Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

“Aw, Christ.” Broker stared at the cold glass of tea in his hand. Reardon had been a notoriously overweight St. Paul detective.

J. T. lifted his iced tea. “Push fluids.”

“Amen.”

After a moment J. T. said, “You know, I never believed that bullshit about Harry being the Saint. Harry is a compulsive planner. That’s his training. Look how he set up that shooting gallery for you today. At the very least, he would have waited a year till all the fuss over the Dolman trial died down.” J. T. clicked his teeth and grimaced. “But I believe he’s capable of letting it slide if he did know who the killer was. John E. is right-on in that respect.”

“You worked with him, after I left St. Paul,” Broker said.

“Yeah. In Homicide, before he split for Washington County.” J. T. laughed. “And I kinda felt like Sidney Poitier playing Virgil Tibbs in In the Heat of the Night . You know, harnessed to redneck Rod Steiger. Harry was just this impossible bigot. But he was up front about it.”

“You didn’t get along.”

“Didn’t like each other from the jump-and said so. But we functioned because we respected each other, you follow?”

“He’s good; give him that.”

“Look, he’s an asshole. But he’s our asshole so he’s worth saving,” J. T. said. “But Harry all the way sober? I don’t know if we’re ready for that.”

“This ain’t funny, J. T. Look what he did to my truck.”

“I told you, man. You got bad luck with Fords.”

“Harry is a menace, J. T.; don’t sugarcoat it.”

“True, he’s hard to take. I wouldn’t want him around my family,” J. T. said. “I certainly wouldn’t want him talking to my teenage daughter. But I’ll tell you a dirty little secret: if my kid was in Columbine High School that day, you better believe I’d have wanted Harry to be the first cop on the scene.”

“The heat index has exceeded one hundred ten degrees for two consecutive days,” said the announcer on WCCO AM radio. “In Minnesota, the heat wave has now claimed seven lives.”

Including Bubble Butt Reardon.

Broker clicked the radio off and drove back to the river through the gorgeous, and now lethal, sunset. When the sun went down, the heat just changed color from light to dark.

Broker had accepted J. T.’s offer and now had an old reliable 1911 military-issue.45 stuck in a borrowed holster on his hip. He had a badge, minus the leather backing, that smelled of kerosene.

He parked, went into Milt’s house, and put his belt, the pistol, his wallet, pocket change, and cell phone on the kitchen table. Then he went outside to the garbage cans, stripped off his clothes, and threw them away. Back inside, he slapped a fresh battery in his cell phone and took an extralong shower.

Then he walked with a towel around his waist, opened a beer, and checked his e-mail box, which was empty. On impulse, he called his folks in Devil’s Rock.

“Hello,” Irene Broker answered.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Phillip, how nice of you to surface and check in. .”

“Ah, how’s Dad doing?”

“Your father and your uncle Billie went out on the big water at dusk, after steelheads.”

“He’s feeling okay, then?”

“Seems to be. Of course, I had to remind both of them to wear their life jackets.”

“What’s the weather like up there?”

“Beautiful. Seventy-two, with a nice northwest breeze. How’s it by you?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I won’t. And there’s no word about Nina and Kit on this end. You should make some inquiries,” Irene said tartly.

“Don’t start, Mom.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve got it all under. . your control issues.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

Broker hung up, finished his beer, and opened another one. The phone rang, and he braced for Harry. Except it was the house phone. He picked up. Not Harry.

It was Janey. “Broker, it’s not real good here right now. Could I have your cell phone number, just in case I have to reach you when you’re not home?”

“I’d prefer not to get involved in your. .”

“Broker, for Chrissake, I got a kid to worry about here.”

He gave her the number. She thanked him and hung up. He took his beer out on the porch and lit a cigar. Impervious to the smoke, the mosquitoes came out of the dark like a shower of darts. He went back in and turned the TV in the kitchen to the Weather Channel.

He tried to get interested in a newsmagazine show about global warming. He was told that 1995 was the warmest year since global records started to be kept in 1856. Then the weather lady told him there were reports of Eskimo hunters falling through the arctic ice as a result of global climate change. That did it. He thumbed the remote to kill the TV, then went through the house, closing all the windows. He flipped on the air-conditioning, opened his fourth beer-two was his usual limit-turned off the lights, and lay down on the bed with his cell phone for company.

Broker fell into an exhausted sleep as the slowly cooling darkness closed in on him.

After the ring and groping with the cell phone on his chest, a thoroughly drunken voice came out of the dark. “This is Harry, where am I?” The dark sounded like a roar on Broker’s end.

“Harry?”

“Tai sao! Tai vi! Tai vi sao! ” Harry belted out the Vietnamese slang loud as he could.

“What’s that, the wind?” Broker asked.

“Fuck yeah, man,” Harry yelled. “Going through my hair. . a hundred twenty miles an hour, I shit you not.” The line went dead.

Broker was up, pacing. He considered making a pot of coffee, but then he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. Another beer maybe? Christ, Harry was driving him to the bottle. He decided no beer. Instead he opted to brave the mosquitoes, go out on the deck, soak in the heat, and smoke another cigar.

Outside, he watched the running lights on a boat ease down the channel. The inky air hugged in close and suddenly evoked a sharp memory of the mosquito-repellent-soaked, very filthy, plastic stock of an M16 parked against his cheek.

Night after night.

The cigar started to taste like bad history, so he threw it away, went back inside, and settled down at the kitchen table. He concentrated on Ambush the cat. Ambush reclined patiently on the linoleum a foot away from a tiny space between the refrigerator and a cabinet. Ambush was absolutely motionless, covered in thick gray fur. She wasn’t complaining about the heat. She smelled a mouse.

She was working.

So Broker sat with her until. .

Rinnngggg. .

Broker was getting so he could activate the cell with his eyes shut.

“Ha! You pooped your pants today,” Harry said.

“Damn near. You this keep up, somebody’s going to get hurt,” Broker said.

“Count on it,” Harry said. “And by the way, don’t get too attached to my hat.”

Broker could hear a new hivelike, much lower roar in the background. A very busy bar or a casino. Then Harry launched into a drunken monologue: “So three years ago, when the head of Investigations opened up, I thought I was a shoo-in to take over the unit. But John had other ideas; he brought in Art Katzer from St. Paul. I was upset and said so to John’s face. It went downhill from there. .

“Then I got onto Tommy Horrigan and started zeroing in on Dolman.”

“And zeroing in on Gloria,” Broker said.

“We hit it off, what can I say? Any rate, I’m doing interviews, building a file, and Katzer comes over and tells me John thinks it’s a good idea to give the case to the new guy.”

“The new guy was Lymon Greene.”

“Yeah.” Harry paused. “He took Dolman. I should back up here and admit I made a few wisecracks about Lymon when John brought him on board.”