Pretty Girl Gone Page 15

“Where does he get his seed money?”

  “Who knows? Hey, Josie.”

  Bloom had returned. If anything, he appeared even worse off than when he left. His face was paler, his eyes flat and expressionless, and he continued to scratch his hands and face. He looked as though he had as much future as a lighted match.

  “Whaddaya say?” Axelrod said.

  “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there Nick, ’cept when it’s the other way round.”

  “I hear that.”

  “ ’Bout that drink.”

  “Dinner should be ready in a jiff.” Axelrod came around the bar and took Bloom by the arm. “I have a nice booth for you. Sit here and Jace will be with you in a minute.”

  Bloom pulled his arm away. Axelrod nudged him hard and Bloom half sat, half fell into the booth. He leaned both elbows on the table and held his head.

  “Christ, Nick.”

  Axelrod excused himself so he could tend bar. At the same time, someone had pumped a fistful of quarters into the jukebox. The music—some country hokum about the appeal of women who drove pickup trucks—filled the room, causing everyone to raise their voices. Bloom sat unmoving in the booth, supporting his head with both hands. I glanced at Axelrod. As soon as his back was turned I motioned to the other bartender and asked him to pour a shot of rye whiskey and a beer chaser. I took both to Bloom, set them on the table in front of him. He looked at me, focusing his eyes like I was someone he’d met before but couldn’t place.

  “May I join you, Mr. Bloom?”

  His little eyes blinked at me a couple of times without seeing me. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. Maybe I wasn’t there.

  I sat across from him, setting my own drink on the table’s edge. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead he took down the shot in one long swallow and sighed like a tire with a slow leak. I had pounded them myself from time to time, only not like that. Never like that. I wondered what kind of pain would make a man drink the way Josiah Bloom drank? Or was it pain? Maybe it was just habit.

  “I’d like to ask you about Elizabeth Rogers,” I said.

  Bloom cupped both hands around the glass of beer, inhaled deeply, and drank. He drank half the beer and when he set the glass down again, he exhaled and coughed, as if the few seconds he had held his breath had nearly suffocated him.

  “This can’t go on,” he said.

  “What can’t go on?” I asked.

  In reply, Bloom drained the beer and motioned for more. I caught the younger bartender’s eye and another rye and beer were served. Bloom guzzled the rye. I drank half my Scotch.

  “You shouldn’t drink like that,” Bloom told me suddenly. “It’s not good for you.”

  Like you should talk, I almost said, but didn’t.

  “You don’t want to end up like me, do ya?” Bloom asked.

  “You could quit, get treatment.”

  “I have. Many times. I once did 184 weeks and two days without a drink. I was younger then.”

  I did the math—three and a half years of sobriety out of how many? Over fifty? I nudged the remainder of the Scotch away.

  “You drink and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, maybe once outta ten tries it all becomes perfectly clear, you understand everything and then”—he snapped his fingers—“it’s gone. It just—It lasts a moment, then it’s gone. But that moment, what a moment. Do you know what I mean?”

  I didn’t but said I did.

  “It can break your heart,” Bloom said. He drank half the beer in one gulp and set the glass carefully in front of him.

  “Beth Rogers,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about Beth Rogers?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about Elizabeth. Tell me about that night.”

  “The night when she—Oh, what did we do?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  At that moment, Jace appeared. She set the platter of roast beef and garlic roasted mashed potatoes in front of him.

  “Here ya go, Mr. Bloom.”

  Bloom stared at the food for a moment, then at the girl. Jace patted his arm and Bloom recoiled in fear.

  “No, no, you’re not Beth. You can’t be Beth. Oh, Jesus.”

  Bloom hid his face in his hands. Jace set her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Bloom? Mr. Bloom? It’s all right, Mr. Bloom. You have friends here.”

  Bloom dropped his hands from his eyes and looked hard at her.

  He said, “You ain’t her. Little girl all shiny and new, ain’t got no scratches on you yet. Like you was, like you was—You ain’t pretty like her, you know. You think you are, but you ain’t. She was made of pure gold.”

  “Are you talking about Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “She was—perfect. I woulda done anything for her. Anything.”

  “Mr. Bloom?” I said.

  Bloom drowned a sob with the rest of his beer. When he finished, Jace took the glass from his hand. She looked at me then like she wanted to slap me. Jace gathered the shot and beer glasses onto her tray and took them away.

  I leaned halfway across the table.

  “It’s been a long time, Mr. Bloom.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened that night?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember,” he answered.

  The glaze in his eyes seemed to extend over Bloom’s entire body. He slumped down and buried his head in his arms. I slid the roast beef clear.

  “Mr. Bloom?” I nudged him. “Mr. Bloom?” I gave him a hard push.

  A moment later, Jace returned.

  “He’s asleep,” I told her.

  She looked at the drunk with compassionate disapproval.

  “Poor Mr. Bloom,” Jace said. “He drinks like this because—because he’s sad, I guess. The world isn’t what he wants it to be. But he’ll be all right. He’ll find what he needs.”

  What a wonderful young woman, my inner voice told me. She possessed such faith in human nature. I hoped she’d never lose it. But given her clandestine relationship with a Hispanic boyfriend in a racist town, I figured she probably would. You should have given her a bigger tip.

  Jace fetched her father.

  “I’ll take care of him,” he announced. It was the first time I had heard him speak quietly. “I wish you wouldn’t have bought him drinks.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  “I’ll take him home.”

  “Where does he live? I could drive.”

  “He’s got a place near the fairgrounds. But I’ll take care of him. You’ve done enough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hell, McKenzie. We’re all sorry.”

  9

  Snow was settling gently over Victoria by the time I left Nick’s Family Restaurant. Over two inches of it had gathered on the ground, hiding all that was unpleasant and ugly and vile, painting the city in gleaming white.

  I raised my eyes to the sky, closed them, and let the large flakes settle on my face; I opened my mouth and tried to catch them on my tongue. One of the things about fresh snow is its flavor. There is a goodness in it that you simply can’t taste in any other season. It called to mind memories of long ago tobogganing on the steep hills at the Town and Country Golf Course, watching the Winter Carnival parade, ice fishing on Lake Mille Lacs.

  Another thing I like about falling snow is how completely it absorbs sound, how silent it renders even the most intense traffic. It was because of the snow that I didn’t hear them approach.

  “You still here, shithead?”

  He sounded so close that I thought he had shouted in my ear. Yet when I opened my eyes, I saw that Gene Hugoson stood several feet away. Brian Reif was on his left.

  “It’s the Victoria nightlife,” I said. “I can’t get enough of it.”

  “Why don’t you just leave?” Hugoson wanted to know.

  “Sounds like a plan.” I tried to retreat down the sidewalk. Hugo
son cut me off. I slowly pivoted until the men stood at about forty-five-degree angles to my left and right. I tried to keep my eyes on both of them at the same time as they moved closer.

  “Why are you guys so angry?” I asked. “What’d I do?”

  “We don’t like you, bitch,” Reif said.

  The slur was a definitely a notch above the insult Hugoson had hurled at me, but I didn’t like it any better.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said.

  All the warning signs were there: Attack Is Imminent. They didn’t even bother with the first stages. My muscles tensed.

  “C’mon fellas,” I said. “Can’t we all just get along?”

  “We ain’t a couple of kids on the sidewalk,” Reif hissed at me.

  Hugoson was the closest, so I cheated to my left, waited for him to make a move.

  “Sic ’im,” Reif said. Or maybe he said, “Get ’im.” I wasn’t listening that close. As soon as Hugoson shifted his weight a fraction of an inch I kicked him just as hard as I could in the groin; disable the attacker in front of you as quickly as possible before turning to face the second, that’s what I was taught.

  Only there was a thin veneer of ice under the snow. When I kicked Hugoson, my back foot slid out from under me. I went down as violently as he had, my hip making solid contact with the frozen concrete sidewalk. Pain surged through me like an electric shock, and for a moment I forgot Reif. Only he didn’t forget me. I heard him curse, felt his shadow move across my face. He raised his foot, tried to kick my head. I rolled away. Reif cursed again. I flailed at him with my leg. The heel of my boot struck his knee. That hurt him, but he didn’t fall. Reif cursed some more. If words were sticks and stones I’d be dead.

  I heard something else.

  A voice calling loudly from behind me.

  “Gun!”

  I did a stupid thing. I turned toward the voice. Greg Schroeder was standing next to my car about a half block up the street. He was smiling. Fortunately, Reif was just as foolish as I was. He looked at Schroeder, too, the pistol that appeared in his hand pointed more or less at the ground.

  I recovered more quickly than Reif and swung my legs, sweeping his feet out from under him. He fell backward, his arms outstretched. He landed first on his tailbone, then his back. I heard a dull thud as his head bounced off the concrete.

  I lunged over his body, clutched the gun in both of my hands. I twisted it out of his grasp. He cried out. Maybe I had broken one of his fingers. I couldn’t tell. I rolled to my knees, gained control of the gun, and pointed it in his face.

  “Did you point a gun at me? Did you? Did you point a gun at me? Are you suicidal?”

  Reif didn’t look suicidal. He looked frightened as he gripped the fingers of his gun hand with his other hand and rocked back and forth.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Hugoson was still holding himself, moaning quietly.

  I turned my attention back to Reif.

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” he chanted.

  I pressed the muzzle of the gun against his cheek.

  “Please,” he cried.

  “Jerk,” I said.

  I stood up.

  “What’s your story? Why are you guys so pissed off?”

  “Coach says you’re spreading lies about the Seven.”

  “Ah, bullshit. What’s it really about?”

  Reif shook his head and it occurred to me that what it was really about was anger and disappointment and failed dreams. I was just the guy they decided to take it out on.

  I told them, “I know a guy who always wears three-piece suits with an open shirt collar and plenty of gold chains. On occasion he’ll float out on the middle of Lake Calhoun in a rowboat where he’s sure he can commune with the spirit of Donna Summer. I assured him that as far as I know Ms. Summers is still very much alive and he told me, ‘Disco is dead.’ ”

  Hugoson raised his head, an expression of disbelief fighting through the pain.

  “Disco’s dead. Get it?”

  “Huh?” said Reif.

  “Hell with you guys.”

  The expensive Scotch I had consumed was now a faint, rhythmic pulse behind my eyes and a cardboard taste in my mouth. I felt very tired. I had nothing more to say to either man. I turned and started walking toward where Schroeder was standing. I took a half dozen steps before I heard Reif say, “My gun?”

  “You want your gun back, you can come and get it any time.”

  Greg Schroeder had cleared snow off of the Audi and was now sitting on the hood. He gave me a smile that was more in his eyes than in his mouth and one of those short, perfunctory waves Queen Elizabeth doles out to the commoners whenever she deigns to move among them. By the time I reached him, Hugoson and Reif were helping each other inside Nick’s Family Restaurant. After they told their version of what happened, I doubted I’d be offered any more free dinners.

  The gun turned out to be an older Colt .32, the kind generals in the army used to carry. As I walked to Schroeder I removed the magazine, ejected the round in the chamber, and field-stripped the pistol. By the time I reached the Audi, I had the Colt in pieces. I dumped them all in a trash container that the city fathers had the foresight to place on the corner.

  “You’re not going to keep it?” Schroeder asked.

  “I hate guns,” I told him.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “You know, that’s a $45,000 car you’re sitting on.”

  Schroeder slapped it with the flat of his hand.

  “You paid forty-five for this piece of junk?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just hanging out. How ’bout you?”

  “You followed me down here.”

  “Followed you? The way you drive? Get serious.”

  “This is intolerable.”

  Schroeder laughed at me.

  “You know, McKenzie, watching you in action, first at the Groveland Tap and now with those two guys back there, it’s a wonder to me that you’ve managed to stay alive as long as you have.”

  “I was lulling them into a state of complacency.”

  “Sure you were.”

  I grabbed two fistfuls of Schroeder’s coat and yanked him off my car. I felt my lips curl over my teeth, felt my skin grow tight over my face. I leaned in close and snarled, “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”

  Schroeder shook his head.

  “Nope. Nice try, though. Maybe with a little work. You should practice in front of a mirror. And remember, less is more.”

  “Fuck you, Schroeder.”

  I pushed him away.

  Schroeder smiled and shook his head like he felt sorry for me. He turned and began sauntering away through the snow. In the distance, I saw where he had parked his Ford Escort.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll see you around, tough guy,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Schroeder.”

  He lifted his gloved hand and let it drop in a kind of backward salute.

  “You sonuvabitch.”

  Schroeder thought that was awfully funny. He gave me another wave and continued walking to his car.

  God, I hate that guy, I told myself.

  The Victoria Inn was located on the edge of town off U.S. Highway 71 and boasted a cocktail lounge, indoor swimming pool, and $49 weekday rates. I decided to crash in Victoria overnight, meet with Dr. Peterson and Grace Monteleone in the morning, then try to speak with Josie Bloom again. That was as far as my plans took me.

  “Will you be staying with us long?” the desk clerk asked as I completed the registration card.

  “Just the night.”

  “I see.” The desk clerk spoke in a way that caused me to look up from the card. The clothes the woman wore were too tight, and her face was made up as if she were intent on hiding all clues to her age, which I guessed was well over forty. She was grinning as if we shared a secret.

  “Check or credit card?” the woman asked.


  “Cash.” I removed three twenties and a ten from my wallet, enough to cover the room rate and taxes. The desk clerk took the bills and examined them like she had never seen their like before. She worked the transaction on her computer and gave me a receipt.

  “Luggage?” she asked.

  I held up a paper bag. It contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, disposable razor, shaving cream, hairbrush, gel, cotton briefs, white socks—three pairs to a package—and an XXL Minnesota Wild hockey jersey. I had come to Victoria unprepared to stay the night and bought the items at a shop near the Des Moines River after first cursing myself for my lack of foresight.

  “I see,” the desk clerk said. Her smile came and went without touching the rest of her face as she studied the registration card.

  “Is your license plate number correct?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  The desk clerk could see my Audi through the glass wall facing the parking lot. She matched the plates on the car against the number I had written.

  “No, no problem.”

  I showered, put on a pair of fresh briefs, and pulled the large hockey jersey over my head. I went to the small table and worked my notebook for a while, adding impressions to the facts that I had written down after each interview. A few minutes later I was staring out my window at the parking lot beyond. It was still snowing.

  I should have bought something to read along with my other supplies, I told myself as I flopped down on the bed with the remote control. The TV promised some distraction, about a dozen channels worth. However, I surfed through them and found nothing that interested me. Even ESPN was a washout, broadcasting a trick-shot pool competition. Curiosity caused me to linger for a moment to see what the adult pay-per-view channels had to offer. Somehow the trailers for Sinderella and Naughty Nurses III suggested that they were the same movie.

  “Things will never get that bad,” I vowed and quickly turned to CNN.

  Still, the previews reminded me that I had promised to call Nina Truhler.

  “Hey,” she said after I identified myself.

  “How’s Prudence?” I asked.

  “Prudence is a treat—as usual. How’s Victoria?”

  “It’s snowing.”

  “Snowing in the Cities, too. I wish you were here to keep me warm.”