cigarette she wasn't supposed to be smoking, and swung her impressive legs over the edge of the wooden bench like she was about to stand, but didn't. Instead, she looked down on her boyfriend's sprawling body and shook her head slowly as if it were a sight she had seen so often that she had grown bored with it.

I slipped out of the booth and knelt next to Fenelon. His hand was massaging his injury. His eyes glazed over.

“What?” he said. “What?”

I leaned in and whispered. “You're right. I need you. I need someone who knows his way around. No one can know we're working together, though, especially Josie and her people. Call me names. Tell everyone you hate my guts and you're going to get me. I'll contact you through Claire and tell you what I need in a couple of days. Don't let me down.”

“You bastard,” he said. I helped him up and he pushed me away, one hand still massaging the spot on his head where I hit him. There was a big red knot, but the skin was unbroken. “You sonuvabitch, I'm going to get you. I'm going to fuck you up.”

The bartender came to the booth in a hurry. “What's going on here?” he asked.

“Fucker suckered me,” Fenelon said. “Hit me with a bottle.”

“I didn't like the way he talked to Josie,” I said.

“What did he say?” the bartender asked. I told him. Apparently the bartender didn't like it, either. He turned Fenelon around and shoved him toward the door. “I told you I didn't want any more trouble from you. Now get out.” Claire followed dutifully. I trailed behind, listening to Fenelon's loud albeit wholly unimaginative litany of epitaphs and threats. Outside the bar he turned on me.

“I'm not finished with you,” he shouted. It was an impressive performance. You couldn't even tell he was acting, but then Fenelon was just playing himself, wasn't he? I gave him the thumbs-up sign in a way that only he could see it and stood watching while he retreated to his car. Across the county road I noticed that the third armored truck had been returned to the terminal, the other vehicles had disappeared, and the enclosure was now locked tight. After watching Fenelon spin his wheels on the loose gravel and drive off, I went back inside.

Josie had returned to our original stools at the bar. I joined her there. She looked at me as if she didn't know whether she should be impressed or angry. After a few silent moments, she asked, “Did you do that for me, hit Brian for insulting me?”

“Yes.”

“I don't believe you.”

“There's no reason why you should.”

“What if he calls the police?”

“He won't,” I said.

“What will he do?”

“Whatever I tell him.”

“How do you know?”

“Greed. The only thing that makes a man act more stupidly than a beautiful woman is greed.”

Josie studied me for a long moment and then motioned to the bartender and ordered another vodka Collins.

*   *   *

I waited until the ball game was over, about twenty after twelve, before settling the tab and leading Josie outside. She was unsteady on her feet. I poured her into the passenger seat of the Ford Taurus, went to the driver's side, and proceeded to activate the GPS loggers.

“I can't figure you out, Dyson,” Josie told me. “You're such a nice guy and then you're such a shit. I can't figure that out. You can't be both. How can you be both?”

“Practice,” I said. “Stay here.”

“I want to help.”

“Stay in the car.”

“Dyson?”

“What?”

Josie took my face in both of her hands, kissed me hard on the mouth, drew back, giggled, and brought her hand to her lips.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no. I didn't mean to do that. You should go. You should go right now.”

“Stay here,” I told her again.

I crossed the country blacktop after making sure there were no vehicles coming that might catch me in their headlights. I opened my padlock and took it off the chain, being sure to lock it again so there would be no confusion later. Once inside the enclosure, I tagged the bottom of the back bumper of each of the three armored trucks with the magnetic boxes containing the GPS loggers. I returned to the gate and rechained and locked it using Mesabi's padlock. Less than five minutes passed before I was once again settled behind the wheel of the Taurus. Josie was slumped against the passenger door, snoring softly.

*   *   *

Josie stirred, sighed, and mumbled something incoherent as I lifted her from the passenger seat. Her head lolled against my chest, and I carried her to her home. She was not heavy. Still, her body was slack, and that made it difficult, especially when I had to unlock the front door and haul her across the threshold. I carried her upstairs and laid her gently on the bed. As I looked down on her body, a lot of things came to mind that I could do, all in the guise of making her more comfortable. I did none of them except remove her shoes and drape a quilt over her. I went downstairs to her living room and settled on the sofa—I knew how to get to her home from Buckman's but not to the lake cabin, so I was there for the duration.

Life shifts, doesn't it, I told myself, as the days pass and circumstances change. If I had remained in St. Paul with Nina, my life would have continued unaltered. I would never have given Josie so much as a passing glance, much less a thought. Yet I came up here at the behest of the ATF and now I found myself thinking of her affectionately, thinking of her in ways that invited disaster.

You've got to get the hell outta here,
my inner voice warned me.
Get out before you do something that you'll have to keep secret for the rest of your life.

 

EIGHT

I woke early, went upstairs, and cleaned up as best I could in the bathroom without disturbing Josie, then snuck back downstairs again. I found the ingredients and made coffee. While it was brewing, I rummaged through Josie's refrigerator, where I found eggs and shredded Swiss cheese in a plastic pouch. There were hash browns and breakfast sausage in the freezer and onions in the cupboard. I chopped the onions and sausage and fried them up. When the sausage was no longer pink, I added the browns, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and cooked them until they were heated through. I took the mixture off the heat, added the shredded cheese, and stirred the ingredients together until the cheese melted. I poured the mixture into a brownie pan and made four indentations with a spoon. I cracked open the eggs and poured them into the indentations without breaking the yolks. Afterward, I put the pan into the refrigerator.

While I waited, I explored Josie's home. It was neat and tidy, or at least neater and tidier than my place. For someone who claimed she didn't read, Josie had a surprising number of books, including a volume of poetry by Carol Connolly, the poet laureate of St. Paul. She had a lot of framed photographs and posters on her wall, too, most of them of Paris.

I heard Josie stirring upstairs, so I preheated the oven. When it reached 350 degrees, I popped the egg dish inside. Twenty minutes later I called to her. Josie came into the kitchen wearing a pale blue terrycloth robe and nothing else that I could see. Her face had been washed, but not her hair, which stuck out at odd angles.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. She didn't seem surprised by my presence, just annoyed.

“I didn't know how to get back to the cabin, so I slept on your sofa.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

I filled a coffee mug and set it on the table. She sat down across from it and took a sip. “This is good,” she said.

“Of course it is.”

She drank it with both hands. “Last night—did we?” she asked.

I fought the impulse to tease her. “No,” I said.

“I didn't think so.”

I carved out a square of the egg dish with a spatula, slipped it onto a plate, and slid in front of her.

“What's this?” she asked.

“Breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Try it.”

“I said I'm not hungry.”

“I need you to eat.”

“Oh, you need me to eat, do you? Like suddenly that's the most important thing in your world.”

“I need you to feel better than you do now.”

“Why?”

“If we're going to spend the day together I don't want you to be all cranky because you have a hangover. Now eat.”

She did, reluctantly taking a forkful and then another. “Dammit, Dyson,” she said. “This is delicious. You cook better than I do; you make better coffee…”

“I'm practically perfect in every way,” I said. I was quoting
Mary Poppins,
but Josie didn't catch the reference.

Nina would have,
my inner voice said.
She wouldn't have a hangover, either—she knows how to drink. And if she did have a hangover, she'd still look terrific. She doesn't even own terrycloth.

Don't you forget it, I told myself.

We ate together in silence. To break it, I mentioned the photos and posters of Paris on the walls.

“The one of the Eiffel Tower is my favorite,” she said.

“It looks even better at night,” I said.

“You've been to Paris?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Couple years ago.”

“Did you like it?”

“Very much. I didn't really see that much of it, though. Just the tourist stuff.”

“Can you speak French?”

“A little. I'm better with Spanish.”

“I want to go to Paris so bad. After this is over … Have you ever thought about going back?”

“Many times.”

Josie drank her coffee and ate her breakfast. The air vibrated with all the words she left unsaid.

You have got to get out of here,
my inner voice told me yet again.