Chuck Logan - Homefront

They hunkered in the lee of the warming tent, drank coffee from Griffin’s thermos, and watched the gauzy afternoon light slowly filling in with billows of white. Start to pick away details on the lake.

“Nina still on track?” Griffin asked.

“Life is good,” Broker said. “She went to school this morning with Kit. Stayed through lunch.”

“And the other thing?”

“Well, we’re coming to that. She said we’re going to have a long-overdue talk. But we ain’t there yet. There’s this doctor at Bragg she has to check in with. It’ll happen then.”

“Well, good luck.” Griffin squinted at the rising wind. “You still planning to head back Wednesday? This could make a mess out of the roads.”

“Why they made four-wheel drive.” Broker shrugged and studied his friend, standing there in the identical jacket and black watch cap. “Remind me to give you this coat back,” he said.

“Hey, keep it,” Griffin said, his face ruddy, his gray eyes merry, more youthful and alive than usual, as he watched the whipping snow.

“You’re in a good mood,” Broker observed. “Your lady friend Hatch come over and whip some Class A maintenance on your relationship?”

Griffin grinned and quipped, “There’s some things more exciting than mere sex.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Like winter storms.” Griffin smiled, then upended the dregs of his coffee and pounded Broker on the shoulder. “C’mon, I gotta do a few more things here. Keys are in the Jeep. See you over at the place in an hour or so.”

Quarter to one, Gator pacing on the farmhouse porch, peering into the light sifting snow. Felt like he was onstage, coming up on a big job interview. He could feel the barometer dropping, pressure building like it was in his throat. They were auditioning for the big time. So take it one step at a time, Sheryl had said on the phone. Don’t rush it. Presumably she meant stay focused on Shank’s business with Broker. Don’t expect anything. Play a support role. Just be competent and keep your mouth shut.

The garage door was pulled open. He had a fresh pot of coffee perking in the shop. He’d put the cat in the house to be out of the way. Maybe this guy was superstitious about black cats. Who knows.

Jesus. Hope they didn’t run into trouble coming in on Z. Near as he could tell, the storm was still to the north and west, but the wind could whip up small whiteouts in the open spaces.

Then he saw the high beams cut through the wavy tissue-paper light. The Nissan Maxima glided through the snow like a low gray shark and turned off into the drive. Gator’s hands moved in a silly tucking-in gesture, straightening his jacket. He took a deep breath, let it out, and walked toward the barn as the car slipped into the garage.

Sheryl got out of the passenger side and smiled. Gator saw she was wearing sensible new Sorel boots for a change. The guy behind the wheel got out, and Gator had a look at him. In the joint, Gator had roughly classified scary guys into two categories; there were the muscled-up brutes and then there were other guys who had this weird intimidating energy. Crazy waiting to happen. Shank struck him as a very controlled version of the second type.

He was lean and too white, like he had bleach in his veins, whitish hair and eyebrows, pale blue eyes. He moved smooth and deliberate, walking right up to Gator and extending a hand.

“It’s Gator, right? I’m Shank, good to meet you.” Cool dry hand. Didn’t make a handshake into a show of strength. More like a probe. “Where can we talk?” Shank said.

“In the shop,” Gator said.

Sheryl yanked a thumb toward the house. “I’m going in to use the john. Let you two get acquainted.” She turned and walked toward the house.

Shank thumbed his remote, and the spacious trunk popped open. He hauled out a rugged gym bag, the kind with lots of zippered side pockets, shouldered the bag, and waited for Gator to lead the way.

Gator opened the door to the shop and stood aside to let Shank enter first. Shank went in and lowered his bag. “Mind if I have a look around?”

“Sure.” Gator opened his right palm in a gesture of welcome. “You want some coffee?”

“Yeah, black is good.” Shank removed his jacket and set it on the cot in the alcove, then walked through the door into the garage bay. He returned in a minute. Gator handed him a cup of coffee.

“What do you do here?” Shank asked.

“Restore antique tractors. Got three completes in the yard out back of the shop. Can cannibalize parts off another half dozen.”

Shank sipped his coffee. “The one you have in there. How long to get it ready for sale?”

“That’s a special one. My Prairie Gold 1938 Moline UDLX. C’mere for a sec.” Gator led Shank into the garage and proudly pointed at the color centerfold on the wall.

Shank pointed to the sleek photo. “That’s”-he pointed to the gray bifurcated jacked-up heap of junk-“ that ? No shit.”

Gator shrugged. “Might take me another six months to get it exactly like the picture, all the authentic gauges and tinwork.”

“How much they pay for something like that?” Shank said.

“It’s like rare . Restored inside out? Mint condition; a hundred K.”

“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.”