Chuck Logan - After the Rain

“Okay, okay,” Ace slowly accelerated past the motel and continued west on 5 toward the Missile Park.

They found Gordy rolling a dolly, wheeling four cases of booze at a time off the loading dock onto a truck bed. He scowled at Nina and went back to work, hairy and furious. Nina turned to Ace and said, “Maybe you’re right. He doesn’t like me.”

They went inside and Nina pointed to the cases of booze stacked along the wall by the basement stairway.

“You got a lot of booze for a bar that’s out of business,” she said.

Ace scratched his head. “Long story. Tell you all about it in the morning.”

Nina gathered herself and followed him up the stairs into the apartment. And-hello-it was much cleaner than she expected. Dishes washed and put away, the drainboard in the kitchen clean. And lots and lots of books. A beat-up, old-fashioned desk and a swivel chair. Another well-worn armchair with an ottoman and a lamp.

No televison.

One whole wall was a blowup photomural of grazing buffalo.

“Moved in here when I split with my wife,” he said as he stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets. She watched him make the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles, folding and tucking in tight hospital corners.

“You sure you weren’t in the Army, the way you make a bed?” she said.

“Prison,” he said.

He took the old sheets out to the couch. Then he handed her a T-shirt and showed her the bathroom. She took the toothbrush from its cellophane wrapper, used his Sensodyne and brushed her teeth, undressed, and put on the shirt. The shirt was an extra-large maroon cotton number that came down to mid-thigh. The sleeves and neck had been cut out way down the side so the shadowed dents and curves along her ribs peeked out.

She folded her clothing and came back into the living room.

Ace smiled and looked her over. “Picked the shirt to go with your hair and eyes.” They stood a foot apart, watching each other.

“Another one of your little touches, huh?” Nina said as she hugged herself. Her word touches turned slowly in the close space between them like a silky scarf, slowly descending. “Now what?” she said, too abruptly, awkward, clearly on edge.

“Good night,” he said simply.

Nina, wary, went into the dark bedroom almost on tiptoe, walking a plumb line to the bed, not wanting to disturb or touch anything, fearing sexual trip wires strung in the dark.

Alert. She braced for him coming through the door.

The first moment of truth came in Detroit two days ago, just after they broke Rashid. They’d had a real quick sit-down with the Colonel, who’d provided the intell that located Rashid. One of the “Squirrels,” a pure intelligence network so spooky nobody knew its origin, the Colonel was their unofficial link to the databases back at the Pentagon. He could not say yea or nay to their preemptive mission. He could only evaluate. He had a chalky air-conditioned pallor acquired in some unnamed Pentagon sub-basement. He’d told them, just the three of them who were the sharp end-Hollywood, Nina, and Jane:

“We believe the intelligence is too provocative to pass up. They may have something, possibly a suitcase; one of those KGB tactical nukes. They could be bringing it into the States through North Dakota. Virtually anybody can claim refugee status and enter Canada. We know there’s Al Qaeda activity in Winnipeg, just to the north of Langdon. So it could already be here, and maybe there’s a fresh trail.”

He told them it was a real long shot. They’d be going into a very fragile intelligence matrix. He concurred with Nina’s plan, given the target, to lead with D-girls. He advised them to plan their approach carefully. He bid farewell saying, “This meeting never happened.” Then he packed his briefcase and departed.

Fragile intelligence matrix.

That meant a small town where everybody knows everybody and strangers stick way out.

The information on Ace Shuster was already spitting out of the fax machine.

Wonderful. He killed a guy in a bar fight. Although, even in the official record, the incident looked like self-defense. But Shuster was convicted and did a year on a manslaughter rap at the state farm.

Then-Jesus-the FBI had pictures of him in the spectators gallery at Waco. This raised the specter of anti-Semitic American militias finding common cause with Al Qaeda.

No subsequent arrests. No known militia affiliations.

Shuster’s father had been investigated repeatedly as a major player in the liquor traffic along the border, but the charges never stuck. He wasn’t breaking any North Dakota laws.

The Colonel had put together a fast synopsis after a consult with Shuster’s former probation officer. Shuster had served his time, went back into the community, and caused no real trouble. He’d had his conviction reduced. Probation described him as an underemployed heavy-machinery operator, and real smart. But the brains went wasted, because he tended to brood and drink. The drinking was probably self-medication for moderate depression. He’d dabbled in sports, smuggling, and women. Possibly peripherally involved with the biker gangs who ran the smuggling on the Canadian side of the border. No solid evidence linked him to the looming meth traffic. Remember, he was smart. He could be mixed up in almost anything out in all that empty country. Potentially a very dangerous guy, but not so’s you notice it right off.

A ladies’ man.

Nina had looked out the window toward Ann Arbor, where Kit was staying with her mother’s sister, and came up with the idea.

“It could work if it’s bold enough,” Holly said.

Bold enough…The gloves were off. They were in the serious black on this one.

“You still sure you want in?” Holly said.

The serious black. Lie, cheat, steal.

“We’re not carrying copies of the Geneva Convention in our kit,” Holly said.

Jane, the sharp tack, cracked wise. “There’s killing in combat and then there’s murder. You ain’t talkin’ about combat.”

“Correct. I ain’t necessarily talkin’ about combat. And there’s other things you might have to do.”

“Things?” Jane had said.

“What, I gotta draw you a picture?” Holly said pointedly to the two women.

So Nina told Jane, “He means like whatever it takes. Like you might have to suck some smuggler’s dick. Not your favorite thing, Jane.”

Jane came back fast. “Just as long as it ain’t Holly’s.”

D-girls. Nothing but hardcore. Behind the bravado they were all picturing Paula Zahn on CNN going zombie-cottonmouthed, trying to get her words out while in the background a nuclear plume mushroomed over downtown Chicago, or Kansas City, or…

Fuck it.

Nothing else mattered. Mission first.

But the way the plan worked, Jane drew a pass. Jane was in the motel in town probably reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to Kit. Nina got the duty and now here she was in a smuggler’s bed, listening to him putter around in his living room just beyond the closed but unlocked door. Jesus, his place was clean. Did that mean he was clean? What if he was a bareback kind of cowboy who didn’t want to use condoms?

What was the statistical probability of contracting AIDS from unsafe sex in remotest North Dakota, anyway? Better or worse odds than being the first dummy rolling out of a Black Hawk on a hot mountain LZ in Afghanistan?

Numbers. Odds. Probabilities…

Nina slid between the clean sheets.

Downstairs she heard the dolly scurry across the floor. A one-man ant colony, Gordy went back and forth, loading the crates of whiskey. The rhythm of the work, the rolling dolly wheels, the thud of the cases being hefted in place drummed like a harsh lullaby.