Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

A blue light flashed atop the tall machine.

Three red 7s were pasted across the video drum. They were a close match to the three 7s tattooed on Harry’s right arm.

With bloodshot eyes he watched them come down the aisle. “So what took you so long? I can barely keep my eyes open,” he said. His Cherokee cheekbones were puffy with bloat, and his tan was turning yellow.

“Just take it easy,” Broker said.

Harry’s face hung on in his cigarette smoke by a bare shred of willpower.

The escort pointed to the three sevens. “He hit a jackpot on our one-hundred-dollar machine. When our people came to verify the win, they noticed the tattoo-and they mentioned it to Security. We held up his check until you got here.”

“We appreciate it,” Mouse said.

“No problem; funny thing is, your be-on-the-lookout mentioned he’d probably be drinking. We’re a booze-free facility,” the escort said.

Harry said, “I confess, I got a bottle of rum in my room. I been spiking my Pepsi. Main reason I came is this machine. I always wanted to nail this sucker.”

“And you did,” the floor worker said. She handed Harry his driver’s license and a receipt, which he signed.

“How do you do it?” Mouse asked.

Harry handed back the receipt, got his carbon copy, accepted the check, and tapped his forehead with a shaky finger. “It’s a mind-set. You gotta study Ulysses S. Grant. Main thing about Ulysses was he never let losing bum him out. He’d lose ten thousand men. Go to bed, get up the next morning, and attack. You gotta believe that, in the end, you’re going to win.”

“Okay, Ulysses” Broker said, “it’s time to go.”

“Led you on a merry chase, though,” Harry said, getting slowly to his feet.

Mouse took Harry’s left elbow, Broker took his right; the security men went two in front, one behind and led them through the crowd to the door.

Harry pulled up short. “Gotta stop at my room.”

“No stops,” Broker said.

“Yeah, we do,” Harry said. “Papa Echo-I spell phonetically: PE, man. Physical Evidence . I’ve got physical evidence on the Saint.”

Broker and Mouse looked at each other.

“Bullshit,” Broker said.

“Exactly what have you got?” Mouse said.

“Hey, it’s in my room. I ain’t gonna talk in front of the whole fucking world.” Harry pulled a key card envelope from his back pocket and handed it to the security escort.

“Okay,” Mouse said. “But you try anything this time, I’ll put my cuffs on you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry raised a Lucky Strike toward his exhausted grin. He missed his mouth, hit his chin, and the cigarette fell to the floor.

“Worth a look,” Mouse said.

“I’d cuff him, just to be safe,” Broker said.

“What?” Harry said. “I ain’t even drinking, I’m not resisting nothing. I’m ready to go take my medicine. Hell. I just heard that Viagra works better if you’re booze-free.”

“Okay,” Broker said.

Harry remained quiet but stumbled occasionally as they negotiated the corridors and malls to the adjoining hotel lobby; then they got into the elevator and went up to his room.”We’ll just be a second,” Mouse said to the security escort, who used Harry’s card to open the door. The escort nodded. He and his colleagues took up positions in the hall.

Harry’s room was totally undisturbed, just a leather travel bag on one of the beds.

“Open it,” Harry said.

Broker unzipped the bag. He saw several new pair of socks and underwear still in their plastic wraps. A shaving kit. “What am I looking for?”

“Green plastic box on the bottom,” Harry said.

Broker moved items aside and found the box sitting on a sheaf of paper. He took it out. An old piece of adhesive tape was stripped across the top with faded ballpoint notation: Brass/.38/ GR/158 Speer Wadcutter/4.8 grain.

“GR,” Broker said.

“Gloria,” Mouse said with no surprise in his tired voice.

Harry squinted at Broker. “’Fraid so. Remember, I told you how she made a grab for Lymon’s pistol after Dolman was acquitted; how she was screaming, ‘I’m gonna do the so and so’?”

“I didn’t know that,” Mouse said.

“Yeah, well, if your friendly local detective won’t hand over his pistol, what’s your next move?” Harry said.

“Go buy one of your own,” Mouse said.

Harry shook his head. “She already did that; just before the trial we went down to the big Cabela’s in Owatonna. The background checks should be on file. She picked the Colt.38-caliber Detective Special, said it fit her hand. Two-inch barrel, six shots; goes in the bedroom night table or the glove compartment; she didn’t want to fuss with a safety. She just wanted to point and shoot if somebody came back on her from one of her cases.”

“You were with her when she bought it?” Broker said.

“Uh-huh. And taught her to shoot the thing out at my place.” Harry pointed at the green plastic box. “Reloaded ammo for her to practice with. So after I see the scene with her and Lymon in the courthouse, I go over to her place that night and, you know, tell her to give me her gun to hold for a while. .”

Broker and Mouse watched Harry’s next thought try to scale a spasm of shaking and collapse short of speech.

“Take your time,” Broker said.

“Fuck you,” Harry said as he started to move toward Broker.

“Easy,” Mouse said.

Harry waved his hand to indicate the bottle of Don Q rum on the writing table in back of Broker. “You wanna hear this, I get to do it my way, and my way is with that bottle.”

Broker wasn’t about to hand Harry a glass bottle. He picked up the bottle, poured several inches of rum into a plastic cup, and handed it to Harry.

Harry slowly drank the contents of the cup, grinned, and quoted, “Man takes a drink. Drink takes a drink. .” He laughed, a bad-sounding laugh that was shaking things loose inside and ended in a fit of coughing. When he recovered, he said, “I think this is where the drink takes the man.” He opened his fingers and let the plastic cup fall soundlessly to the carpet. “Okay. So I go over there and ask for the gun, and she bats her eyes and says somebody stole it. Dolman was shot two days later.”

“The medallion,” Mouse said.

Broker heard the resigned, lockstep undertone in Mouse’s voice. “What about the medallion?” he said.

Mouse spoke slowly, like plodding underwater. “Nobody ever said a word about this, and everybody knew. You been in Gloria’s office. She had this picture of Tommy Horrigan on her bookcase. When they were preparing for trial, her receptionist brought in this St. Nicholas medallion and hung it on the picture frame. You know, St. Nicholas, protector of children, like that. .”

Broker’s forehead creased in a question. He looked at Harry.

Harry lowered his eyes to the carpet, toed the plastic cup he’d dropped, and said, “Yeah.”

Broker turned back to Mouse, who said, “The next day after Dolman got whacked, the medallion was gone.”

“What? Everybody knew?” Broker said.

“It’s not like we really knew ,” Mouse said.

“Yeah, we did; I did,” Harry said. Then his wavering eyes settled on Broker. “Some people get dealt a shitty hand, they learn to live with it, huh? I guess Gloria couldn’t stand seeing Dolman walk out of that courtroom a free man.”

Broker told himself he was alert, ready for any tricks Harry might pull. But the black glare of alcohol hate in Harry’s eyes came lightning fast.

“I wouldn’t rat her out for Dolman; some people might, but not me!” Harry shouted, making his move.

“Mouse,” Broker warned. But Harry sidestepped and body-slammed into Mouse, yanking Mouse’s baggy shirt aside with his left hand as his right hand swept in the opposite direction, cleanly lifting the.40-caliber pistol from Mouse’s holster. This time, Broker didn’t spin his wheels. Instantly, he had the.45 out from under his shirt, thumbing off the safety.