hand and strolled back into the office.
Without comment, Broker walked directly to the police garage. Nina quick-stepped to keep up, dragging her luggage. He pulled a tarp from his Lincoln Green ’94 Cherokee Sport. In contrast to the house on the north end, the car was scrupulously clean.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked.
Broker shrugged and grumbled, “They all think I’ve been under too long, want to bring me in. Probably figure I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Starting to identify with the assholes.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked.
“We?” said Broker dubiously.
“Somebody followed me from New Orleans. Remember.”
“Okay…and what were you doing in New Orleans?” Broker recited in a tired voice, remembering the green nose of the Saturn peeking around the corner and its stealthy withdrawal, knowing full well that her personal devil, Cyrus LaPorte, lived in New Orleans.
“I guess Jimmy Tuna sent me.”
“Oh yeah?” Broker felt a sinking sensation that it wasn’t going away this time.
“We’re buds now that he’s dying of cancer.”
Broker raised an eyebrow. The Tuna he remembered had the constitution of an Italian mule.
“Bone cancer. Came on real quick. Real nasty. He, ah, sold me something, you could say.” She reached in her portfolio and withdrew a wrinkled printed page and handed it to Broker.
He unfolded a page from an April copy of Newsweek , a page of news briefs. Two pictures were circled in black magic marker. One showed the spare, distinguished features of Gen. Cyrus LaPorte, U.S. Army, Ret. The other was of a sleek, white, unusually outfitted ocean-going vessel. The headline said: COLD WARRIOR MAKES AMENDS .
Broker read the lead, “Gen. Cyrus LaPorte of Vietnam fame and scion of a wealthy New Orleans family has been playing Cousteau. His latest project has him loaning his personal oceanographic vessel, the Lola , to Greenpeace to conduct pollution surveys off the coast of Vietnam in the wake of stories of unrestricted oil drilling…”
“He sold you?” Broker narrowed his eyes as he scanned the rest of the article.
“That’s right. That page, for five grand. And this note was in the envelope he left me.” She handed Broker a folded sheet of notebook paper. It contained three stark sentences scrawled in a shaky hand: “Find Broker.” Under it. “Have Broker find Trin. All arranged.” Numbers. And one more word, underlined, like a punch in the nose: “Hue.”
Trin. Jesus Christ . Broker staggered back a step, blinking.
“So here I am,” said Nina with a shrug. “I found you but I just lost him.”
“Tuna?”
“He skipped town on me. He’s out, early medical release because of the cancer. He disappeared with five thousand bucks of my money.”
“You got robbed by a guy dying of cancer in prison. Wonderful.”
“I wrote him a check. For his funeral expenses, I thought. He switched release dates on me. When he didn’t show up I thought he might be in New Orleans…”
He stared at her. She wasn’t dumb. Yesterday people could have been hurt, maybe killed, as a result of her cavalier walk-on appearance. No. It’s just that her wild fantasy was more important.
She went to the back of the truck and tried to open the hatchback door.
“What are you doing?” Broker demanded.
“Loading my stuff.”
“Uh-uh. Not this time. Look. My dad’s…busted up. He and Irene are in a real financial jam. I need to spend some time alone with them—”
“You’re alone with everybody always!” She stepped forward and lifted her chin aggressively. “I talked to J.T. while you were in the office. He says you’re so far out there they’re thinking of sending you to a shrink. You haven’t had a performance review in two years because you refuse to show up at your supervisor’s office. I wonder? Could it have something to do with what happened twenty years ago? That you refuse to deal with. You could be anything, but you make a career of
Without comment, Broker walked directly to the police garage. Nina quick-stepped to keep up, dragging her luggage. He pulled a tarp from his Lincoln Green ’94 Cherokee Sport. In contrast to the house on the north end, the car was scrupulously clean.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked.
Broker shrugged and grumbled, “They all think I’ve been under too long, want to bring me in. Probably figure I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Starting to identify with the assholes.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked.
“We?” said Broker dubiously.
“Somebody followed me from New Orleans. Remember.”
“Okay…and what were you doing in New Orleans?” Broker recited in a tired voice, remembering the green nose of the Saturn peeking around the corner and its stealthy withdrawal, knowing full well that her personal devil, Cyrus LaPorte, lived in New Orleans.
“I guess Jimmy Tuna sent me.”
“Oh yeah?” Broker felt a sinking sensation that it wasn’t going away this time.
“We’re buds now that he’s dying of cancer.”
Broker raised an eyebrow. The Tuna he remembered had the constitution of an Italian mule.
“Bone cancer. Came on real quick. Real nasty. He, ah, sold me something, you could say.” She reached in her portfolio and withdrew a wrinkled printed page and handed it to Broker.
He unfolded a page from an April copy of Newsweek , a page of news briefs. Two pictures were circled in black magic marker. One showed the spare, distinguished features of Gen. Cyrus LaPorte, U.S. Army, Ret. The other was of a sleek, white, unusually outfitted ocean-going vessel. The headline said: COLD WARRIOR MAKES AMENDS .
Broker read the lead, “Gen. Cyrus LaPorte of Vietnam fame and scion of a wealthy New Orleans family has been playing Cousteau. His latest project has him loaning his personal oceanographic vessel, the Lola , to Greenpeace to conduct pollution surveys off the coast of Vietnam in the wake of stories of unrestricted oil drilling…”
“He sold you?” Broker narrowed his eyes as he scanned the rest of the article.
“That’s right. That page, for five grand. And this note was in the envelope he left me.” She handed Broker a folded sheet of notebook paper. It contained three stark sentences scrawled in a shaky hand: “Find Broker.” Under it. “Have Broker find Trin. All arranged.” Numbers. And one more word, underlined, like a punch in the nose: “Hue.”
Trin. Jesus Christ . Broker staggered back a step, blinking.
“So here I am,” said Nina with a shrug. “I found you but I just lost him.”
“Tuna?”
“He skipped town on me. He’s out, early medical release because of the cancer. He disappeared with five thousand bucks of my money.”
“You got robbed by a guy dying of cancer in prison. Wonderful.”
“I wrote him a check. For his funeral expenses, I thought. He switched release dates on me. When he didn’t show up I thought he might be in New Orleans…”
He stared at her. She wasn’t dumb. Yesterday people could have been hurt, maybe killed, as a result of her cavalier walk-on appearance. No. It’s just that her wild fantasy was more important.
She went to the back of the truck and tried to open the hatchback door.
“What are you doing?” Broker demanded.
“Loading my stuff.”
“Uh-uh. Not this time. Look. My dad’s…busted up. He and Irene are in a real financial jam. I need to spend some time alone with them—”
“You’re alone with everybody always!” She stepped forward and lifted her chin aggressively. “I talked to J.T. while you were in the office. He says you’re so far out there they’re thinking of sending you to a shrink. You haven’t had a performance review in two years because you refuse to show up at your supervisor’s office. I wonder? Could it have something to do with what happened twenty years ago? That you refuse to deal with. You could be anything, but you make a career of
Similar Books
