Page 57

“Poor, brainwashed bastards. Wait a minute. Did you come over last night because you thought it would be easier to get to work from here than your place in Mahtomedi?”
Nina didn’t answer. Instead, she turned on the shower. She did not get in, though. That was one of her quirks—she had to let the shower run for a good five minutes before actually using it.
“Nuts,” I said and got up.
Nina poked her head through the bathroom door. She was holding a toothbrush in her hand.
“You can stay in bed, if you want,” she said.
“What’s the point?”
For some reason she thought that was funny.
“If you have to go in, I want you to take my Cherokee,” I said.
“Why?”
“Four-wheel drive and an eleven-inch ground clearance. It should be able to get up the hill and to Cleveland Avenue, which, you’re right, is probably plowed by now. That heap of a Lexus you drive is so low to the ground, you’ll never make it.”
“Don’t say nasty things about Lexi.”
“Lexi? You call your car Lexi?”
“Yes. What do you call your car?”
Twenty minutes later I was dressed in a red snowmobile suit that I had inherited from my father and blowing the snow out of my driveway using a two-stage, eight-speed, self-propelled snowblower with a 318 cc 4-cycle engine, 28-inch clearing width, 45-foot throwing distance, electric start, tire chains, and a front headlight. Yes, it was way too big and powerful for my driveway. Hell, I could have cleared the entire street with it. It was also expensive, about $1,500 including tax, which epitomized the schizophrenic relationship I have with my money. Because of my middle-class upbringing, I can’t bring myself to spend more than $25 for a pair of jeans or $100 for a pair of shoes, yet I think nothing of spending $71,000 for a car or $750 for a coffeemaker. Nina claims it’s because I’m a boy who likes his toys, only I’m not quite sure what that means.
I was nearly finished with the driveway when Nina came out of the house and started the Cherokee. She let it warm up for ten minutes, like the shower, which was another quirk of hers. You don’t need to warm up a car even in the coldest weather unless you’re planning on going from zero to 3,000 rpms in about six seconds. Yet the more I tell her that, the less she listens. Oh well. I gave her a kiss and she drove off, maneuvering through the snow up to Cleveland with no trouble at all.
I went back to snowblowing, finishing my driveway and then blowing the driveway of my neighbor before starting on the driveway of my neighbor’s neighbor. I did it partly because I’m a helluva nice guy. Also because I wanted to build up some goodwill with the folks living in the community who have pointed out to me on more than one occasion that there had been no murders, kidnappings, and running gun battles along Hoyt before I moved in. By that time, the municipal snow-removal guys had plowed the avenue, piling huge heaps of snow at the end of each driveway, so I went up and down the street blowing that out, too. None of this was a burden to me. I love blowing snow. Boys with toys.
Afterward, I packed down the snow in my backyard and poured out some corn for the turkeys that were nowhere in sight. It was early afternoon by the time I returned to my house with thoughts of cleaning up before Mr. Donatucci arrived. The phone was ringing, and I caught it just before it rolled over to voice mail.
“McKenzie,” Nina said. She sounded out of breath. “I’ve been calling. Where were you?”
“What is it?”
“Someone followed me to the club from your house.”
“Are you sure?”
“A red SUV. He followed me right into the parking lot.”
“Stay there. I’m on my way.”
“No, no, it’s okay. He left. When I got out of the Cherokee and walked to the door, he saw that it was me and I was alone and he left.”
“He followed the Cherokee thinking I was driving.”
“That’s what I think, too.”
“I’m sorry, Nina. I thought I had gotten rid of that sonuvabitch.”
“It’s okay. I just want you to be careful. When he left, well, he must be going back to your place, right?”
She’s not worried about herself, she’s worried about you, my inner voice said.
“I love you, Nina,” I said.
“I know.”
Five minutes later I was on the phone with Bobby Dunston.
“Did you check on that license plate number I gave you?” I asked.
“I thought you weren’t in a hurry about that,” Bobby said.
“The guy in the Acura, he followed Nina right up to the front door of Rickie’s.”
Bobby paused for a moment and said, “Hang on for a minute.”
One minute turned into a couple before Bobby returned to the phone.
“Acura MDX, it’s a company car belonging to Minnesota Disposal and Recycling,” he said. “It’s assigned to Nicholas Garin of Wayzata. We have nothing on this guy, McKenzie. Not even a speeding ticket.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“Is Nina okay?”
“She sure is.”
Bobby paused for another moment and then said, “About hockey tonight.”
“I might have to blow if off.”