The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 48

“Oh no,” the man said. “Oh no.”

It was the first time I got a good look at him. It was the bartender I had met at Buckman’s roadhouse the night before. Skarda came close and shouted a few obscenities at the bartender. I thought he might kick him a few times while he was down, but he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender said.

“Yes, you are,” I said.

“He was going to turn me in,” Skarda said. “He was watching the place hoping I’d show up so he could turn me in.”

“Yeah, I gathered that. I don’t know why, though.”

“For the reward.”

“There is no reward, Dave. The Minnesota Department of Corrections has over two hundred and seventy fugitives in the wind, and they haven’t offered a reward for any of them. The only people who offer rewards are bail bondsmen looking to protect their investment. Have you posted bond?”

“I never got the chance.”

“So there is no reward.”

I tossed the lighter in the bartender’s lap so he’d know what a putz he’d been.

“Oh no,” he said.

“Turning on your own people for money—tsk, tsk, tsk. What would Josie say?”

“I was hoping she’d never know it was me.”

I checked the SIG. It was loaded, all right. I parked in the chair next to the bartender. He looked at me, the gun, then back at me again.

“What are we going to do with him?” Skarda asked.

“Shoot him and bury his body in the woods behind your house,” I said.

“No.” Skarda and the bartender spoke the word in unison.

“Are you sure, Dave? I know why this guy doesn’t like the idea…”

“No,” Skarda repeated.

I turned to the bartender. “Listen—what’s your name, anyway?”

“Scott,” the bartender said.

“Listen, Scott—how much money do you need?”

“Only five thousand dollars…”

“Only five thousand dollars,” Skarda repeated.

“It’s the tourist season, and I always do well. I just need some money to tide me over, to pay my suppliers. I’m COD with some of ’em. Five thousand and I’ll be good.”

“All right. I’ll pay you the money, but you’re going to earn it.”

Scott gazed into Skarda’s eyes for a few beats. They both seemed confused.

“What do I need to do?” the bartender asked.

“Whatever I tell you, when I tell you. You can start by getting some Summit Ale in that dive you own. I’ll be in later tonight.”

“When—when will I get the money?”

“When the job is over.”

“What job?”

“The other thing you can do is keep your ears open. I want to know the gossip. I want to know what people are talking about, especially Brian Fenelon and what’s-her-name, Claire de Lune.”

“You’re not going to tell me what the job is?”

“I could, Scott, but then I really would have to kill you.”

From his expression, he didn’t like that idea at all. He kept looking at Skarda as if he expected Dave to help him. As usual, Skarda just looked confused.

I stood and offered the bartender my hand. He took it and I helped him up. “See you later,” I said.

He watched my eyes for a second. “When I leave—when I leave,” the bartender said, “you’re going to shoot me in the back.”

“Don’t worry. If I shoot you, you’ll see it coming. Now get out of here. And don’t forget; when I call, you had better do exactly what I say. Okay?”

He nodded, then looked over at Skarda. “Sorry, Dave,” he said. The bartender started for the door, then stopped and turned around. “Please don’t tell Josie.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Can I have my gun back?”

“No.”

The bartender left the house in a hurry.

“Why did you let him go?” Skarda asked.

“Because you didn’t want to shoot him. What else were we going to do? Chain him to a post in your basement? Besides, there’s an old saying—keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Who said that?”

“Al Pacino in Godfather Part II.”

We returned to the cabin on Lake Carl about a half hour later. The old man was asleep on one of the sofas, and we tried not to wake him. I had rarely seen a man go through a day so quickly—it wasn’t even one in the afternoon yet. There was a stack of old paperbacks on the floor next to him and I sorted through them. They were all romance novels written by authors I had never heard of—Helen Carter, Violet Winspear, Catherine Coulter, Heidi Strasser, Roumelia Lane …

“The old man reads these?” I asked.