Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

She moved her head forward into the light, their eyes met, and Broker saw reflected in her face the blame he felt burning in his own.

Amy was not alone. Two snowmobile jocks, mistaking her troubled, fixed stare for an intoxicated cripple, had moved into chairs on either side and were treating her to drinks. And judging by the full shot glass in her hand and the empty one in front of her, she was not protesting.

Broker was smart enough to know there’s no fool like an old fool. He was just too burnt and boozed to listen to himself. So he thought-what the hell, why not give forty-seven going on twenty-five one last try? He heaved to his feet playing funky theme music in his head. Like Muddy Waters and Bonnie Raitt. I’m Ready . Dumb barroom stuff.

He pushed his chair aside and fixed on the beefy one wearing the Arctic Cat knit cap who’d looped his arm around her shoulder. The guy was a chinless wonder, a regular evangelist for the lite worldview of a beer commercial.

“Aw, c’mon, you can tell me about it,” Arctic Cat said with great sincerity as his fingers grazed near the shape of her left breast.

“Aw, God,” Amy said, shoving the arm away.

“Hey honey. It’s all right.” Arctic Cat, tone deaf to the lethal disgust in her voice, took encouragement as Broker came across the room surprisingly light on his feet and appeared on Arctic Cat’s blind side.

Amy had the right idea, and she clearly knew her anatomy. This time she grabbed Arctic Cat’s hand and cranked down on his wrist. The husky snowmobiler grinned at her attempted armlock.

She’d hit the same old problem-upper body strength. Arctic Cat was just too big.

Broker experienced no such difficulty as he swiftly took over the arm grab from Amy, wrenched the wrist, and threw in an old-fashioned Iron Ranger hockey check.

Arctic Cat’s fleshy nose and lips briefly adhered to the wall like thrown Silly Putty before he oozed to the floor, leaving a wet smear down the pine paneling. His buddy stood up and discreetly took a step back.

The man Broker had knocked down rolled over and sat up, holding his wrist; confused, blinking, he wondered aloud, “What’s that she got me with? Musta been some kung fu?” His nose and lips commenced to bleed.

“Nah,” Broker said, amazed at the callous spring of his anger, “you’re just fat, ugly, and slow.”

Then Amy was between them with two deep furrows creasing her brow. She jammed both hands on Broker’s chest, extended her arms, backed him off, and said hotly, “Hey, don’t hurt him; take it easy, he didn’t mean. .”

And Iker was there, moving fast and edgy for a big man; he shouldered Broker aside, flipped open his wallet, and badged the two guys. “Go away,” he said tersely. “Now.”

While Iker soothed the bartender who had picked up the phone, the snowmobilers parleyed, recognized that they had strayed into the dangerous part of the zoo, and made the proper decision.

“C’mon, let’s go down the street.”

“But nothin’s open down the street.”

“Let’s go there, anyway.”

Amy handed the guy with the nosebleed a bar napkin with some ice inside and told him to apply pressure. After they left, Iker peered first at Broker, then at Amy and asked, “You two all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Amy said quickly.

“Hey, no problem,” Broker said.

“Sit down, Dave, have a drink,” Amy said.

Iker gave them a tight smile. “No thanks, I don’t have the energy to get between you two. Not after today.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Broker said.

“Means I know both of you. I’ll just finish my drink and go sleep on a desk, thank you.” He tipped a finger to his forehead at Amy, grabbed Broker by the elbow, and steered him across the room and out the front door. He did not stop to finish his drink.

No wind now. Just the big quiet and the big snowflakes drifting down like tiny parachutes.

Iker took a stance and eased back his coat so Broker could see the cuffs and the clip-on-hide-out holster on his belt from which protruded the patterned grip of a stubby Colt Python. Dave Iker stood six one, weighed 205, and was no slouch in the physical department, and right now he looked slightly dangerous, like he was working.

“Okay. It’s like this. She’s a little vulnerable right now.” Iker’s voice was reasonable, but his cop body language said, watch the fuck out here . “I know her family. She’s been a perfectionist since she was a kid, so she’s going to take this thing pretty hard.”

Jesus . “What. .?”

“Hey look, age-wise, she’s still a kid compared to you. And she knows your marriage is on the rocks. And just maybe she’s got a little thing for you. And you’re not helping matters playing twenty-five-year-old cowboy coming to the fucking rescue. . so go easy and don’t take advantage. .”

“I wouldn’t. .” Broker protested.

“I know you wouldn’t. Just don’t. And another thing. I don’t know what the story is between you and your old lady but don’t take it out on drunks. Not in my town. The body slam on that lush was unnecessary. That was excessive force. Jesus, Phil, you know better. The lone wolf UC days are over. You’re a goddamn civilian. .”

Iker was working. Broker was being warned . He stepped back, chastised. “Hey, Jesus, Dave. .”

“Just. .” Iker gave him a tight cop smile that really was no smile at all and made a pressing down “cool it” gesture with his open hands. He shook his head. “Look. It’s been a bad day. Let’s not have a bad night.” He punched Broker on the arm. Hard. “So, you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Broker was replaying the shock and fear on the snowmobiler’s face when he plowed into him, and seeing Amy, stepping in, with the pained look in her eyes.

“Drop my truck at the office in the morning,” Iker said as he turned and walked to a county cruiser. Broker waved vaguely, and he was thinking how none of this was supposed to happen. He came here to hide and wait out his. . problem. Now there was all this stuff .

Shivering, he stood alone on the street and watched Iker’s taillights disappear around a corner. Then he went back into the bar, returned to Amy’s table, and the words came out before he got them lined up right. “Look, I’m sorry, going off on that guy. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Oh you do, do you,” she said making her eyes a little wider.

“Well, I guess you do, too. Can I sit down?”

“Sure, as long as you understand I don’t need any more of that kind of help.” The gray eyes, though dipped in alcohol, still cut.

Broker nodded and pulled up a chair while Amy flagged the bartender and held up two fingers. The waitress, eyes lowered, brought the two glasses on a small round tray, put them down, made change, and retreated.

“They know,” Amy whispered, looking after the waitress. “This is a small town. Everybody knows about Sommer.”

Broker rotated the double shot in his fingers and raised his eyebrows. “Do you always drink like this?”

“I never drink. It’s a filthy depressant. Cheers.”

He drank and the two burning ounces seared through the roof of his mouth and up his sinuses.

“Now take off. I really don’t need any help,” she said, squaring her shoulders, sitting up straighter. A gesture that wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously.

“Yes, you do,” Broker said and he figured she’d been the bright, sharp tack all her life and maybe sometimes she got ahead of herself.

“I do?”

“Yeah, we’re linked,” Broker said. “You left your post to come out in the hall and chat me up, remember.”