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“Sure, have some fun. You’ve had a busy day. A party’ll do you good.”
Meaning: Hell, yes. Get your ass up there.
And fix whatever’s broken, whatever it takes.
Without hesitating, Jasons said, “I think I’ll go then. Like to see who shows up. Besides, I’m not that far away.”
“Have fun,” Mankewitz said, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
They disco
Jasons sipped the soda, then ate some of the green apple. It was sour. They gave you a yogurt dip with it but he didn’t like the flavor. He was reflecting on Mankewitz’s deferential tone. The man always sounded like he didn’t know what planet Jasons came from, was almost afraid of him.
Stan Mankewitz, one of the most powerful men on the lakefront, from Mi
Then there was a lifestyle difference too. Mankewitz was not a stupid man. Nobody was going to do what Jasons did without his complete dossier-verbal at least-being delivered to the union boss. He’d know that Jasons lived alone in a nice detached house near the lakefront. That his mother lived in a nice apartment co
But Jasons appreciated that Mankewitz did his homework. Because it was exactly how he himself worked his magic.
Alicia especially. Every day after school in that rehearsal room, three to four-thirty… Impressive.
Mankewitz didn’t care about Jasons’s lifestyle, of course. Which was ironic, considering that the membership of Local 408 was made up of blue-collar folk, men mostly, some of whom would beat the crap out of James Jasons and Robert, given no excuse, some opportunity and a few too many beers.
Welcome to the new mille
A last bite of apple, sweetened by the diet soda.
He put the second hamburger back in the bag, which he twisted closed.
He passed a sign that a
And clicked the selector to the Christian CD, just for the fun of it.
HOLDING THE HEAVY Savage rifle, Henry headed down the path toward where Rudy had directed him. He took a foil pack out of his pocket, a pipe and lighter too. Then he hesitated and put them away. He blew into his hands and continued along the path, scratching at the scars on his arm.
He stopped where the small path met the bigger one, the one that led down to the lake they got their water from. He stood there for five minutes, squinting, looking from right to left. Didn’t see a soul. He leaned the rifle against a tree. As he was reaching into his pocket again for the pack of meth and the lighter, a man stepped out of the shadows and hit him in the forehead with the butt of a shotgun, which was rubber padded but still hard enough to knock Henry off his feet. His head lolled back, eyes unfocused. A gurgling rose from his throat and his hands flailed and his knees jerked.
When the butt of the deer rifle, which wasn’t padded, crushed his windpipe Henry stopped thrashing quite so violently. After a minute he stopped moving altogether.
CRADLING THE DEER rifle in his arm, Hart tensed as someone approached. But it was just Lewis, who glanced at the body on the ground, grunted and picked up the shotgun.
Hart bent down and felt the ski
“No. I didn’t. They can?”
“Yep.” Hart pulled his gloves back on. “What’s the story?”
Lewis said, “That girl deputy Bry
“So they walked right into the helpful arms of meth cookers.” Hart gave a faint laugh. “Everybody’s having a reversal of fortune tonight. We end up with a cop coming to visit in Lake Mondac, and they end up with a trailer full of slammers. Was she alone in the van?”
“I didn’t see anybody else. I wasn’t that close.”
“So where’s Michelle?”
“No idea.”
Hart pressed the catch on the bolt of the deer rifle, slipped it out of the gun, flung it away. Threw the gun itself in the opposite direction. He was a much better shot with a pistol than a rifle. Besides, a bolt action let you fire off a round only every few seconds. In that time he could have emptied the Glock’s fifteen-round clip and been halfway through reloading.
They eased silently toward the camper.
“How many people inside?” Hart whispered.
“Couldn’t see too good. Definitely one other man-and the guy who put Bry
Hart was looking over Lewis carefully. The man was staring at the camper and kneading the shotgun stock. His eyes were troubled.
“Comp?”
“Yeah?” He looked up.
“We’ve gotta do it.”
“Sure.”
“I know what you’re thinking-they haven’t exactly done us harm. But they’re tweakers, Comp. They cook meth. They’ll be dead anyway in a year. OD’d or burned to death or clipped by somebody’s upset they’re peeing on his turf. This’ll be faster. This’ll be better for them. We’ll get Bry
Lewis was looking at the van.
“How we handle it’s this: They’re pros and that means they’re going to have guns. Now, we bought some time when I talked to Bry
“Sure.”
“You have that lighter of yours?”
“Always carry one. In case I meet a lady in a bar needs a light.” The crack in his voice belied the joke.
“Courteous of you, nonsmoker that you are.” Hart smiled and Lewis exhaled a brief laugh. “Okay, you go around to the right side of the camper, the one without the doors. Get some dirty leaves and see if you can find something plastic or rubber. Start a fire under the camper. Just small. We don’t want it to spread and call attention to us. I just want smoke. With all that ammonia and propane in there, they’ll freak and get the hell out, head for the van. When they come out…okay?”
He nodded.
“I’ll take the front door, you take the back. You locked and loaded?”
“Yes, I am.”
Hart checked his Glock and made sure one of the full clips was upside down in his waistband, to the right, so he could grab it easily in his left hand to reload.
“Keep your SIG handy too.”
Lewis fished his chrome-plated pistol out of his jacket pocket. And slipped the automatic into his waistband.
Hart noticed that the suggestion was greeted with none of the sarcasm or resistance of earlier.