Cold Wind (10 page)

“Shoot,” Drennen said. “Who don’t need some money these days? Money’s like . . .
gold
.”

Which made Johnny grin and say to Drennen, “If you’ve ever said anything stupider than that, I can’t remember it.”

“I have,” Drennen assured him.

“See,” Johnny said, “it gets kind of frustrating to be around rich folks all summer long. They don’t seem to even know they’re rich, which is a pisser. You just want to say to them, ‘Give me just a little of what you got. You won’t miss it and I could sure use some of it.’ ”

The new beers arrived, and she sat back. She’d laid it out and now it was up to them. She wouldn’t tell them any more until they begged for it. And if the whole deal collapsed, she’d said nothing so far that would implicate her in any way. Not the name of the man she was looking for. Or the name of her adviser.

“It ain’t like we’re busy right now,” Johnny said, drawing little circles with his fingertip through the condensation on his full bottle.

Drennen said, “Hell, we’re camping up by Crazy Woman Creek. And it’s starting to get cold at night, and damned if I’m gonna spoon with that guy.” He pointed the mouth of his bottle toward Johnny, who grinned.

“Me and Johnny—this ain’t no
Brokeback Mountain
kind of deal,” Drennen offered.

“Jesus,” Johnny groaned at his friend. “Get back to the money part. Don’t pay Drennen any mind. He . . . talks.”

Drennen agreed, not the least bit offended.

She shook her head and gestured toward the pool table. “You boys are unemployed and living in the mountains, yet you manage to get a ride to town for some leisure activities.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Drennen said earnestly. “Even the unemployed got a right to a night on the town.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, looking closely at him, wondering how much of his head was solid rock. “That’s why it’s such a great country. We won’t let anyone take our rights away.”

“Damn straight,” Drennen said, nodding. “I could just kiss you for that.” Then he leaned over to her, the weight of him on her, and raised his chin in an effort to peck her on the cheek.

“Ow!” he yelped, and recoiled, snapping his head back so hard his hat bounced off the back of the booth and tumbled to the table. He plunged both of his hands between his thighs. “What was
that
? It was like a snake bit me in the unit.”

“No snake,” she said, withdrawing the knitting needle from where she’d jabbed him under the table, “and no kissing. No hijinks of any kind. Not until we come to some kind of understanding.”

Johnny watched the whole scene without flinching, without expression. He looked at her and said, “But maybe after
that
?”

“Jesus,” Drennen said, reclaiming his hat and fitting it back on. “Did you see what she did?”

Laurie looked back at Johnny and said, “It’s always a possibility. But first things first.”

“You mentioned money,” Johnny said in a whisper, leaning forward across the table. “What kind of dollars we talking about here?”

“Ten thousand,” she said. “You can split it even or decide who gets the greater percentage.”

Johnny frowned. “Why would one of us get more than the other?”

“We’d split it right down the middle, right, Johnny?” Drennen said.

“Suit yourself. I was just thinking one of you may have a harder job than the other. But however you want to handle it is fine by me.”

Timberman brought more beers and again she paid in cash. “Last call, little lady,” he said.

“Her name’s Patsy,” Johnny said, as if he were gallantly defending her reputation.

Timberman winked at her. He got it.

“So,” Drennen said, leaning in as well, so the three of them were inches apart. “Who we gotta kill?”

His tone indicated he was half joking.

She said, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

The question hung there for a moment, then Drennen quickly said, “Sure.” But the way his eyes darted to Johnny and back to her after he said it indicated to her he was lying. Trying to impress her. And he knew she probably knew it, so he said to Johnny, “That Mexican,” as if trying to prompt a false memory. He lowered his voice, “That fuckin’ Mexican wrangler they hired. The one with the attitude.”

She nodded.

“Well,” Drennen said, leaning back and puffing out his chest. “Let’s just say he don’t have a bad attitude no more.”

“That Mexican,” Johnny echoed, nodding. “We capped that son-of-a-bitch.”

She said, “His name is Nate Romanowski, but that shouldn’t matter to you one way or another. So, where are you boys camped? I’ll give you a ride.”

 

 

It had happened
two years before. Chase Talich, her late husband, had gone west from Chicago—where they had fine jobs working for important, if infamous, local men—with his brothers Cory and Nathaniel. The Feds had cracked down in a high-profile show of force that had caused Chase’s employers to flee the area. The last time she’d seen him, he was packing a suitcase in the bedroom. He was calm, as always. He said it might be a couple weeks before he came back. He said he’d call, but he couldn’t tell her exactly where he was going. He said he’d bring her back a cactus or a saddle.

Since Chase handled all the finances and had given her a murderous stony stare the one time she’d asked about them, she was naturally concerned about his future absence, especially because she was two months pregnant. They lived well on the North Side, she didn’t have to work, and her days consisted of shopping, Pilates, and lunching with the other wives whose husbands were involved in the Chicago
infrastructure
, as they put it. Of course, she had seen references to the “Talich Brothers” in the
Tribune
, and she knew Chase had been in prison when he was young. But he took good care of her and gave her a generous cash allowance every month and she was treated very well in clubs and restaurants when she gave her name. She was willing to not think much about it. That was her trade-off.

For five weeks, he didn’t call. His only contact was a large padded envelope sent from somewhere called Hulett, Wyoming, with her monthly cash allowance. Not even a note.

Then the Feds showed up. She knew when she opened the door that something had happened to her husband. They told her he’d been shot and killed in a remote part of northeastern Wyoming, practically in the shadow of Devils Tower. Nathaniel, Chase’s younger brother, had also been killed. Only Cory, the oldest, had survived. He was in custody and facing federal and state charges.

Desperate, she went to see her brother-in-law in Denver. Through the thick Plexiglas of the federal detention facility, he told her what had happened. How Chase had been bushwhacked by a local redneck who carried the largest handgun he had ever seen. That’s when she first heard the name.

She’d desperately quizzed Cory. Where had Chase stashed his money? How could she get access to it? How could she raise another child—Cory’s future nephew or niece—on her own with nothing?

Cory didn’t help. He said Chase had kept his finances to himself. Besides, Cory said, he had problems of his own and she’d need to learn how to take care of herself.

It was devastating. She was ruined. She wished she could find Chase and kill him all over again for leaving her like that with nothing. So she’d got an abortion, sold the house—which he’d put in her name to avoid scrutiny—and learned to knit to help take her mind off her situation. She’d turned bitter and spent a lot of time imagining what her life would have been like if Chase had come back. If that redneck hadn’t killed him.

 

 

Laurie Talich’s father
had spent his life within the Chicago
infrastructure
. Alderman, bookie, and mayoral assistant—he’d held so many jobs, yet never seemed to have an office where he went to work every morning. He was a loving father in a remote way, and seemed to look to her and her brother for solace and comfort and to remind himself he wasn’t all bad. He was a slow, doughy man who arrived home at all hours but never returned from a trip without candy and gifts for his children. In his retirement, he grew peppers and onions in his garden and watched a lot of television. But he was still connected, and when she went to him in desperation, he opened his home to her and listened to her troubles.

One night, after a few glasses of after-dinner wine, he told her she must seek vengeance.

“No matter what you think about your ex-husband or what you’ve learned about him since, you can’t let this go unpunished,” he said. “When someone hurts a member of your family, no matter what the reason, he’s hurt you by proxy. You go after him and get revenge. People need to know there are consequences for their actions, especially when it comes to our loved ones. That’s the only way to keep some kind of order in the world because, God knows, these days no one will do it for you. Not the pols, not the cops. I’d do it myself if I could get around, but I’m too damned old and busted up. Revenge is a cleanser, honey. You need to be cleansed.”

 

 

She’d arrived in Wyoming
the month before. It was remarkable—everyone seemed to know everyone else. She asked questions, got answers and leads, and eventually wound up in Saddlestring. It took only three days to find someone who knew Nate Romanowski.

Her adviser had said, “So you want revenge? I’m one of the few people who actually knows where he hangs his hat.”

Then her adviser told her he had access to a rocket launcher through some friends in the arms business. Said it could be shipped to her overnight. Her adviser was incredibly helpful, eager even. She never asked about agendas, because she didn’t need to know. All she cared about was that they had a common interest and a common purpose.

So now it was payback time. It was time to be cleansed.

Although Johnny and Drennen
talked excitedly about what they’d do the next day all the way into the mountains to their camp—especially the prospect of holding and firing the rocket launcher she claimed she had for the job—they weren’t nearly as enthusiastic that morning when she returned to pick them up.

She wound through the pine trees through the established sites and took a side road that was clearly marked by the U.S. Forest Service as prohibited to vehicles. It was another full mile through dense lodgepole pines that scratched the paint on her rental before she found the two of them. The camp was a shambles. They each had a stained, thin dome tent and there were empty bottles strewn about, as well as chunks of foil and old bones in the fire pit. Clothes hung from lengths of parachute cord strung between trees.

As Laurie wheeled into the opening, she saw Drennen emerge from the trees zipping up his Wranglers. His face was gray and drawn, his eyes red. She killed the engine and got out. Drennen nodded hello to her and called out to Johnny, who backed out of his tent and stood up. He looked just as bad. She could tell by the way they exchanged looks they had come to some kind of agreement, and she waited to find out who would speak first.

“Me and Johnny,” Drennen said, shoving both his dirty hands into his front trouser pockets and staring at a place in the pine needles between his boots. “We had a little talk this morning. We’re not so sure this is a good idea.”

She leaned back against the grille of her pickup and felt the warmth through the back of her jacket. The mid-morning sun was just then shooting yellow shafts through the trees to the forest floor. The trampled-down grass sparkled with the last of the morning dew. The thin air had a snap to it. “What don’t you like today that you liked last night?” she asked calmly.

Silence. Both now looked at the ground. She wanted to slap them both and tell them to act like men, for God’s sake. But she waited.

Finally, Johnny mumbled, “Tell her, Drennen.”

Drennen cleared his throat. His voice was raw and thick from his hangover. “Me and Johnny don’t think ten thousand is enough to risk our lives for.”

She held in a grin. They were so . . .
simple
. She said, “Where do you get the idea you’re risking your life?”

“Well, Patsy,” Drennen said. “We were pretty drunk last night and it all sounded good. Especially that part about the rocket launcher. That sounds pretty damned cool. But we don’t even know this guy. We don’t know what he did.”

“He killed my husband,” she said. “What more do you need to know?”

Johnny kicked at some pine needles. “So he’s a bad guy?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t the cops arrest him and throw him in jail?”

“Because they’re incompetent,” she said crisply.

Drennen said, “I hear
that
.”

“Look,” she said, “he’s a wanted man. That’s why he’s hiding out. There is no chance at all he’ll call the cops, because if he did, they’d arrest him. This is as safe as anything could be. Law enforcement won’t be weeping any crocodile tears if they find out something happened to Nate Romanowski, from what I understand. Hell, if any of us are ever caught, they might want to give us a medal.”