“That’s beer, Alex.”
“What kind of beer?”
“Molson beer. You can read.”
“What kind of Molson beer?”
He let out a long sigh. “American Molson beer.”
“Where’s my Canadian beer, Jackie?” We have this little arrangement. Whenever he goes across the border, he picks me up a case of Canadian Molson. He’s not supposed to be selling Canadian beer in the United States, but he keeps a few in the cooler, just for me.
“I ran out of the Canadian,” he said. “I’ll get you some more tomorrow.”
“You’re supposed to keep an eye on it,” I said. “You’re supposed to let me know if you’re getting low.”
“Like I got nothing better to do than to monitor your personal beer supply.”
“No, Jackie, as a matter of fact you don’t. That should be your number one priority in life.”
“Just drink the goddamned American beer, will you? I swear, I’m gonna make you put on a blindfold some day, see if you can even tell the difference. I’ll bet you five hundred dollars you can’t.”
The door opened before I could take him up on his bet. A blast of cold air swept through the room, and a man walked in who was just about as welcome as the cold air. Leon Prudell.
“Oh yeah,” Jackie said from the bar, “I was supposed to tell you. Leon Prudell was here last night looking for you. I told him to come back today at lunchtime.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
Prudell came over to the fireplace and sat down in the chair next to me. “How’s it going, Alex?”
“Prudell,” I said.
“Call me Leon, ay,” he said. He hadn’t changed much. He was still all, flannel and messy orange hair and that yooper twang.
“Leon. What can I do for you?” The last time he showed up here, he drank a great deal of whiskey and then he tried to take me apart in the parking lot. Come to think of it, that was the same night my whole life started turning inside out. I hoped his coming into the bar again wasn’t an omen of more of the same.
“I just wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I got a business proposition.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t even try.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about getting back into private investigation, ay. I really miss it, Alex. I mean I still have my license and everything. Here, I had these made up.” He handed me a business card. It read “Leon Prudell, Investigation, Security, Bail Bonds.”
“You’re serious,” I said.
“I thought it would be a good idea to add the bail bonds in there. Did you know that there are no bail bondsmen in the whole county? Until me, I mean. If you had to get bailed out of jail, you’d have to wait for somebody to come up from Mackinac.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“Alex…,” he said. He gave the room a quick scan and then he bent his head closer to mine. “Alex, here’s the way it is. I’ve been trying real hard to be an investigator again, because it’s what I love to do. And I think I’m real good at it. I helped you out that one time, remember? Getting into that guy’s house? You could tell I was pretty good at that kind of stuff, right? Am I right?”
I looked at him. “Yes,” I finally said. “You knew what you were doing.”
“Okay,” he said. “But the problem is, most people, they look at me and they don’t see that. You know what I mean? They look at me and they think of that goofy fat kid who used to sit in the back of the class.”
“Prudell-”
“Alex, I’m not saying I remind them of that goofy fat kid. I’m saying I was that goofy fat kid, okay? Everybody I went to school with, they’re still in Sault Ste. Marie. They still see me like that. You know how hard that is to deal with?”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be my partner.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Are you kidding me?”
“McKnight-Prudell Investigations,” he said. “Although, I don’t know, maybe Prudell-McKnight sounds better.”
“Prudell, come on…”
“Okay, McKnight-Prudell. We’ll put your name first.”
“Just stop,” I said. “Please.”
“We’d be perfect,” he said. “You’re an ex-cop. You look like an ex-cop. You’re not from around here. You don’t talk like you’re from around here. And you’ve got that.” He looked at my chest. “You know, you’ve got that bullet thing going for you.”
I just looked at him.
“You really have a bullet in there, right?” he said. “Next to your heart? Do you have any idea how great that sounds? People hear that, they think, ‘Now this guy is like somebody out of a movie.’ ”
“Yeah, that’s kinda what I was hoping for,” I said. “That’s exactly why I let myself get shot in the first place.”
“No really, Alex-”
“Just stop right there,” I said. “Listen to me. I don’t want to be a private investigator. It’s the last thing in the world that I want to be.”
“I get it,” he said. “You just don’t want to be my partner.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. I just don’t want to be one. Becoming a P.I. was the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life, you understand me? Nothing but bad has come of it.” I wasn’t about to tell him the whole story. I didn’t even like thinking about it.
“Will you think about it?” he said. “Will you do that much at least?”
“There’s nothing to think about,” I said. “I’m not a private investigator anymore. And I’ll never be one again.”
“Fine,” he said. He got up from the chair and put his coat on.
I tried to stand up. My legs had other ideas. If Prudell ever wanted another chance to kick my ass, today would be a great day for it. “Look,” I said. “If anybody ever asks me about it, I’ll send him your way, okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “You do that. Thanks a lot.”
I gave up and sat back down. Prudell left the place, slamming the door behind him.
“What was that all about?” Jackie said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just ruined his life again.” I took a drink of my American beer and nearly choked on it. “Goddamn it, Jackie. I am not going to sit here and drink this.”
“Canada’s thirty miles that way,” he said, pointing north. “You know the way.”
“I might just do that,” I said. “As soon as I can walk again.”
I sat there for another couple of hours. The place started to fill up with snowmobilers. I overheard a lot of talk about which trails were smooth and how fast the Yamaha was compared to the Polaris compared to the Arctic Cat. It was fascinating. Finally, when I had heard enough about fucking snowmobiles and I was tired of sitting next to a perfectly good fire with a fucking pathetic American beer in my hand, I told my body that it was moving whether it liked it or not. “I need some air,” I said to Jackie as I left. “I’m going to Canada.”
“Don’t bother coming back,” he said.
“In your dreams,” I said, and then I was out in the cold air, snowflakes coming down like a million white butterflies. I stood there for a long time, just listening to the silence. It was hard to even imagine the storms of November, the constant sound of the waves pounding on the rocks. And now, nothing. No sound. Just snow.
Then suddenly, from the woods, the silence was ripped apart by the whine of a hundred-horsepower engine. God, I hate snowmobiles.
I climbed into the truck. It was too hard. It hurt too much. Just climbing into my stupid truck. I yelled at myself, banged the steering wheel with both hands. You used to be an athlete, goddamn it. What happened to you?
This is some mood you’re in, Alex. What’s the problem? A little muscle soreness? A little lactic acid overload in the bloodstream? Is it the thought of three more months of ice and snow? Maybe it’s Prudell, that look on his
