The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 41

Listening to him and watching the men and women who sat in twos and threes at the tables and in the booths, I felt the despair of the unemployed. I began to wish that the bar would suddenly disappear along with all the other buildings in Krueger, and the people, too. I wished that none of the Scandinavians, Slavs, and Italians who had initially settled the region had come there and that it would all revert back to the wilderness from which it sprang. I wished we all could start over again knowing what we know now, hating fewer people and admiring others not so much. I wished …

I glanced Josie’s way just in time to see her open her bag, pull out her wallet, peel off several of the bills she had helped steal in Silver Bay, and press them into the young man’s hand. He didn’t want to take them, yet she insisted. The gesture reminded me of a poem I was taught way back in St. Mark’s Elementary School, something by Robert Browning.

’Twas a thief said the last kind word to Christ:

Christ took the kindness and forgave the theft.

In that moment I felt the acid taste of guilt crawl up from my stomach into my throat; guilt because I didn’t have the same needs that these people had, the same concerns; guilt because I was a millionaire who had done precious little to earn my money. The reason I couldn’t be corrupted like Josie and the Bandits, the biggest reason anyway, was that I didn’t need the dough. Assistant U.S. Attorney James R. Finnegan had been right about my finances. Yet if I had been wallowing in debt, if my child needed medical care, if my home was about to be foreclosed on, if my wife was threatening to leave me, I might have thought differently.

No, no, no, don’t go there, my inner voice told me. These guys are criminals, and the why isn’t important. Think about their victims. Think about how terrified they must have been to have guns pointed at them—an AK-47, for Christ’s sake. The Bandits hadn’t physically harmed anyone, yet that would change if they kept on—think about that. Coming around to Josie’s way of thinking would be a very dangerous thing indeed. Stockholm syndrome, I think they call it.

Josie cupped the young man’s cheek, then patted his arm before leaving the table and making her way down the bar to where I sat. I looked away so she wouldn’t think I was watching her. I turned my attention to the baseball game. By then the starting pitcher was just finishing his warm-up tosses. Josie pulled up a stool. The bartender made her a vodka Collins without being asked, and she thanked him. He asked her how she was doing, and Josie said she was fine. Then he said, “Dave okay?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Dave, her brother,” the bartender said.

“I know who he is.”

“Dave’s okay,” Josie said.

“Tell him, anything he needs…”

“I’ll tell him.” To me she said, “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“A couple of menus, please.”

The bartender said, “Sure Josie,” gave me a what’s-your-story look, and moved down the stick.

“The bartender knows that your brother is hiding up here?” I asked.

“In a small town, people don’t need a newspaper,” Josie said. “You only need a newspaper when stuff happens that people can’t see or hear about for themselves. In a small town, it doesn’t take long before everyone knows everything.”

“I do not find that comforting.”

The bartender reappeared, gave us menus, and disappeared again. The menu recommended Buckman’s “World Famous Cheeseburger.” I had never heard of it, but then I didn’t get out much.

After the bartender served us, Josie leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“I’m guessing that the first person to arrive at the terminal in the morning, probably the attendant, has the key. He unlocks the padlock, unwinds the chain, opens the gate to the enclosure, and then hangs the padlock on the chain without locking it because, why would he? That just makes extra work for himself later. The last person to leave, and maybe it’s the attendant again, he closes the gate, wraps the chain around it, and locks the padlock. We’re hoping he doesn’t notice we switched locks. Later tonight, we’ll sneak over there, unlock the padlock with our key, get inside, place the GPS loggers on the trucks, then switch our lock with Mesabi’s again. Tomorrow they won’t even know we’ve been there.”

“What if they have security cameras?”

“If they do, they’re hidden pretty damn well, because I couldn’t find them.”

“What if we get caught?”

“Nonresidential burglary for a woman like you without a record, they’d slap your wrist and make you promise not to do it again.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What will they do to you?”

“What can I say, sweetie? I’ve been living on borrowed time for years now.”

“Don’t call me—”

“Sweetie, I know.”

“I wish I knew more about you.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Let’s see. I like jazz. I like baseball. I like the ballet, believe it or not. I prefer whiskey if I’m going to drink to excess and beer if I’m not. When I read—and I read a lot—I’d rather have a real book in my hands instead of one of those electronic gizmos. I like to cook. I don’t believe in saving money, and I’ll never marry because I refuse to impose my lifestyle on anyone I care about. What about you?”

“Me? You’ll think I’m making fun of you.”