“You all right?” Harry said.
“No thanks to you, asshole,” Broker said.
“C’mon. It was fun,” Harry said.
The poker guys were now assembled around the Forester.
“You saw the fucking squirrel, right?” Harry said.
“What’s that?” they asked.
“When the tow truck gets here, a couple of you will be witnesses and mention a squirrel ran across the lot, and I swerved to miss him, and I hit the wall.”
“Got it.”
On full alert now, Broker waited at Harry’s elbow while the call was made. Harry handed the keys over to the guy who kept track of the game in his little black book, along with instructions about where to take the car. Then he said to Broker, “Don’t suppose you want to stick around till the truck gets here?”
“No, Harry. Right now let’s get you separated from your support group here,” Broker said.
Harry adopted a slightly wavering stance, eyed Broker, and said, “You used to have more hair, didn’t you?”
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
“Okay, okay. Aw, shit. One last thing.” Harry grimaced and slowly raised his cell phone. Entered a number. Waited. “She ain’t home, got the machine.” He paused, took a breath, and adopted a contrite tone. “I have some bad news, Annie; got in a small car wreck. I’m okay, but your Subi sustained a little front-end damage. I’m off to the lock ward at St. Joseph’s to take the cure so check with Stillwater Towing. I told them to take it to the dealership in White Bear Lake.” He gave the number for the towing company and then said, “I’m real sorry.”
Harry tapped the phone off, inhaled, exhaled. “I suppose now she’ll be pissed. Aw, I never got much past the missionary position with her, anyway.” Then he fished a Lucky from his pocket, and a pack of book matches. Slowly, Harry tore out a match and drew it along the striker.
Broker could hear the individual teeth rasp in the friction as the match ignited. The flame was almost invisible, blending into the dense amber air. Harry took two quick drags, then flipped the cigarette away, tucked in his shirt, smoothed his belt line, and turned to Broker.
“Okay, okay. I suppose I can’t put this off any longer, huh?”
Broker pointed to his truck. “C’mon, Harry; get in out of the heat.”
Chapter Ten
Broker eased the Ranger from Ole’s driveway into traffic on Highway 95. He actually felt better after the physical exercise of preventing Harry’s escape. He felt a kinetic hum in his muscles. He was smiling as he waited for the A/C to kick in.
Harry came down with a fit of shaking and filled the cab with a meaty scent of sweat, alcohol, and Mennen’s aftershave. Sweat dripped down his brow and streaked his cheeks. His eyes flitted. His nose began to bleed.
Broker reached over, opened the glove compartment, took out a small box of Kleenex, and handed it to Harry, who wadded some of the tissue and stuck it in his nose. Suddenly he looked like a sick kid. He said, “It had to be you.”
“That’s a song,” Broker said.
“Yeah, an old one,” Harry said.
Abruptly, Broker pulled to the shoulder in a spray of gravel. When the truck stopped, he rested his weight forward on his forearms against the wheel and slowly turned his head. “So what’s it going to be? More fun and games?”
Harry shrugged. “What I meant was, John sent you to rub it in.”
“Maybe a little,” Broker said.
Harry shook his head. “Got to be more. John can be mean- but he ain’t petty.”
“You tell me,” Broker said.
Harry’s smile struggled to arrange his unreliable facial muscles and failed. Some blood dripped from his nose and streaked his neck. He reached for another Kleenex and said, “You’d like that, get me talking about the Saint, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah we would,” Broker said. So Harry knew about the medallion along with everyone else.
Harry fumbled with his pack of smokes, and the shakes raced down his arms and spasmed in his fingers. Trying to extract a cigarette, he snapped it in half. More carefully, he took another one out. Then the book of matches defeated him. His agitated fingers couldn’t manage the flimsy cardboard match and striker. Broker took the matches and gave Harry a light.
Broker hit the window controls to vent the smoke; the glass hissed down, and the lava air pushed in. The smoke just hung in place. He glanced at the matchbook, which had a red-and-blue Toucan on it: Treasure Island Casino. He put the matches in his chest pocket.
“Okay,” Harry said, “one of the guys at the game told this joke. There’s this couple on their way to get married, and they get in a fatal car wreck.
“So they’re up in heaven at the Pearly Gates, and they get to talking, and when St. Peter shows up they ask if they can get married in heaven.”
Harry puffed on the cigarette, blew a clot of white smoke into the muggy air.
“St. Peter says he isn’t sure; he’ll have to go check. So he leaves, and they wait and wait a couple of weeks. While they’re waiting they began to speculate-like getting married in heaven has a terminal feel to it. If it’s really forever, what if it doesn’t work?
“So they’re talking this over when St. Peter finally gets back. Yes, he tells them, you can get married in heaven. That’s great, they say, but we were just wondering, If it doesn’t work, can we get divorced in heaven?
“St. Peter is drag-ass tired, so he loses it and shouts: Give me a break; it took me a month to find you a priest up here. How long will it take to find a lawyer?”
“Funny,” Broker said.
“And relevant,” Harry said. He flipped the cigarette out the window and tried to hold Broker’s eyes in a direct gaze. “You were going to be a lawyer; what happened?”
Broker looked away from the sputtering light in Harry’s eyes, back at the road, and said, “I don’t get the St. Peter joke.”
“Yeah, you do. John’s got a dead priest with a medal in his mouth. Christ, I know the Saint case better than anybody, but John’s shipping me to the alky ward.” Harry shook his head. “And at the last minute he sends you in like a shock treatment to see if I’ll give something up. Is that a cry for help or what?” Harry’s forced laughter degraded into a coughing fit; he gagged, leaned out the window, spit several times, fought off the dry heaves, and flopped back into the seat.
“So who’s the real sick fuck in all this?” Harry said weakly, his face turning pale. He began to shake. His eyes darted. “I know it sounds bad, but I need a drink.”
Broker put the truck in gear, stepped on the gas, and pulled back onto the road. “Just how bad you want a drink?”
Harry, trembling in the tropical heat, hugged himself. “That ain’t funny.”
Broker studied him from the corner of his eye. John had said push hard. “Why don’t I grab a couple bottles; you and me go park under a cool shade tree, have a little chat,” Broker said.
Harry stopped hugging himself to raise both hands and scratch at his cheeks. “No shit. Feels like I got fire ants under my skin,” Harry said.
“Drown ’em in Jack Daniel’s.”
“C’mon, Broker, don’t fuck with me, I know what you want.
“So it’s the hospital; well, I’ll just have to come visit. Out at the VA I hear they have people sit with guys who are drying out with the DT’s; keep them from chewing their lips off,” Broker said.
“Name, rank, serial number. C’mon, driver, take me to St. Joe’s. I ain’t afraid,” Harry said.
