The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 76

It took us thirty minutes to travel from downtown St. Paul past the I-694 interchange, a trip that should have taken less than ten. Josie was increasingly annoyed by the delay. I added to it by dialing up KBEM-FM on the radio, which played “that music.” Maryann Sullivan was subbing for Kevin O’Connor, and she liked playing local jazz talent. I was able to hear Debbie Duncan, Hall Brothers, Doug Haining Quintet, Christine Rosholt, Fantastic Merlins, Mouldy Figs, and Connie Evingson—perhaps my favorite vocalist, channeling Django Reinhardt on “You and the Night and the Music”—one right after another. While I listened, I thought about what Shelby had said and wondered if she was right.

Commitment issues? How can I have commitment issues? I had proposed three times—on bended knee, no less—and not once did I hope the lady would say no; actually felt a jolt of pain when she didn’t say yes. Not to mention, a lot of women have slid in and out of my life in the past four years, and I’ve kept them all at a distance, including the one sitting next to me in the car. That has to say something about commitment, right? Besides, so what if we weren’t married? A lot of people commit to each other for a lifetime without the benefit of marriage. ’Course, they actually live together and Nina and I don’t, but that’s mostly because she wants to set a good example for her teenage daughter, Erica, who isn’t actually a teenager anymore, she’s an undergrad at Tulane University. Still, we have spent many a long weekend at each other’s homes. I have plenty of stuff at her place and she has a lot of personal items at mine, including a slinky black number that she has never worn for more than a few minutes at a time in my presence. That says commitment, too, doesn’t it? Well, doesn’t it?

Just this side of Harris, we lost KBEM’s signal. Josie switched off the radio. “Finally,” she said. “How can you listen to that stuff?”

“Jazz, my dear, is the only music God approves of.”

“Is that right?”

“It is a music in which it’s impossible to speak a mean or hurtful thing. Wynton Marsalis once said it’s ‘an art form that cannot be limited by enforced trends or bad taste.’”

“Who’s he?”

“Never mind.”

“The woman back there at the park, does she listen to jazz?”

“I have no idea.”

“Have you slept with her?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? The way she fills out that dress…”

“Ahh, geez…”

“Don’t you want to sleep with her?”

“Of course I do.”

What are you saying? my inner voice shouted. Talk about your Freudian slips.

It’s not a Freudian slip, I told myself. I’m pretending to be someone else, remember? Of course Dyson would want to sleep with Shelby. That doesn’t mean McKenzie would.

“Then why haven’t you slept with her?” Josie asked.

“Let’s just say the opportunity never presented itself; let it go at that.”

“Are you sure you’re not the one who’s gay?”

Instead of answering, I turned the radio back on.

“Let me guess,” Josie said. “This is your way of telling me to shut up.”

I found a station that was broadcasting the Minnesota Twins game and turned up the volume.

“C’mon, Dyson. We’re going to listen to this now?”

“Baseball, my dear, is the only sport God approves of.”

“Is that right? Jazz and baseball. What else does he approve of in your unchallenged opinion?”

“Chili dogs.”

“Apparently God has peculiar tastes,” Josie said.

We were fifty miles down the road and approaching the Cloquet exit before she spoke again. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“You’re not that difficult to figure out, Dyson. In fact, I have a theory. Want to hear it?”

“Not particularly.”

“The reason you haven’t slept with the woman in the park is the same reason you haven’t slept with me. Despite your choice of careers, at the end of the day, Dyson, you’re a nice guy.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”

“You pretend to be this dangerous individual, and I suppose you are from what I’ve seen. You also care about people. You care about Jill, and you barely know her.”

“She’s easy to care about.”

“You care about Dave, too. And Roy and Jimmy and the old man. And me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’re loyal to your friends.”

I turned my head to stare out the passenger window, a sign to Josie that I didn’t want to talk anymore. My brain shifted from thoughts of Shelby and Nina and whatnot to the Iron Range Bandits.

Nice guy? my inner voice asked. Who says?

Once again I was faced with the question—why? Here I was, leading Josie and her family merrily by the hand toward catastrophe. Why? To save a government bureaucracy from its own hubris?

“You should get out,” I said. I didn’t know why I said it. The words spilled out just as they had when I spoke to Jill, to hell with the ATF and the FBI and all the other initialized so-and-sos intent on making the world safe for the American Dream, whatever the hell that was. Or maybe it was my subconscious showing a commitment to Josie. “When we get to Krueger, you should pack your things and leave. Go to Duluth. Go to the Cities. Go anywhere. Just get out of here. Start over someplace else. What we’re planning, even if it works out, you’re going to be running for the rest of your life, afraid of everyone you meet, jumping at every unexplained noise, scared to use your own name. If not that, then the crime spree you and the rest of the Bandits have embarked on is going to put you in prison or worse. Give it up while you can.”