him. “Check your mail, you should be—”
“It just popped up. Hang on.” A pause. She heard Miles tapping away on his laptop in the background. In a moment he came back on the line. “Okay, what am I looking at?”
“Tonight’s top story, I’d think,” Maya said.
5
By five o’clock Mike felt more or less human. He took three Vicodins for his leg and stayed a long time in the shower, then shaved, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. By the time he was finished, he’d organized a rough order of business in his head. First item on the list: Eat something.
The cupboards were bare, so Mike grabbed his jacket, locked up the house, and walked over to Hal’s place. The Elbow Room wasn’t licensed to serve food, but each day Hal made up a couple dozen ham sandwiches with mayo and mustard, wrapped them in plastic, and loaded them into the cooler under the bar. Hal didn’t advertise the sandwiches, but if you knew to ask, he’d sell you one on a napkin with a beer or whatever you were drinking for a buck or two extra. What he didn’t sell by last call he took the next morning to the soup kitchen over by Como Park Lutheran. Mike had gotten to like those sandwiches.
The rain had quit, and the air smelled like early morning instead of late afternoon. Mike breathed it in through the nose as he walked, let it freshen up the inside of his head. It was still cool for April, but they’d finally turned the corner on winter; he could hear theground sucking and popping beneath the humpbacked lawns along Front Avenue, thirsty after an early thaw and a cold, sunless March. The robins were out in numbers, hopping about in the wet grass, hunting for earthworms. Mealtime for everybody.
By the time he made it to the Elbow, Mike’s stomach was rumbling. He pulled open the door to the clack of pool balls,
Jeopardy!
on the television over the bar, and the scattered voices of a few other early birds getting a head start on happy hour.
“That was a quick trip,” Hal said as Mike took a stool. “Fish weren’t biting, huh?”
Mike felt like he’d walked in on somebody else’s conversation. “Fish?”
Hal brought up a sandwich, pulled a beer to go with it. “I guess you stayed home.”
“You lost me at
trip
, Hal. Thanks for the grub.” He put a fiver on the bar, which Hal ignored. Mike left the money anyway. He slid the sandwich toward him by the napkin, began undoing the plastic wrap. “What are we talking about?”
Hal chuckled. “Potter came by first thing this morning, asked if he could borrow my place a couple days. Said he needed to dry out, thought he’d see what the walleye were up to. Hell, I didn’t have the heart to tell him walleye season don’t open ’til May.”
Hal owned a little place up in the lake country, a ramshackle cabin on a pretty piece of water he’d inherited from his grandfather twenty years ago. Rockhaven, the older man had named the spot, planting the sign at the end of the long narrow lane that stood today. Mike had used the place himself on occasion,at Hal’s invitation, and he’d hauled Darryl along up there one weekend last August, after Darryl got off probation, thinking the peace and quiet could be good medicine for both of them. They’d run out of booze, and then cigarettes, and Darryl had spent the last day sweating, slapping bugs, and crawling out of his skin.
Mike evaluated this news with mixed feelings. On one hand, his chore for the day had gotten easier. On the other hand, Darryl didn’t fish.
“That’s funny,” he told Hal. “I was about to ask if you’d seen him around here today.”
“Uh huh.” Hal smirked and wiped down the bar. “You ain’t the first either.”
Shit. Mike took a bite of his sandwich. It tasted better than eleven thousand dollars. “I guess Toby Lunden’s been by.”
“That’s his name? Milky-lookin’ kid, glasses like Coke bottles?”
“That’s his name,” Mike said.
“So that’s Mr. Big, huh?” Hal shook his head
“It just popped up. Hang on.” A pause. She heard Miles tapping away on his laptop in the background. In a moment he came back on the line. “Okay, what am I looking at?”
“Tonight’s top story, I’d think,” Maya said.
5
By five o’clock Mike felt more or less human. He took three Vicodins for his leg and stayed a long time in the shower, then shaved, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. By the time he was finished, he’d organized a rough order of business in his head. First item on the list: Eat something.
The cupboards were bare, so Mike grabbed his jacket, locked up the house, and walked over to Hal’s place. The Elbow Room wasn’t licensed to serve food, but each day Hal made up a couple dozen ham sandwiches with mayo and mustard, wrapped them in plastic, and loaded them into the cooler under the bar. Hal didn’t advertise the sandwiches, but if you knew to ask, he’d sell you one on a napkin with a beer or whatever you were drinking for a buck or two extra. What he didn’t sell by last call he took the next morning to the soup kitchen over by Como Park Lutheran. Mike had gotten to like those sandwiches.
The rain had quit, and the air smelled like early morning instead of late afternoon. Mike breathed it in through the nose as he walked, let it freshen up the inside of his head. It was still cool for April, but they’d finally turned the corner on winter; he could hear theground sucking and popping beneath the humpbacked lawns along Front Avenue, thirsty after an early thaw and a cold, sunless March. The robins were out in numbers, hopping about in the wet grass, hunting for earthworms. Mealtime for everybody.
By the time he made it to the Elbow, Mike’s stomach was rumbling. He pulled open the door to the clack of pool balls,
Jeopardy!
on the television over the bar, and the scattered voices of a few other early birds getting a head start on happy hour.
“That was a quick trip,” Hal said as Mike took a stool. “Fish weren’t biting, huh?”
Mike felt like he’d walked in on somebody else’s conversation. “Fish?”
Hal brought up a sandwich, pulled a beer to go with it. “I guess you stayed home.”
“You lost me at
trip
, Hal. Thanks for the grub.” He put a fiver on the bar, which Hal ignored. Mike left the money anyway. He slid the sandwich toward him by the napkin, began undoing the plastic wrap. “What are we talking about?”
Hal chuckled. “Potter came by first thing this morning, asked if he could borrow my place a couple days. Said he needed to dry out, thought he’d see what the walleye were up to. Hell, I didn’t have the heart to tell him walleye season don’t open ’til May.”
Hal owned a little place up in the lake country, a ramshackle cabin on a pretty piece of water he’d inherited from his grandfather twenty years ago. Rockhaven, the older man had named the spot, planting the sign at the end of the long narrow lane that stood today. Mike had used the place himself on occasion,at Hal’s invitation, and he’d hauled Darryl along up there one weekend last August, after Darryl got off probation, thinking the peace and quiet could be good medicine for both of them. They’d run out of booze, and then cigarettes, and Darryl had spent the last day sweating, slapping bugs, and crawling out of his skin.
Mike evaluated this news with mixed feelings. On one hand, his chore for the day had gotten easier. On the other hand, Darryl didn’t fish.
“That’s funny,” he told Hal. “I was about to ask if you’d seen him around here today.”
“Uh huh.” Hal smirked and wiped down the bar. “You ain’t the first either.”
Shit. Mike took a bite of his sandwich. It tasted better than eleven thousand dollars. “I guess Toby Lunden’s been by.”
“That’s his name? Milky-lookin’ kid, glasses like Coke bottles?”
“That’s his name,” Mike said.
“So that’s Mr. Big, huh?” Hal shook his head
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