The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(44)

Anyway, he figured anyone out to hurt him wouldn’t have made an announcement. So he wasn’t going to stand up. If he abandoned the cutting board, the dog would eat everything, including the cutting board.

“Come on in,” he said.

The figure came closer, still hidden by the night. The raspy voice of an older man raised up over the sound of the rain. “This here’s city prop’ty. Like a park. Ain’t no camping on city prop’ty.”

Mingus woofed and bumped past Peter in his chair, a hundred and fifty pounds of wet, stinking dog. “Mingus, stay.”

“Hold your dog, mister,” said the raspy voice. “I don’t want to shoot no man’s dog.”

“Hang on.” Peter scrambled to his knees on the wet grass to grab Mingus by the rope collar. “Don’t shoot.”

At the edge of the circle of firelight was a black man maybe eighty years old in an oilcloth slicker and a black fedora with rain streaming from the brim. His face was sunken and rubbery, like maybe he didn’t have his teeth in. But he stood broad and strong for all his years, and he held a gleaming bolt-action rifle like he knew what to do with it.

He tilted his chin at the bullet holes in Peter’s truck and cargo box. “You been shot at enough from the look of things,” he said. “And I wouldn’t put a dog out in this weather. So I give you ’til nine ayem tomorrah ’fore I call the police. But do me the courtesy of cleanin’ up before you go.”

“Yessir,” said Peter. “I will.”

The old man half turned to go, then turned back. “You gon’ be warm enough out here?”

“Yessir,” said Peter. “I’m fine, thanks. In fact, I can offer you a cold beer if you’d care to sit by the fire.”

The old man shook his head. “I got to be home direc’ly or catch hell from the missus. But you stay dry and take care, hear?”

Peter smiled. “Yessir.”




The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

Midden could hear the bar band out in the parking lot.

It was Friday night, and a steady stream of pickup trucks and battered old American cars pulled off the highway onto the flat stretch of gravel, then emptied themselves of singles and groups and couples already starting to dance as they headed toward the front door.

Midden sat in the white Dodge van, watching.

Beside him, a big man with scars on his face, missing one earlobe, shifted restlessly on his seat. “Come on, motherfucker,” he growled. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Calm down, Boomer,” said Midden. “Don’t spook this guy. He’s going to be nervous as it is.”

The man with the scars glared at him. “Remember who you’re talking to. I’m the king of cool.”

“I can tell,” said Midden.

“Listen, motherfucker—”

“There he is,” said Midden, nodding at a man walking alone across the gravel. “Keep it relaxed, okay?”

“I know what I’m doing,” said the man with the scars. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot, calling out, “Hey, Kevin. Kevin, my man!”

Midden followed, staying three steps behind to reduce the appearance of threat, watching Boomer calm himself. It was, Midden thought, a little unnerving how the man went from cocky asshole to cool customer in a dozen steps. But he knew that Boomer had practiced this discipline each time he’d put on the bulky blast suit, breathing deep, bringing his pulse down, preparing to defuse whatever jury-rigged device the patrols had found. You can’t have shaking hands when you hold the wire cutters.

Kevin took a step back when he saw Boomer striding toward him. Boomer slapped a hand on the man’s thick shoulder, smiling and nodding. “Hey, how you doin’, man? Gettin’ ready to tear it up on a Friday night?”

Kevin said, “Hey. Uh, I thought we were meeting inside.”

The quarryman was built wide and strong and close to the ground. Pale limestone dust drifted lightly across the legs of his work jeans and the tails of his quilted flannel shirt. But he looked nervous, thought Midden. Nervous wasn’t good.

“It’s so damn loud inside, hard to have a real conversation, you know?” said Boomer with a wide grin, the man’s best friend. “You got what we asked for, right? I got your money right here.” Boomer patted his coat pocket. “Where’s the stuff?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Kevin, his eyes flicking to Midden, then back to Boomer. “Over here.” He led them reluctantly over to his muddy Dodge pickup and opened the hatch on the cap. “This is all I could get,” he said, handing over a wrinkled brown paper grocery bag.

Boomer unrolled the top and pulled out a handful of newspaper-wrapped cylinders. He unwrapped one to expose a gleaming silver tube, a little smaller than a cigarette, with wires coming out of one end.

“Kevin,” he said. “I certainly do need the blasting caps. But I can buy those at any gun show. What I need,” he said, his voice rising, “what I fuckin’ need, is a dozen full sticks. We talked about this.”

“The sticks are a lot harder to fake the paperwork,” said the quarryman. “Especially the amount you need. This is serious shit, you know.”

“But can you get them?” said Boomer. His smile flickered on and off like a bad lightbulb. “You told me two weeks ago you could get them.”