reasons—but with an old gun and crappy ammo and he almost breaks a leg running off into the weeds,” Lucas said.
“Don’t know it was an old gun,” Reasons said.
“Who’d put fifty-year-old ammo in a new gun?” Lucas asked. “You pay four or five hundred dollars for a gun, and you’re not gonna pay ten bucks for a box of nines?”
Reasons nodded: “Won’t argue with that.”
T HE N ORTHWEST FLIGHT was only ten minutes late. When they’d confirmed the arrival time, they wandered off, both bought copies of the Duluth News Tribune. Lucas turned to the sports to see what, if anything, had happened with the Twins. They’d lost to Baltimore, 6–1; the story didn’t try to make the game sound exciting.
The front page was dominated by a hard-news story and a sidebar, a weeper, about the murdered street person:
Mary Wheaton was a thin, round-shouldered woman who pushed a shopping cart full of treasures she collected daily from the gutters and alleys of Duluth, a familiar figure to downtown store owners. They were shocked when they heard of her murder.
“She wasn’t quite right, but there was nothing bad about her,” said Bob Anderson, of Five Corners Hardware. “She’d come in most days and get a dollar from somebody. The folks at the Burger King’d always give her a burger and fries.That’s about all she needed to keep herself together. I hope to God they get the animal who did this . . .”
The rest of the story was in the same vein. A file photo showed Wheaton pushing a shopping cart along a downtown street, peering nearsightedly, and maybe unhappily, at the photographer.
“You read about the murder?” Reasons asked.
“Yeah. Just sounds like . . . what it is,” Lucas said.
“Like a dime-a-dozen down in the Cities.”
“Well—anywhere that there are a lot of street people. The reporter was getting a lot of mileage out of it.”
They strolled back toward the baggage claim, Reasons still looking at the article, then at the photo again, and he said, “You wanna hear a joke about an old lady beggar and a photographer?”
“If I’ve got to.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t tell jokes good, so I got to think it out,” Reasons said. He thought for a moment, then said, “There was this old lady bum, she used to push a shopping cart full of shit around this rich neighborhood. This newspaper photographer was out one day, looking for a good feature shot, and he sees her and asks if he can get a picture of her. She says, yes, and he takes a couple, and they get to talking.
“She tells him that she used to be rich, that she grew up right in that very neighborhood. She used to go to balls and big parties and she went to a fancy school, and then she inherited about a million bucks. But over the years she had a couple of bad marriages and her husbands took it all, and she didn’t know how to work, and over the years, she kept going down, down, down.
“And now, here she was, in her old age, pushing a cart around the neighborhood where she used to be rich, asking people for money so she could eat. So the photographer goes back to the newspaper, and tells the story to his editor, this really sad story, and the editor says, ‘Wow, that is really sad. What’d you give her?’ ”
“And the photographer says, ‘Oh, about f-4.5 at 125.’ ”
L UCAS SMILED and said, “You told that all right.”
“Ahh, there are guys in the office who really know how . . .” He looked up at a monitor. “They’re in.”
They folded their newspapers and stuffed them into a trash can. A couple of minutes later, fifteen or twenty passengers wandered in. Half of them were too young, and most of the other half too Minnesotan, too certain of what they were doing, and too worried about their luggage, to be the Russian.
Lucas was looking at a stout man in a gray suit when Reasons leaned over and asked, “You think it could be the chick?”
Lucas followed his gaze: Reasons was looking at a
“Don’t know it was an old gun,” Reasons said.
“Who’d put fifty-year-old ammo in a new gun?” Lucas asked. “You pay four or five hundred dollars for a gun, and you’re not gonna pay ten bucks for a box of nines?”
Reasons nodded: “Won’t argue with that.”
T HE N ORTHWEST FLIGHT was only ten minutes late. When they’d confirmed the arrival time, they wandered off, both bought copies of the Duluth News Tribune. Lucas turned to the sports to see what, if anything, had happened with the Twins. They’d lost to Baltimore, 6–1; the story didn’t try to make the game sound exciting.
The front page was dominated by a hard-news story and a sidebar, a weeper, about the murdered street person:
Mary Wheaton was a thin, round-shouldered woman who pushed a shopping cart full of treasures she collected daily from the gutters and alleys of Duluth, a familiar figure to downtown store owners. They were shocked when they heard of her murder.
“She wasn’t quite right, but there was nothing bad about her,” said Bob Anderson, of Five Corners Hardware. “She’d come in most days and get a dollar from somebody. The folks at the Burger King’d always give her a burger and fries.That’s about all she needed to keep herself together. I hope to God they get the animal who did this . . .”
The rest of the story was in the same vein. A file photo showed Wheaton pushing a shopping cart along a downtown street, peering nearsightedly, and maybe unhappily, at the photographer.
“You read about the murder?” Reasons asked.
“Yeah. Just sounds like . . . what it is,” Lucas said.
“Like a dime-a-dozen down in the Cities.”
“Well—anywhere that there are a lot of street people. The reporter was getting a lot of mileage out of it.”
They strolled back toward the baggage claim, Reasons still looking at the article, then at the photo again, and he said, “You wanna hear a joke about an old lady beggar and a photographer?”
“If I’ve got to.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t tell jokes good, so I got to think it out,” Reasons said. He thought for a moment, then said, “There was this old lady bum, she used to push a shopping cart full of shit around this rich neighborhood. This newspaper photographer was out one day, looking for a good feature shot, and he sees her and asks if he can get a picture of her. She says, yes, and he takes a couple, and they get to talking.
“She tells him that she used to be rich, that she grew up right in that very neighborhood. She used to go to balls and big parties and she went to a fancy school, and then she inherited about a million bucks. But over the years she had a couple of bad marriages and her husbands took it all, and she didn’t know how to work, and over the years, she kept going down, down, down.
“And now, here she was, in her old age, pushing a cart around the neighborhood where she used to be rich, asking people for money so she could eat. So the photographer goes back to the newspaper, and tells the story to his editor, this really sad story, and the editor says, ‘Wow, that is really sad. What’d you give her?’ ”
“And the photographer says, ‘Oh, about f-4.5 at 125.’ ”
L UCAS SMILED and said, “You told that all right.”
“Ahh, there are guys in the office who really know how . . .” He looked up at a monitor. “They’re in.”
They folded their newspapers and stuffed them into a trash can. A couple of minutes later, fifteen or twenty passengers wandered in. Half of them were too young, and most of the other half too Minnesotan, too certain of what they were doing, and too worried about their luggage, to be the Russian.
Lucas was looking at a stout man in a gray suit when Reasons leaned over and asked, “You think it could be the chick?”
Lucas followed his gaze: Reasons was looking at a
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