Comeback (Gun Pedersen Book 1) (8 page)

Gun saw Carol’s pen hand pause and her black
eyebrows point up at the center. She turned to look at
him, and he walked past Geoff out of the room.

11

At one o’clock a slow breeze from the east was
reshaping what had been a pleasant forecast, and
people were exiting the Muskie Lounge. Most seemed slightly dazed from Hedman’s gift drinks, and willing
enough to go to the polls with such generosities in
mind. Gun stood in front of the lounge entrance. He
was waiting for Larson.

He had to wait a long time. The first people out were
mostly young, hurrying back to untenured positions,
checking the creases in their slacks. Then came the sociable threes and fours, holding discussions about
the pros of a paved tourist haven in the midst of pines
and bright lakes. Gun didn’t hear any suggestions about the cons. He stood at the T where the Muskie
Lounge sidewalk met the grass boulevard and listened
to the voices die when they passed him. A few said
lopsided hellos, looking at Gun’s chin when they
spoke. He didn’t answer. Hedman came out, taller
and skinnier than most of his entourage. He was

encircled by them, and they moved eagerly around
him as if waiting for his autograph, never losing their
places. Only Hedman seemed to see Gun as they went
by, his beer-colored eyes glistening with confidence.

Larson came out near the end. His tie was hanging
loose on his shoulders, and a damp undershirt showed at the neck.

“You’ve seen my land before,” Gun said.

“Aw, damn,” moaned Larson. “Now, suddenly, he
cares.”

“You’ve been over every foot of lakeshore. You’ve
been there in the early spring, watching the walleyes
spawn.”

Larson closed his eyes. “Gun,” he said. “I know.”

“Explain.”

“Can’t do it,” said Larson. He took a wasted step
away from Gun and was halted by a hand against his chest. “Aw, Gun,” he said, “it’s not your land. It’s not
even Mazy’s land now. It’s Hedman’s. Everything’s
Hedman’s.”

“Tell me something, Tig. How did Hedman know it
was all in Mazy’s name?”

Larson shrugged, looking down at Gun’s hand, still hard against his chest. “How well do you know your lawyer?” he said.

“Not well enough, I guess.”

Larson inhaled with effort, pulling air through a
pinhole. “Gun,” he said, “please let me go. I didn’t
know about his plan to get your land. Believe me, I
would’ve told you. Now really, I have to go.”

“It’s not like you to back down, Tig. Hedman make
good on those threats?”

Tig shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice. Not this
time, anyway.”

“A person’s always got a choice,” Gun said.

Tig smiled, his eyes flaring. “Of course. And how
about Devitz? That poor old bastard have a choice?

Did you know he died last night? Hear anybody at the
meeting talking about that?”

Gun closed his eyes. “No. No, I didn’t.” He took his
hand away. A sour knot rose in his stomach like yeast. Jeremy Devitz hadn’t lasted a month without his land.
“I’m sorry.”

“I have to go,” said Tig.

“Sure. Where to?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes closed, and when they
opened they looked flat as the eyes of the dead. “Yes, I
do. I’m going to Holliman’s Bluff.”

“It’s a quiet spot,” said Gun.

12

Nash Sidney’s office, the only law office in Stony,
occupied what had once been the town’s only five-
and-dime store until Ronnie Truman, the owner, had
declared bankruptcy a couple years ago. Now Ronnie
operated a car wash south of town and Nash Sidney
spent a lot of time alone in his youthful practice on
Main Street.

Or had spent time alone. It had been roughly a year
since Gun visited him to formalize the transfer of
land, house, and personal effects to Mazy’s name, and
Gun noticed a lot of changes in the formerly sparse office. For starters, when he pushed the door open,
there was no dime-store tinkle.

“Hi, Gun,” said Nash Sidney. He sat behind a big
kidney-shaped desk new enough to smell like varnish.
“Miss the bell?”

“You took it down,” Gun said. “What would
Ronnie say?”

Nash smiled. “He was here last week to talk about a

suit. Seems his car wash soaped and waxed the
crushed velvet in some lady’s Lincoln. Ruined it.
She’s suing Ronnie because she forgot to roll the window up.”

“Glad you still care about client confidentiality.”

“Anyhow, he never noticed the bell,” Nash said. “I
was disappointed.” He rose, tall next to anyone but
Gun, and leaned across the desk to shake hands.

Nash Sidney was twenty-eight years old, had gradu
ated from high school a couple years ahead of Mazy and gone to the University of Minnesota on a sports
scholarship. Baseball. His fastball and control had
been the only happy factors on a sad Stony team for
several years, good enough to draw scouts from at
least two big-league organizations. Nash chose the
university, which made Gun smile, and then law
school.

“Business good?” Gun said. He was looking at the
kidney-shaped desk, which matched a set of gleaming
walnut file cabinets on the back wall.

“Business is very good,” Nash said agreeably. “What summons you to town?”

“Big meeting today. Over at the Muskie. Surprised I
didn’t see you there.”

“The Hedman event, yes. Um, congratulations.” Nash sat down again and winced slightly, as though
his chair was padded with rocks. “I’d have been there,
but the phone wouldn’t quit. I have one of those secretaries that only works mornings. You know.”

“Yup.” Gun sat down on the hood of Nash’s desk. He inhaled through his nose and squinted at a blue-
tinted map pinned to Nash’s big bulletin board.

“Gun, what’s going on?”

“I think I’m finding out. An onerous process, as
Jack says.” He nodded at the map. “Isn’t that a
blueprint for Hedman’s mall project?”

“Loon Country Attractions. Yes.”

Gun smiled. “You know, there’s something familiar
about that shoreline. The way it dips in right there,
next to where you’ve got the talking loon. I wonder
where I’ve seen that before.”

Nash was quiet. He took off his glasses and dangled
them in his fingers. “Good God. You mean you didn’t
know? Until today?”

“That Mazy was pulling out with Geoff? Or that my
place, her place, is heading for the sewer? And how
did you know about any of it, anyway?”

Nash shrugged. “I wouldn’t call Loon Country a
sewer. Mazy could do worse than Geoff Hedman. And
I knew about it because I’m Lyle’s lawyer. One of
them, at least. He’s been hinting about some such
romance, and it wasn’t hard to guess the rest. That map there,” he poked a thumb at the wall, “is a
prospectus. Something Lyle had drawn up, just in case
it worked out.”

“Just in case,” Gun said. “I would have appreciated
a call.”

“Assumed you knew. You’ve got a daughter who has
a little to do with this, Gun. Don’t you and Mazy ever
talk?”

Gun stood up. “Nash, I came in here a year ago and
we made a legal transaction. Mazy knew about it and
that was as far as it went. She didn’t talk about it, I didn’t talk about it. Not to anybody. Now I find out
she’s joined the Hedman household, and like it or not,
she’s serving up her inheritence so Lyle can build himself a kingdom on it. He knew about that land
transfer somehow. Before he should have. And I
wonder how.”

Nash Sidney folded his hands. He looked at Gun as
though sizing up a judge, put an appeal in his eyes and
said, “I didn’t tell him, Gun, if that’s what you’re
thinking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Gun, listen. Yes, I handle some private matters for
Mr. Hedman. I’m his attorney, for God’s sake. I’ve done some work on his Loon Country thing.” Nash’s
tone now was backstabbed honesty. “But Gun, he gets no special favors in this office. And he hasn’t asked for any.”

Gun stood and rested his right hand on a swooping
brass floor lamp that beamed down on Nash’s desk.
His eyes breezed through the room. “This has turned
into a nice little practice for you, Nash. New desk,
files, nice carpet. These errands you run for Hedman
pay well.”

“I have a lot of clients,” Nash answered.

“And a whole bushel basket of new ones, once Loon
Country is up and running.”

Nash smiled involuntarily and squelched it. “Well, sure. It’s a safe guess that new industry in town will
bring along some legal holes to plug, and I’ll be here to
do it. That’s my job.”

“But that’s all you’ll get from Loon Country? A few
more clients, maybe a full-time secretary? I’d think Hedman would be more grateful than that. Maybe
make you his corporate legal advisor, give you a seat
on the board.” Gun sighed. Being nasty exhausted
him, but he needed true words out of this boy.

“Gun, I’m not responsible—” Nash began, but
Gun tightened his fingers on the floor lamp’s neck and
snapped his wrist upward. The brass knuckled back
like a garden hose and the beam rested bright on
Nash’s face. Gun leaned down at the blinking lawyer.

“Tell the truth,” he said, “and you’ll get off easy.
Think of it as a plea bargain.”

Nash closed his eyes against the light and ran a long
handful of fingers through his hair. Gun felt the
confession working its way free. He waited.

Nash said, “Might’ve let it slip, I guess.” He kept his

eyes closed, as if the words might look worse out in the light.

Gun straightened and walked to the door. Nash sat
still under the brass lamp. Gun started to leave the
office but was stopped by a thought and leaned back
in.

“Nash. Why didn’t you stick with baseball?”

The lawyer’s eyes opened. They were watery as a child’s. “I didn’t have a curve, Gun. You remember.”

“That’s right.” Gun shrugged. “Well, you’ve got a beauty now.”

13

Gun drove out to the Devitz place after leaving Nash
Sidney’s office, but Bowser wasn’t home. Gun knew
where to find him.

Harrelson’s Scrub was an unhappy 360-acre piece
of Ojibway County that had gone unlived on since the
early 1950s. That was when Margie Harrelson, as Gun
had heard it, had finally killed herself with the pure
mean hard work of farming land meant to remain
untilled. Margie left the land to the county when she
died. Her son didn’t want it.

Gun slowed the old Ford and turned onto the
township gravel that ran along the south border of the
Scrub. Margie’s house was as dead as she was, having
been taken back by rampant willows. Gun stopped the
truck and stepped out.

It was colder than it should have been. A gray north
wind blew moody clouds over the Scrub, clouds white
and the color of dead ashes. The willows and a few
malnourished oaks bent toward Gun in the wind, and

the brushy trees beneath them quivered. Gun’s hair, white mixed with what was left of blond, flattened against his forehead. There was no open space on the
Scrub that he could see, no sign that this land had ever
been cleared for the plow, and there was no sign of
Bowser. Gun reached back behind the seat of the Ford
and pulled out a shirt of nappy brown wool.

Walking was difficult in the Scrub, but the wind was cut. Gun pushed his way through brush and grass that reached to his waist, and ducked his head from branch
slaps. Down at his feet something that felt like barbed
wire caught and ripped at his ankle. Gun reached
down through thick growth and pulled up a reaching
bramble. There was blood on the spines. Gun consid
ered a swear word, then heard through the tangle of
woods and weeds the sound of bursting glass.

“Bowser,” Gun said, not too loud because the
sound of glass had been very close.

“Present,” said Bowser’s voice. There was crunch
ing in the brush and hard breathing, and then the
Scrub parted and Bowser appeared. He was firm and
fat, bearded and drunk. There was a mostly empty
bottle in his left hand, bourbon, and a homemade
slingshot in his right. “Happy day,” he said.

“You’re here.” Gun sighed. His ankle smarted and
he could feel his Pony runner absorbing blood.
Bowser waved his bottle in invitation and Gun went with him through the thicket.

Bowser had set up a dark green ice-fishing shack
near an old stock pond in the middle of the Scrub. The
pond was brown, even in May. Bowser slapped the side of the fish house with the slingshot. “Built this
lady in ‘sixty-seven,” he said. “With the old man. He
by-God knew how to put things together.” Bowser
opened the plywood door and slammed it shut.
“These many years and still as solid as earth. It’s my
goddamned home now and I’m glad of it.”

“You still own the home place. Why aren’t you
there?”

“I don’t own nothing.” Bowser leaned back with the
bottle and swallowed with his eyes shut. “The old man
thought Hedman was doing him a favor, leaving us
half an acre and the house. Shit.”

Gun looked around at the Scrub. “Might be better
than living out here.”

“You don’t believe that,” said Bowser.

“I just heard about your dad,” Gun said. “I’m
sorry.”

Bowser’s eyes went to Gun’s wounded ankle. “Hurt
yourself,” he said. He lifted the bottle toward Gun.
“Medicine.”

“Thanks.” The bourbon was cheap and scraped a little on the way down, but the day was cool and Gun
welcomed it. He sat down on an upturned five-gallon
pail and looked at the ankle. The bramble had
snagged him just above the shoe, drilled a neat hole in
the flesh between the bone and forward tendon. The
hole was deep and clean. He crossed the ankle over his
good leg to keep it high, stop the bleeding.

Bowser had opened the fish house again and was
sitting down in the narrow doorway. His big thighs
were squeezed by the doorframe, and he leaned
forward to give his shoulders room. Gun realized Bowser must have to enter the fish house sideways.

“Mr. Pedersen, say, have another and pass it on
back.”

Gun tilted another mouthful of bourbon. There was
a splash of liquor still left in the bottle. Gun tossed it
to Bowser.

“Ummm,” said Bowser. He finished the bourbon and poked his little finger into the bottleneck. With
strain he stood from the doorway and walked, the
bottle swinging on his pinky, to a straight thin sapling
not six feet tall. He slid the bottle neck down over the
tip, and its weight bent the little tree south, with the
wind. “For later,” he said.

Gun didn’t understand,
and didn’t ask.

“So you’re here out of kindness?” Bowser said it
without sarcasm. “You’re sorry about the old man,
and maybe feeling bad after kicking my ass the other
day?”

Gun smiled. Bowser had faults, but possessed the gift of truthful utterance. “Sorry about your dad, yes.
Sorry he died without getting your land back from Lyle Hedman.”

“People don’t get things back from Lyle Hedman.”

“Could be you’ll be the first. You’ve heard about the
change in plans? For the Loon Mall?”

“Sure.” Bowser didn’t seem interested. “He nailed
my hind end, then he nailed yours. I felt bad, hearing
about it.”

“Well. Old Lyle’s not going to need your place
now.”

“You’re thinking I should take the money that
skinny piece of dog shit gave my old man, go on over
to the Hedman place and try and buy it all back.”

“You could give it a shot.” Gun reached for the
Pony runner he’d taken off. “Worst thing Hedman can
do is say no. Or jack up the price.”

Bowser put his chin down into his neck and
snorted, raking his throat for phlegm. He found some
and sent it out into the Scrub. Then he turned and
went around the corner of the fish house.

When he came back he was carrying a green Cole-
man cooler. It matched the paint on the fish house. Bowser opened the cooler and brought up a sealed
bottle of bourbon. He peered through it at the sky for
an instant before twisting off the cap and sampling.

“You know, Mr. Pedersen,” Bowser said, “I don’t
think I want that land back.”

Gun finished tying on the Pony runner. He stood up. The ankle was stiff but held him upright.

“I think Hedman can keep it and use it or not use it,
may he land with a bump in Hell,” Bowser said. He
put the bottle down in the grass and withdrew the slingshot from his back pocket.

Gun waited. The swallows of bourbon were gone
from his blood and the wind was stiff and chill.

“Because,” Bowser said, searching at his feet for a
stone and finding one, “if that bastard puts up his
goddamn mall, on your land or mine, no matter,
you’re not going to see my great white butt anywhere within fifty miles of it. I’ll go north, or I’ll go west like
my old man. But you won’t see me here.” Bowser had
the stone fitted now and pointed the slingshot almost
without looking. He pointed it at the bottle hanging at
the tip of the swaying sapling. He pulled the stone
almost all the way back to where the black whiskers
began on his cheek, and then he let it go. It flew with a
bulletlike trajectory, passed through the waistcoat of
the dapper gentleman on the bourbon label and
dropped pieces of bottle into the grass. The sapling
sprang upward, pointing to heaven.

Bowser tossed the slingshot onto the cooler and looked at Gun.

“The bare-naked truth,” he said.