Have at him,” said Cole, whose cards at the moment were unpromising. At once Bob stood, clawing leather, but Charlie in early days had trained as a boxer and danced in before Robert could fire and dealt a blow to his right ear. The revolver thumped to the floor; Charlie in his nightshirt gripped Bob’s hair, set his head back, and deliberately struck the exposed Adam’s apple, causing Bob Younger to gag and his eyes to water and his mind to think hard, and what he thought was that perhaps the Queen of Sheba remark had been poorly timed.’”
“Oh, boy,” I said.
“And that’s as far as I’ve got.” Swede didn’t explain how it connected with anything, but I suppose she’d got a glimpse of August in his nightshirt, and of course outlaws were heavily on her mind. Swede’s journalism had a pretty wide throw.
We stopped at noon. Dad pulled over in a municipal park in Linton, this being midfield North Dakota, and stepped up into the trailer. “Well, amigos? Shall we cook beans?”
We did, Swede ending up with the coveted knob of fat from the can; then Dad cranked the heater again, professing intent to nap. Lulled by warmth I did likewise, going sound asleep to Swede’s noisy typing.
She woke me minutes later with terrible news—that stinker Andreeson was sitting in his car across the park.
“No, Swede, it can’t be him. Go look again.”
“It is him, go look yourself. He saw me watching him—he waved at me, Reuben!”
That sat me up. “Is he coming over here?”
“Wait.” Swede ran to a window, peeked edgewise. “Nope, he’s just sitting there. His car’s running.”
“Is Dad awake?”
She shook no. I slipped to the window. Sure enough, there sat our self-satisfied fed in a clean beige Mercury across the city park. It was just a narrow little park; there weren’t fifty yards between us and Mr. Andreeson. He had a plate of something in his lap, which he kept dipping into, and a cup of coffee in his right hand.
“Look at him,” Swede said, “chewing his french fries. He wouldn’t even eat them in the cafe—afraid we’ll pull out and he’ll lose us.” This appeared to be true, for Andreeson kept looking our way between bites of fry. We had to keep ducking. Swede didn’t want to get waved at again.
“How come he doesn’t just come over and talk to us?”
I gave it some thought. “Maybe he just wants us to see him. To make us nervous, the way the Indians are always doing.”
“We haven’t done anything,” Swede said defiantly. “All we did was go on vacation. People do it all the time.”
“Right.”
“We don’t know where Davy is at all. How would we know?”
“I don’t know.” I sneaked a look and got nailed. Andreeson had his eye on our window; right away, up went his dumb old hand for a wave. I waved back, like a dolt.
“Reuben—now he’ll come over here for sure!”
“Sorry, Swede.” I was wretched, on my haunches. “Here, you look. Tell me if he’s coming.”
But he wasn’t. That must’ve been some plate of french fries, and the longer he ate, the more bugged Swede got. “Smug fathead! He ought to just come over here and talk to us! Does he think we’re getting all scared with him just sitting there eating? Who told him we were here, anyway?”
“Maybe we better wake up Dad.”
“Sure. Dad’ll go talk things over with Mr. Andreeson. Mr. Federale,” she said, nothing expressing contempt like a timely morsel of Spanish.
“Wait a second—he’s done.”
“Done what?”
“With his french fries.”
“Is he coming?”
“Nope, going.” For Andreeson had balled up his paper plate and crept the Mercury forward to a public trash can. He made his deposit, caught me watching again, saluted this time, and tooled away.
“Chicken!” Swede said. “Shyster! Putrid fed! Gets our attention, then runs off. You know what he is? He’s desperate—following us because he can’t think of anything else to do.”
I admired Swede’s certainty but didn’t share it. For one thing, I’d had a good look at Andreeson when he was looking back. If forced I might’ve described that look as sharp or canny or borderline humorous. Probably not desperate, though—desperate guys don’t salute.
“So where do you think he went, Swede?”
“Probably off to let us stew.”
“That shyster.”
“Probably to the public toilet.”
“Stinker.”
“We’ll wake up Dad,” Swede decided, “and get out of town. When Andreeson gets back, we’ll be gone!”
“You think we should? Won’t we get in trouble?”
“Did we do anything wrong?”
“No.” But it felt like we had—or were about to.
She snared my arm. “Should we tell Dad about him, do you think?”
I nodded, ready to run do so. How often did we get to deliver Dad actual news?
But she shook her head. “He might want to wait around and talk to Andreeson.”
“So? We’re innocent. Like you said.”
“I know, but Andreeson might do—something unfair. He might make us go back home.”
I didn’t think he could do that, even if he did work for the federal government. Swede said feds often broke their own rules, a sentiment gleaned from Mr. DeCuellar and one she maintains to this day.
“You think old Andreeson can tell Dad what to do?” I said. Let her answer an uncomfortable question for once.
“I’m afraid of it,” she admitted.
In the end, though, all our stratagems came to naught because Dad woke with a record headache to suggest, in a distressed whisper, that we stay parked till morning. Instantly I recollected August’s apprehensions about Dad’s health, but he swallowed two aspirin and promised to be better by supper, provided it was chicken and dumplings.
“He’s really sick,” Swede told me, outside his shut bedroom.
But I clung to Dad’s promise. “What’s in dumplings?”
“Baking powder, flour, milk.” But she wore a pout at this turn of events, and I couldn’t blame her—she’d been picturing us slipping out while Andreeson sat on the toilet.
We made the dumplings with a Swanson chicken (“One Whole Chicken in a Can”) and Dad as sworn emerged to eat, declaring full recovery. He didn’t look much better, but then it was hard to see him; rather than use the Airstream’s lamps, Dad claimed to prefer the ambient dimness thrown off by the streetlights of Linton. It was more romantic, he said—obviously cover for his light-pained eyes—but we went right along. Are you familiar with canned chicken? Romantic lighting doesn’t hurt.
Someone banged on the door.
“Yes,” Dad called. It was so dark I couldn’t see his expression.
“Mr. Land, it’s Martin Andreeson.”
Dad was silent a moment. Ever since, I’ve thought he believed, just for a second, that it was Davy out there, come to reconcile. He stood, struck a match, lit a mantle in the kitchen. “Come in.”
Andreeson was hatless and smiling in a fresh haircut and tan knee-length topcoat. In the gaslight he glowed like hale skin. He looked younger than when we last saw him, which alongside Dad seemed monstrously unfair. He said, “Lovely weather. I enjoy the Dakotas. Don’t get out here as often as I’d like.”
Dad stood with his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, his face all pouched with headache. I couldn’t help but remember the pronouncement he’d made to Andreeson that previous time: “You and I will not speak again.” What power had flowed from him in that sentence, how prophetic and incontestable he had sounded! Dad seemed to be thinking similarly, for he gave me a wry so-much-for-pronouncements look and said, “Do you have news for us, Mr. Andreeson?”
“Why, no, I don’t.”
“Then your purpose here is abstruse,” Dad said politely.
“I’m glad to explain. You departed suddenly in the middle of January. Your rent is paid through April, though you no longer draw a salary and you have no savings. Half of Roofing thinks your mind soured. They think you’re out here eating locusts.”
Dad chuckled. “How about the other half?”
“They believe you heard from your boy and are gone to meet him.”
“Which theory appeals to you?”
“I’m trying to think what else could bring you here—now.” He meant to the Great Plains in midwinter; it actually wasn’t a bad question.
“We’re looking for him,” Dad said.
Andreeson appeared to be waiting for explication, finally prompting, “Did he contact you?”
“No.”
“Did he contact August and Birdie?” Notice he didn’t even say Shultz; Andreeson’s familiarity with our whereabouts, finances, and friends was a type of worry I’d never encountered before.
“Yes, he did,” Dad said.
“August told me differently,” Andreeson said. “Very loyal, though it does leave him open to accessory charges. What directions did your boy leave him?”
“None.”
Andreeson looked at Dad as though he were a slow child. “Mr. Land, it’s my responsibility to find your son. At the moment it’s my only responsibility. I believe we are close to him right now. If you know more than you’re saying, you could save his life by coming out with it.”
“I’ve been honest with you, Mr. Andreeson.”
“You could also save August and Birdie some grief down the line. It’s a shame they lied to me.”
Dad said, “You yourself have lied twice since stepping in here.”