The Reapers

Now Angel and Louis were in trouble, and while Arno knew that they had acted in response to what had occurred earlier, that they had no choice in the matter and their own survival, and perhaps even the related survival of Arno and Willie, was dependent upon their actions, Arno wasn’t so naive as to believe that, in the normal course of events, men with guns just arrived out of the blue to kill people because the mood struck. This was payback for something that had been done by Louis. Arno didn’t want to see Angel and Louis dead, but he could understand why someone else might want to.

Willie stood and began rummaging through the papers on the desk. Eventually, after a box of nuts and assorted unpaid bills had tumbled to the floor, he found what he was looking for: his battered black address book. He thumbed through the pages, stopping at N-P.

“Who you go

A strange smile appeared on Willie Brew’s lips. It made Arno even more nervous than he was already.

“In a way,” said Willie.

Arno saw him pick up a pen and begin writing down a number: first a 1, followed by 2-0-7, and Arno then knew to whom they were turning for help. He poured himself another shot of Maker’s Mark and added a little more to Willie’s cup.

“For luck,” he said.

After all, he figured, if the Detective was involved then someone was going to need it. He just hoped it wouldn’t be Willie and him.

Willie went down the block to Nate’s to make the call. He was concerned that the feds might be tapping the line in the auto shop. He had even been worried for a time that they might have planted a bug in his office, but despite the filth and the general clutter of his workplace Willie knew every inch of it intimately, and the slightest change in his environment would have been immediately apparent to him. The phone was another matter. He knew from watching HBO that they no longer needed to stick little devices in the receiver. This wasn’t the Cold War. They could probably tell what you had for lunch just by pointing a gizmo at your belly. Willie was particularly cautious about cellphones, ever since Louis had informed him of just how easily they could be tracked and their communications intercepted. Louis had explained to him how a cellphone acts like a little electronic beacon, even when powered off, so that its owner’s position could be pinpointed at any time. The only way to render yourself invisible was to take out the battery. That bothered Willie more than anything else, the idea that his every move might be tracked by unseen watchers in a bunker somewhere. Willie wasn’t about to head off to Montana and live in a compound with guys who watched Triumph of the Will to get off, but equally he didn’t see any point in making things easier for the government than they already were. It wasn’t like Willie was a spy, it was just that he didn’t much care for the idea of people eavesdropping on anything he might have to say, however inconsequential it might be, or monitoring his movements, and his involvement with Louis had made him realize that he could become, however tangentially, a target for any investigation that might focus on his business partner, so it paid to be careful.

Nate raised a hand in greeting to Willie when he entered the bar, but Willie merely grimaced in response.

“What can I get you?” asked Nate.

“I need to use your phone,” said Willie. There was a crowd of loud young women at the back of the bar, where the public phone stood close to the men’s room, and there was something in Willie’s voice and expression that told Nate this wasn’t the kind of call you wanted someone to overhear.

“Go in back,” said Nate. “Use my office. Close the door.”

Willie thanked him and slipped under the bar. He took a seat at Nate’s desk, a desk that, in its general neatness and sense of order, bore no resemblance to his own. Nate’s phone was an old rotary dial model, adapted for the modern age but still requiring the judicious application of a forefinger to make a call. The one time Willie was in a hurry, and trust Nate to have a phone that Edison could have built.

First of all, Willie called the answering service and left a message for Angel and Louis, repeating verbatim what the man named Milton had told him to say in the faint hope that one of them might pick it up before all of this went any further. Next he called Maine. The Detective wasn’t home, so Willie decided to try the bar in Portland where he was now working. It took him a while to remember the name. Something Lost. The Lost Something. The Great Lost Bear, that was it. He got the number from 411, and the phone was answered by a woman. He could hear music playing in the background, but he couldn’t identify it. After a couple of minutes, the Detective came on the line.

“It’s Willie Brew,” said Willie.

“How you doin’, Willie?”

“Uh, up and down, up and down. You didn’t see the papers?”

“No, I was out of town for a while, up in the County. I just got back this morning. Why?”

Willie gave him a summary of all that had happened. The Detective didn’t ask any questions until Willie was done. He just listened. Willie liked that about him. The man might have made him nervous for reasons that he both could and could not put his finger on, but there was a calmness about him at times that reminded Willie of Louis.

“Do you know where they went?”

“Upstate. The guy who warned us mentioned somewhere near Massena, someone named Arthur Leehagen.”

“Are there procedures in place for when something goes wrong?”

“There’s an answering service. I leave a message, and then they can pick it up. They’re supposed to check it every twelve hours when they’re away. I’ve done that, but I don’t know when last they called to check in and, y’know, it doesn’t seem right just to wait around in the hope that it’ll all work out.”

The Detective didn’t even bother to ask about cellphones.

“What was that name you were given again?”

“Leehagen. Arthur Leehagen.”

“All right. You at the shop?”

“No, I’m down at Nate’s. I’m worried that my phone might be tapped.”

“Why would someone tap your phone?”

Willie explained about the visit by the feds.

“Hell. Shout me the number of where you are.”

Willie gave it to him, then hung up the phone. There was a soft knock at the door.

“Yeah?”

Nate appeared. He had a snifter with two fingers of brandy in his hand.

“Thought you might need this,” he said. “On the house.”

Willie thanked him, but waved the glass away. “Not for me,” he said. “I think it’s going to be a long night.”

“Somebody die?” asked Nate.

“Not yet,” said Willie. “I’m just trying to keep it that way.”

When he returned to the auto shop nearly an hour later, Arno was still sitting in the office, but the bottle of Maker’s Mark had been put away, and instead there was the smell of brewing from the Mr. Coffee machine.

“You want some?” asked Arno.

“Sure.”

Willie went to a shelf and removed a Triple A road atlas. He opened it to the New York page and began tracing a route with his finger. Arno filled a mug with coffee, added some creamer, then put it by his boss’s right hand.

“So?” Arno asked.

“Road trip.”

“You’re going up there?”

“That’s right.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

Willie thought for a second. “No,” he said. “Probably not.”

“The Detective going too?”

“Yeah.”

“Driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t he fly? Wouldn’t it be quicker?”

“With guns? He’s not Air America.”

Willie considered removed his bib overalls, then decided against it. He was happier wearing them, and anything that lightened his current mood wasn’t to be dismissed easily. Instead, he shrugged on an old jacket over them.