Chuck Logan - Homefront

“Good girl,” Shank said emphatically, reaching over and squeezing her right hand. “Okay, I’ll talk to some folks. But I’ll need a day. Tomorrow’s kind of tight. How about we…have breakfast Monday morning? Where should I pick you up?”

Instinct kicked in; Sheryl didn’t want to tell him where she lived. “Ah, I’ll be on the corner of Grand and Dale, in front of the drugstore.”

Shank stood up. “Monday. Eight A.M.; you handle that?”

“Sure, what’re you driving?”

It took Shank a moment to answer, like he had to think about it. “Gray Nissan Maxima; got all the bells and whistles,” he said. Then he gave her a thumbs-up, “You done good, Sheryl.” As he turned to leave, he grinned again. “Wolves, huh?”

“Lot of wolves,” Sheryl said, again catching some of his infectious smile.

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Shank said, then he padded off through the milling herd of grazing food zombies and vanished out the door.

Sheryl drew the moment out. Reached down and raised the coffee cup, enjoying the slight tremble in her fingers. Then she left the booth and put a medium swing in her walk going into the women’s restroom, where she jockeyed around with the lumbering herd animals to get some face time at the mirror. She removed the binder, shook out the ponytail, and leisurely combed her hair. Then she applied lipstick and a touch of eyeshadow. Walked out of that bathroom stepping like a Thoroughbred.

Two minutes later she stood in the parking lot next to her car, removing the Wal-Mart jacket, bundling it, and tossing it under the swayback rusted-out Honda Civic parked next to her. She thumbed the remote, opened the door, and pulled out her good leather coat, put it on. Then she got in, turned the key, and just sat in the Pontiac for a while, waiting on the heater, running her hand over the leather seat. Gonna miss this car, she thought. Took a deep breath, exhaled, and punched in Gator’s pager number in her cell. When the voice mail came on, she punched in seven sixes, so he’d know it was her.

Now give him half an hour to get to the phone booth at the store.

Longest thirty minutes of her life.

She sat and smoked and listened to people on Minnesota Public Radio talking about the dumb goddamn war. Then she took a roll of quarters, went back into the Country Buffet, and made the call on the pay phone.

He answered immediately, his voice shaking with excitement. Or maybe it was cold.

“They remember Broker being around at the time Jojo got killed. I think we’re eighty percent go. I just met the guy who’s gonna do it. You ever hear of the Shank when you were inside?” Sheryl said.

“Before my time. I thought he was just a story,” Gator said.

“No story. He’s real, I had coffee with him thirty minutes ago. He says if it happens, it’s going to happen fast. So start getting ready.”

“How soon?” Gator said.

“Dunno. I got another meeting to talk details Monday morning. If it’s on, how do you want to handle it?”

“Have him call me at the shop. He’ll say he’s interested in the restored 1919 Fordson I got sitting in front. Maybe he wants to get it for his dad or something. I’ll give him directions.”

“All right.” Sheryl paused for three heartbeats, wondering if she really could peel off the life she’d lived like the cheap Wal-Mart jacket and throw it away. Then she just said it. “Love you, babe.”

“Yeah,” Gator said.

“Later,” Sheryl said.

She ended the call, got back in the Pontiac, and put it in gear. Two minutes later, accelerating down the 494 ramp, she marveled. Shit, man, haven’t said that to a guy and really meant it since…high school.

After supper, Kit sat at the desk on the insulated office porch, practicing her cursive penmanship on a ruled worksheet. The porch was an add-on to the original house, so she could see into the kitchen through two windows set in the wall. Mom and Dad were doing the dishes, bumping into each other, slow like, way more than usual. In fact they were laughing.

Since she and Dad had come home from school and seen Mom running on the road, a different mood had been building between her parents. Kit got the part of about being happy that Mom was getting more like her old self, but there were parts to it she couldn’t figure out; like whatever they were seeing when they looked at each other was invisible to her, a grown-up mystery.

She did have a basic idea about the difference between good things and bad things, and she decided that, whatever it was, it was a good thing. She turned back to the worksheet and drew a loopy G.

As Broker and Nina removed the dishes from the washer and stacked them in the cupboard, they played billiard with their eyes; soft cushion rail shots, indirect. Not an urge, not yet a desire, more like a discreet question that hovered over them. Physical contact? Whattaya think?

Broker thinking, Probably be the time to fill her in on the local soap opera that had been percolating offstage. He made a start.

“You know, when Kit had that fight at school?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, the kid’s dad got a little aggressive in front of the school and, ah, I kinda dropped him,” Broker said.

Nina grimaced with mock severity, “What? You hit him?”

“No, no,” Broker was quick to add, making frantic erasing motions with his hands. “I just sort of threw a choke hold on him.”

“Uh-huh. Just a choke hold. And Kit? She knew about this?”

Broker folded his arms tightly across his chest, and as he talked, his right hand jerked out and back, punctuating his explanation. “We thought it best not to bother you with it. And, well, he came back at me. The tire on the truck? That was probably him. And Kit’s bunny was probably in the truck because it wound up planted on a ski pole”-he pointed his jerking hand out toward the woods-“out by the ski trail. Griffin took it home the last night, stitched it up.” He took a breath, exhaled. “Had Ditech’s collar buckled around the neck. So he probably got the cat too.”

“Jesus, Broker. He came on the property?”

“It’s cool. When Griffin came over, he brought the sheriff-”

“The sheriff , what the-”

“Ah, oh yeah, I left something out. The kid’s dad is the garbageman; he was driving the truck yesterday morning, and he flung our garbage in the ditch while I was watching. So I collected it, took it to his garage, and dumped it in front of his office. Ah, that’s why the sheriff came out.”

Nina grinned. “Christ, Broker; we came up here to keep a low profile. And you started a war?” She shook her head.

“Me? He started it, asshole came at me-”

“Well, I guess this explains you being more snaky than usual.”

Broker unfolded his arms and went back to making the brisk scrubbing motion with his hands. “No sweat. It’s all taken care of. The sheriff is affecting a rapprochement. I’ll meet him halfway, maybe replace the kid’s shirt that got bloody, like that. Griffin went and talked to the guy…”

Nina actually laughed, and it was good to see her bubble with spontaneous humor. “Harry? Oh, great, and he’s so good at quiet diplomacy. He’ll just cut the guy’s throat, along with his wife and kid, kill the pets, burn the house, and spray the land with dioxin so nothing ever grows there again.”

They were both laughing now. Infectious giggles. Months of pressure surfacing and popping like cold bubbles.

Kit wrenched open the porch door, deep glower creases in her brow. Clearly, she felt left out. “Keep it down, you guys,” she announced. “I’m trying to study .”

“She right,” Nina said. “Get a hold of yourself.” She rinsed a dish in the sink and handed it to Broker, who obediently put it in the washer.