“It’s like
“Christ, our guys go to jail, and they wind up taking computers apart. We should be getting into tractors.” Shank laughed. Then he looked around and nodded. “This is a real squared-away shop you got here.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, well”-his voice dropped a decibel-“you figured out that I ain’t here to buy tractors.”
Gator wasn’t sure whether to respond “yep” or “nope,” so he just nodded.
“Okay,” Shank said, looking Gator pointedly up and down. “We asked around, got the book on you when you were inside. You were a stand-up guy. When OMG leaned on you for some favors, you were practical.” Shank paused, sipped his coffee, his pale eyes burning into Gator over the rim of the cup. “You ever meet Danny?”
“No. I spent most of the time in Education, was an assistant in the Vo Tech Shop.”
“Yeah, I spent some time down in the basement doing slave labor for MinnCor; built those goddamn hay wagons, some docks for the DNR. So you never met him, huh?”
“Just saw him at a distance, in the chow hall.”
Shank cut him with a hard look. “As far as you’re concerned, Danny’s watching you right now through my eyes. You with me?”
“Yeah, hell.” Gator shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever it takes.”
“You help me now, it’ll pay off later. But right now, first things first.” Shank crossed to the alcove, reached in his jacket, took out an envelope, and returned to the desk. He removed a stack of color photographs and spread them on the desk. “Your move,” he said to Gator.
Gator studied the pictures. Bunch of bikers hamming it up for the camera, including a younger Danny Turrie and Sheryl showing lots of tanned skin and fucked-up eyes. His index finger smacked down on the lean guy with the shovel. “Broker,” he said.
“You sure? The picture is pretty old,” Shank said.
“That’s him. I saw him close as you and me are standing, a couple days ago. That’s him. Those eyebrows…”
“Okay. This kind of thing, you gotta be sure. So, where is he?”
“In a lake cabin near town, about twelve miles south.”
“What’s it like, the layout?”
“Secluded, thick woods. There’s houses two hundred yards on either side, but hidden away. County Twelve runs right in front of the place, but people up here notice strange cars. This time of year, they’ll come out and look just to see who’s driving by. I’d go in through the woods, there’s a ski trail. Be real quiet, with the snow.” After a moment, he added, “Lake ain’t iced over. I suppose you could go in by boat, except I don’t have one.”
Shank reached to the fax machine on the desk, peeled off a sheet of paper from the tray, took a pen from the desk blotter, and handed it to Gator. “Draw it-the lake, the road, the trail, and whatever you know about the house.”
Gator stared at the sheet of blank paper like it was an entrance exam. Balked and said, “We should go in the house. I got a county map with the ski trail to scale.”
Shank nodded, retrieved his coat, and picked up his bag. “Let’s go.”
A few minutes later they were in the farmhouse, standing around the kitchen table, on which Gator had spread out the county map over the half-done puzzle. Shank summoned Sheryl, who stood off to the side, sipping a cup of tea. “C’mon, you’re part of this.”
Swiftly, Gator marked significant reference points; an X marked his house, a second X located Broker’s. He circled the trailhead turnoff of County 12, indicated the relevant portion of ski trail with arrows between the trailhead and Broker’s cabin. Then Gator stepped back and stood next to Sheryl, waiting while Shank leaned forward on his locked arms, like a general pondering over a tactical problem. Just then the kitten made an appearance, hopping lightly up on a chair, then onto the table.
“Fuckin’ cat,” Gator muttered, coming forward.
Shank slid a hand under the kitten, expertly palming it over and cradling it belly up along his forearm. “It’s okay. I like cats. Only animals I get along with.” He gently eased the cat back on the chair and watched it jump to the floor and pad into the next room. Then he looked back to the map. “Cell phones work up here?” he asked.
“Yeah. They built a couple towers for the summer people,” Gator said.
“Okay.” Shank reached into his bag and took out three cell phones, handed one each to Gator and Sheryl, kept one for himself. “These are cold-we lifted them from people who are on vacation. Let’s get our numbers straight.”
They turned on the phones. The displays showed normal service. Gator snatched a piece of paper and pen off the counter and made a list-Shank’s number, his number, Sheryl’s number. Then he copied it three times, folded the sheet, tore it in thirds, and handed out the individual lists.
“Now,” Shank said, “we do a dry run. Check the travel time going in on the trail, make sure the cell phones work. Make sure he’s there. Then we go back for real. You with me?”
Gator chewed his lip, unable to disguise the pained expression on his face.
“What is it? C’mon,” Shank asked.
“Well, the whole reason this happened, how I got the warrant is-Broker’s kid had a fight at school with my brother-in-law Jimmy’s kid. Then Broker and Jimmy got into it in front of the school. And the sheriff saw it. My sister asked me to kinda fuck with him, like payback. That’s how I wound up in his house and found the warrant. So if something happens to Broker, one of the first people they’ll look at is Jimmy and probably me.”
“And?”
“Jimmy’s no problem, he’s on the road all day picking up routes. But maybe I should be someplace public, like be seen having dinner in town, you know.”
Shank thought about it. “Makes sense. But you go in with me on the trial run, make sure I can find my way in and out. Make sure Sheryl can find the house when I call her to come pick me up.”
“Ah, if somebody sees your car-” Gator said.
“It ain’t my car. It’s like the phones. Stolen. It belongs to a Carlos Izquierdo, who lives in Excelsior. He’s in Ireland selling Snap-On tools. We took his car from long-term parking at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. We got this gal who works at a travel agency, gives us leads on people who are out of town.”
“Ah,” Gator said.
“And I don’t give a fuck if someone remembers
“What about-” Sheryl started to say.
“You?” Shank interrupted. “I thought of that. You can stay here, or I can drop you in a town farther south, where you can rent some wheels. It ain’t your job to drive back with me.”
“That’s cool, but what about, ah…the guy’s got a wife and kid,” Sheryl said.
Seeing the strangled expression on Gator’s face when Sheryl said that, Shank raised a calming hand and said patiently, “This ain’t the time to be sentimental, Sheryl. What about the wife and kid Jojo never had-you think of that?”
“You got a point,” Sheryl said quickly.
“Any more questions?” Shank asked. “No? Then I got one.” He reached in his bag, withdrew a stumpy dense SIG-Sauer nine, and cradled it in his palm. “Where do snitches get it?”
“In the mouth,” Gator said, like he was reciting an oath.
“Good,” Shank said. “Remember that, and we’ll do just fine.”
As Gator changed into his long underwear and winter camos on the mud porch, Sheryl stood next to him, nervously smoking a Merit. “Probably shouldn’t a said that about the wife and kid,” she said.
“No shit. This guy’s got his own ideas.”
“I hear you,” Sheryl said between puffs.
Gator sat on a stool and pulled on his boots. When he’d laced them, he stood up, picked his cell phone off the workbench, selected Cassie’s number, and pushed send. When she answered, he said, “It’s me. Yeah. Look,
