The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(66)

Jesus, thought Peter. “So, any advice?”

“Yeah. Don’t let him come up behind you with something pointy. I would guess he’s capable of anything, but you’ll never catch him at it.”

“Shoot first, is what you’re telling me.”

Zolot flashed a ferocious grin. “Who, me? I never said that.”

The truck shifted on its springs as the dog moved in the back, hearing Peter’s voice.

Zolot peered speculatively at Peter’s rocking Chevy. “What you got in there, a fucking water buffalo?”

“Listen,” said Peter. “Two questions. One, if I get close to something, you want in?”

The heat of rage and violence came off the man in a wave. The grin got wider.

“I thought you’d never ask. What’s your second question?”

Peter said, “Who’s your old partner?”





30



The Riverside Veterans’ Center looked different in the daylight. The masonry shell of the building was badly damaged. The cream-colored brick was cracked and bulging in lumpy waves as it slowly separated from the structure beneath. Chalky white stains cascaded down from the parapets, signs of water leaking through the caps or the roof. Someone would have to take the veneer apart brick by brick to get it right. Do that or tear the whole building down.

But the paint was fresh on the veterans’ center’s windows, and Josie, the helicopter pilot with the ponytail and a different pair of paint-spattered jeans, was cleaning the glass with a mop and a squeegee. Bare wet hands on a cold November day, and intent on her work.

Peter said, “Can I give you a hand with that?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Just like the Marines,” she said. “Showing up when the tough job is done. This is my last window.”

“What about lunch?” he asked. “Have you eaten yet? I’m buying.”

She smiled. “Let me buy you lunch. There’s a pot of chili on the stove inside.” She watched his eyes. “We can haul some chairs out here if you like. Have a picnic.”

Peter took a breath. “Thanks. But I’ll come inside. You were going to give me the tour.”

“Yes, I was.” She picked up her bucket and tossed the dirty wash water into the street. “By the way, the lunch won’t be free,” she said. “I’ll be demanding some work hours out of you down the road.”

Peter opened the door for her. “I’ll do what I can.”

Inside, Peter saw the man with the shaved head and long beard she called Cas sitting at the same desk, typing furiously into his laptop. “Is he always here?”

“He lives here,” Josie said. “I’m not here all the time, but I don’t think he’s left the building for more than a few hours since he showed up a few months ago.”

“What’s he writing, a book?”

“I asked him.” She smiled. “He called it a manifesto.”

“That doesn’t sound good. What’s it about?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it. He’s pissed off about the financial crisis, how the banks broke the economy. He’s hard to follow. I gave up talking to him about it. I wouldn’t worry about him. I think his meds are pretty strong.”

Walking toward the back hall, Peter’s eyes caught the swirling grain of the unfinished plywood. His chest began to tighten immediately.

She must have seen something in his face. “Why don’t you go sit by the front windows?” she said. “The afternoon light is really great. And I’ll get us some chili. You want jalape?os and cheese?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was right, it was better by the windows, although he could still hear the clacking of the keys on Cas’s laptop. The chili was spicy, full of flavor, and Josie had a way of looking at him that made him feel like she could see something inside of him. Maybe something not quite evident to Peter himself.

He really wanted for her not to be involved with this thing.

“You coming to the march tomorrow?” She had a smear of chili on the corner of her mouth. He wanted to reach out and wipe it off, but he didn’t.

“What march?”

“Duh,” she said. “Veterans Day. There’s a march to the War Memorial. We’re all going. The center will be closed up for the day. We start at Veterans Park at ten, it goes until two. There’s gonna be a polka band and bratwurst and everything.” Her grin made her look fifteen years old. “You should come. It’ll be awesome.”

“Tomorrow’s busy,” he said. “But I’ll do my best. Gosh. Polka music and bratwurst.”

“And everything.” She punched him in the arm. “Don’t make fun.”

“Never,” he said, rubbing his biceps. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something. You remember about my friend Jimmy?”

“Who killed himself.” She nodded, serious now.

“Yeah. Well. I think he was hanging around with another guy. A black guy, with scars on his face, missing one earlobe. Does that ring a bell?”

“That sounds like Boomer. Kind of a loudmouth. He was friends with Cas, they used to sit and talk.”

“Was? He doesn’t come around anymore?”