Page 41 of Shame the Devil

“What? Me?” She laughed again, but it sounded brittle, like she was all fragile pieces, held together with rubber bands. “When we’re … somewhere else …” A glance at Dyma, who was looking out the window, clearly fascinated. Thinking about the altimeter, or something. Jennifer went on, “Ask me then how brave I was.”

“I will,” he said. “But you could look at it this way. Did you graduate from that high school?”

“I did. No choice.”

“Then you were brave,” he said. “Because there’s always a choice.” He smiled at her. It was a little painful. “And you must miss your mom like crazy.”

As he watched, her eyes filled with tears. “She always …” She took a breath. “She always … believed in me.”

“You know what I think?”

“No.” She tried to laugh, and grabbed a napkin to wipe away the tears.

“I think,” he said, “that she still does.”

* * *

They were meton the ground by another SUV and another uniformed driver. Dyma asked Harlan, “Where do you get all the chauffeurs? Do they just follow around after you, or what?”

“Nope,” he said. “They meet the plane, whoever’s on it. Don’t think they’re impressed by me, because they’re not. They have to be polite to everybody, even if the guy’s an ass— a jerk. It’s their job.”

“I know the word ‘asshole,’” Dyma said.

“I know lots of words, too,” Harlan said. “That doesn’t mean I have to use them. But that’s the secret reason I’m not a jerk. Don’t want to be somebody’s conversation piece. Hey, man,” he told the driver, who was youngish, blonde, and Scandinavian-stocky. “They get you out on Super Bowl Sunday, huh?” Then he slung his duffel and somebody’s purple suitcase into the trunk. Dyma’s, he was willing to bet. Jennifer would have a black suitcase.

The guy said, “Yes, sir,” and reached for the other bags, but Owen already had them.

“We’re headed over to Bismarck Century,” Harlan told the driver. “With a stop at the AT&T store first. Coming back here afterwards to fly out again, and it’d be real good if you’d hang around in case I need to make a quick getaway. There’s going to be some tailgating, then everybody’s watching the game in the gym. Stick close, OK? You like bratwurst?”

“Yes, sir,” the guy said again, holding the door as they climbed in.

“The name’s Harlan, and this is Owen. The ladies are Jennifer and Dyma. If you’re going to hang with us, you can’t be calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not going to know who you’re talking to. I’d better know your name, too.”

“Lincoln,” the driver said. “Linc. Sure, I can hang around.”

“You play any ball, Linc? You got the size for it.” Harlan said as the SUV swung out of a nearly deserted airport—well, there you were, Super Bowl Sunday—and onto the main road.

“High school,” the driver said. “North Prairie.”

“Nine man,” Harlan said. “Hundred-yard field?”

“Yes, s— Uh, yeah.”

“You’ll be a runner, then.” Harlan told Jennifer, “You’re going to be doing more running with nine men on the field.”

“Nah,” Linc said. “I’m not much of a runner. Offensive line.”

“Ah,” Harlan said. “Which means you’d be a whole lot happier if Owen was the one sitting up here.” He could see the driver smiling a little in the rear-view mirror, so he’d guessed right. He went on, “I always think a good lineman’s kind of like a sergeant in the army. Everybody thinks the officer’s the one calling the shots, but every officer’d tell you it’s the sergeant who gets it done.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said, and this time, Harlan just smiled and didn’t correct him.

Harlan was quiet, then, and Linc drove and got discreet. At the mall, he pulled right up to the entrance and said, “Call when you’re done. I’m figuring it’ll be a while.”

“Nope,” Harlan said. “I called ahead.”

He was right. Fifteen minutes later, he was climbing back into the car again. Sometimes, there were benefits to being well known.

Linc took off again, and Jennifer said, “So you’re saying I might not see the end of the game.”