“We have a job of work,” said Hanshaw. He knew that the boy wouldn’t be able to hear him, but this was a ritual he performed to satisfy his sense that the world had become ridiculously and unmanageably barbaric during his lifetime. He repeated himself, louder, and struck the boy lightly on the thigh with the back of his hand. Jeramy’s eyes opened and he sat up abruptly, removing the headphones in the same motion.
“’Sup, Hanshaw?”
“We got work,” said Hanshaw.
“Kind of work?”
“Finding shit out about someone,” said Hanshaw.
They went out to Hanshaw’s truck.
“What’s in it for me?” said Jeramy.
“You get training wage,” said Hanshaw. He reached back and handed him the remaining Pepsis.
They drove into Cherry City and Hanshaw parked downtown on Front Street, across from a Starbucks. Jeramy was dozing beside him. Hanshaw reached out and slapped his thigh, twice, hard.
“The fuck?”
“Sleep when it’s your turn to drive. As usual.”
“Fuck, dawg. Why you got to wake a nigga up like dat?”
“You’re not a nigger,” said Hanshaw. “You’re going in there,” he pointed at the Starbucks, “and boosting a laptop.”
“Why I gotta go in there? Why not you?”
“Because,” Hanshaw said. “Because, first of all, I stand out.”
“Oh, you distinctive, like.” Jeramy made a mocking face.
“No. What I am is six-eight, is what I am. And the guy in there knows me.”
“He know you.”
Hanshaw rolled his eyes, partly at the locution. “It’s a small world out here, Jeramy.”
“So what I’ma do?”
“You’re going to go in there and order a coffee and wait until someone goes to the bathroom or something.”
“What for?”
“It’s part of finding shit out about someone. I want a computer I can toss so it can’t be traced.”
“I need money.”
Hanshaw gave him five dollars and the kid opened the door and got out. He crossed the street with a practiced hobbling gait, as if he were wearing a set of leg irons. Hanshaw watched him go. He thought it would be unnameably righteous if the kid could walk in there amid all the hiss and steam, the pale young people composing poems and screenplays while some singer with a dorm-room-tragic voice played over the sound system, and swipe one of their fancy machines. In Hanshaw’s youth the place had been a record shop; he remembered fondly the deep-space serenity of flipping through the bins at the rear of the store on yet another squandered afternoon. Five minutes later, Jeramy appeared in the street swinging a silver computer under one arm. He stepped off the curb and bounced on his toes until there was a break in the light traffic, then jogged over to the truck. He held up the laptop, displaying it exultantly, a goofy grin on his face.
TODAY
Mulligan leaned against the pickup, waiting while Kat called her friend. He had some questions. She paced, walking a serpentine path, occasionally glaring at a distant point overhead. The old man, Salteau, came out of his trailer, carrying something. He stood at the top of the steps and watched Kat for a moment. When he glanced Mulligan’s way, Mulligan raised his hand in a wave. Salteau ignored him.
When she was finished, Kat walked briskly over and got in behind the wheel.
“She get her TV yet?”
“Still waiting. But I don’t think she’s going to be able to help with this.”
“Help how? What does she have to do with this?”
“Forget it.”
They rode in silence for a while. Mulligan discreetly worked away with his right pinky at the inside of his right nostril. Every now and then Kat would throw a quick angry glance in his direction.
“What?”
“He’s gone.”
“Maybe we made a mistake.”
“Mistake.” Kat snorted. “That was the address he gave, you know? We got played.”
Mulligan found a tissue in the glove compartment and wiped the tip of his pinky. He held the used tissue gingerly, bundled in a wad, and glanced around the front seat.
“Conceal that on your person, please,” she said.
“Body’s got to eliminate it. Just like anything else.” He stuffed the tissue in his coat pocket. “What is a John Saltino, anyway?” he asked.
“A ghost,” said Kat. “Someone they invented to drive me crazy.”
“No, really.”
“Really,” she said.
They rode in silence for a while.
“Now what?” he said.
“Now I go back to Cherry City and think about whether I have a story or not.”
“Looks like maybe you’ve got a better story.”
“Oh, isn’t it just so intriguing,” she said sourly.
They rode in silence for a while.
“Is John Salteau really John Saltino?” said Mulligan. Kat didn’t answer. “Because he sure looks like that picture.”
“No,” said Kat, in a tone suggesting correction, “he looks like an eighty-three-year-old retiree.”
They rode in silence for a while.
“Do you think that the eighty-three-year-old knew something?” asked Mulligan.
“He knew everything. Salt of the earth. Font of wisdom. Respect your elders.”
“Because I’ve been right here, and I don’t know anything, as it turns out.”
“Who asked you?” said Kat. “Who said, ‘come,’ ‘do,’ ‘help,’ ‘be,’ ‘join’? Who said ‘want,’ ‘need,’ or even ‘like,’ for that matter?”
They rode in silence. After a while, Kat pulled over to the side of the road and opened her door.
“What?” said Mulligan.
“Chinese fire drill,” she said. “You drive.”
They got out to swap positions. Kat carefully brushed off the passenger seat before sitting in it. Mulligan said nothing.
“Saltino worked at Manitou Sands,” she said.
“The casino.” He steered onto the empty road.
“Yes. A little less than a year ago he disappeared without a trace at the same time as about four hundred fifty thousand dollars went missing.”
“Cops couldn’t find him?”
“The cops were not informed of the theft. The money involved officially doesn’t exist.”
“Casino stuff.”
“Casino stuff. How do I even know about all this? Becky, my friend, worked at the casino for a while and saw how the money was being manipulated. Saltino was key. He was in charge of removing the nonexistent cash and delivering it to wherever it ended up.”
“A bagman.”
“They hired him on as a ‘transfer pricing manager.’ ”
“What the hell is that?”
“My question exactly. Take my word for it, it doesn’t have anything to do with his job. He’s basically a thug. Guy’s been breaking heads since he was in junior high. Whole adult life in and out of prison kind of thing. He keeps track of the money, he takes the money, he makes sure the people who know about the money keep their mouths shut. And one day he takes off with it. Anyway, Becky spotted him a while ago. And guess what? He’s an Indian now. A traditional Ojibway storyteller, working his way around Michigan using the name John Salteau.”
“Salteau?”
“Yes, your big pal.”
A state police cruiser appeared abruptly from behind them, siren wailing, shooting past them in the opposing lane and veering back over the solid double line. It vanished in the distance within seconds.
“Why did you want me to meet your friend today?”
“Becky? Never mind.”
“Why never mind?”