The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(67)

She shook her head. “Boomer claimed somebody stole something out of our lockers. He ran around yelling at people, starting fights. But he never would tell me what was taken. I had to kick him out. He was being an asshole.”

“You have lockers?”

“Sure,” she said. “Some of our guys are homeless, and they need a place to keep their stuff. I roughed some boxes together out of scrap lumber and cheap padlocks. Not super-secure.”

He stood up. “I think I’m ready for that tour.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “It’s not much.”

The white static roiled up when Peter came to the plywood wall, but he pushed it down and focused on his breathing. The plywood hall opened into a makeshift living space. There was an improvised kitchen on one side, a dented fridge, an old electric stove, and a few secondhand cabinets. Then two rows of bunks and footlockers, made of plywood and two-by-fours, and at the far end of the room two doors. On the side wall was a cheap hollow-core door. On the back wall was a giant iron door, much older and heavier, crusted with rust flakes.

Josie waved at the cheap door. “Bathrooms through there, again, not much, we could really use some help with those. You know anything about plumbing?”

“Enough,” he said. “What about that door? That big iron monster?”

“No idea,” she said cheerfully. “Although we might have to get it open one of these days. I think we’re going to need to expand.”

“How are you funding this place?”

“Funding?” she said. “What funding? I walk around and knock on doors and ask for donations. We found the couches on the curb. I talked an appliance repairman out of the fridge and stove. Sometimes I buy food with my combat pay. But when the cold weather comes we’ll get a lot more guys. We’ll be stacking them like cordwood.”

“What about rent? Construction, permits, all that.”

She laughed at him. “You don’t get it. There are no permits. We’re completely under the radar. The building’s owner walked away from it, I can’t even find who owns the place. The Health Department doesn’t even know we’re here.”

“It’s a squat? The whole place is a squat?” Although occupying an abandoned building was definitely one way to keep the rent down.

She shrugged. “Fuck ’em. We’re doing real work here. Besides, it’s always better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

He could picture her behind the stick in a flight suit and helmet, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, cutting the hard contours of the Afghan mountains. He thought she must have been very good at her job.

“What about the neighbors? Nobody wondered who you guys were?”

“That resale shop across the street called the cops on us about four months ago. We hadn’t gotten all that organized yet. The city sent some guy who came in and looked around. He was pretty nice, actually. He said not to worry about permits and permissions. Said if I was serious about helping veterans, just put up a sign outside, start doing the job. Fix the place up like we were the real thing. If the building’s owner came forward, deal with that when it happened. He even came back a week later with business cards for us.”

“He bought you business cards?”

She shrugged. “Someone left them by the door, I figured it was him. He seemed to want to help. Like I said, he was a nice guy.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“I only met him once. Dan? Dan something, from the city.”

Or maybe Sam, thought Peter.

“Tall and skinny?” he asked. “Wearing a really nice suit?”

“I guess,” she said. “Clothes aren’t really what I look for in a guy.”

Either she wasn’t part of this, thought Peter, or she was a really good actress.

She said, “Hey, after the march tomorrow? Some of us are going to the Landmark. Shoot some pool, have some beers, tell some stories. You want to come?”

“I’d love to. Really. But I have kind of a busy day tomorrow. Can I let you know?”





31



Crossing the street from the veterans’ center, he saw the tan Yukon parked at the curb, Lewis in the shadows, leaning against Peter’s truck. Leaning without leaning, ready to move at any time, but looking as still and patient as if he’d spent a week waiting, and was ready to spend a month more.

“Time to make the doughnuts.” Lewis wore his black suede jacket, but no hat. If he felt the cold of the wind, it didn’t show. “Found your black Ford. An Excursion, all chewed up on the driver’s side. Put a GPS beacon under the back bumper. Find it again whenever you want.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “GPS beacon?”

“Had it lying around,” said Lewis. “Syncs to my phone.”

“Tell me.”

“Called in a favor and had a guy look up the plate. Registered to a black Ford Excursion owned by some guy in West Bend. Bernard Sands, retired dentist, never even had a parking ticket. Living in Florida, planning to put the house on the market in the spring.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yep. Told ol’ Bernie I was an insurance broker, trying to save him a few bucks. He won’t do business with a brother, though. Anyway, I drove to West Bend. House closed up tighter than a frog’s ass, that Ford locked in the garage. But there’s a different plate on Bernie’s bumper. That plate registered to James R. Bond, in Milwaukee.”